Chapter 1: Are There Really Ghosts and Gods in This World?

　　A bluestone-paved road, mottled corners of walls, a babbling stream, and along the stream, rows of pink walls and black-tiled roofs. Spanning the stream is an old stone arch bridge, and on the bridge stands an eight-pillared wooden pavilion, its pillars already faded.

　　Inside the pavilion sits an old man with a cane, surrounded by seven or eight children.

　　He is telling ancient tales.

　　A youth in old clothes, about fifteen or sixteen years old, carries a bag of rice in his hand, standing alone by the wall, silently looking ahead.

　　He can hear the old man’s words and the children’s exclamations.

　　The old man is an elder of the village, advanced in age and with much leisure, so he often tells stories under the tree at the village entrance. It is both to let the young know about the world and the rise and fall of history, and to pass on his own life experience and lessons to the village’s descendants. In these times, in rural villages, many things are passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth.

　　But once there are many children, the tales change in flavor.

　　From stories of great events, they become tales of gods and ghosts.

　　Such stories have always been popular since ancient times.

　　Listeners love to hear them, and storytellers love to tell them.

　　Henry Walton also often came to listen over the past year.

　　Speaking of which, it was just a year ago that he came to this world. To suddenly arrive in a strange and backward place—few would wish for that. But since he was already here, with no other way out, he could only try his best not to be trapped in this small village for a lifetime.

　　He figured that every world must have its own wonders, and every era its own joys—he had to go out and see for himself.

　　To leave—neither too hard nor too easy.

　　It all depended on how he went about it.

　　At first, Henry Walton planned to study, earn a scholarly title, and leave this place—at least to introduce himself to this world.

　　As it happened, in recent years, commerce had flourished here. Most of the Shu families in the village banded together to do business, selling local brushes, ink, paper, inkstones, tea, and timber to the capital, gradually becoming prosperous. Influenced by strong Confucian clan and rural traditions, as the rich increased, they hoped more scholars would emerge from their clan and village, so that if they gained official titles in the future, they could help each other. Thus, they pooled funds to establish a clan school. Even outsiders like Henry Walton benefited a little from this.

　　So, a year of study, a year of listening to tales.

　　Life was hard, but after getting used to it, it was rather peaceful.

　　But now, he had worries—

　　Last month, his eldest uncle went out fishing and came back suddenly gravely ill, covered in sores, and before long, was at death’s door.

　　When he was young, his family was poor. His mother was taken away by a peddler, and his father raised him alone. Later, he followed the Shu family on business trips, earning some hard money. But in recent years, bandits and thieves ran rampant. It was said that two years ago, after one trip, none of the merchants returned. After that, his eldest uncle took over his father’s duties, providing for his food, clothing, and studies.

　　He even fell into the river when he first arrived, and it was this uncle who risked his life to save him.

　　After his uncle fell ill, his cousin went to fetch a famous doctor from nearby. The doctor prescribed medicine, which worked, but was expensive.

　　For ordinary families, being able to eat and clothe themselves was already good fortune. To support a scholar was the limit. A month’s worth of medicine had already emptied their savings.

　　The money left by his father was also gone.

　　The Shu family, kind at heart, let him collect a small bag of rice from their house every ten days, so no one in the village would starve at home.

　　Henry Walton had just returned from the Shu family’s house.

　　But according to the doctor, to slowly cure a stubborn illness, the medicine would be needed for at least three months, costing at least a dozen or twenty strings of cash.

　　He had no idea where to find that money.

　　Henry Walton was truly worried.

　　In a daze, he came back to his senses and heard a voice from the pavilion ahead:

　　“...That man wasn’t some Taoist priest with magical powers, just a bold and strong fellow. After a few drinks, he got fired up and wrestled with that ghost all night. When dawn broke, exhausted, he got up and looked around—guess what he saw?

　　“There was no ghost at all, just a tattered sack-like skin on the ground. When the sun came out, it started smoking, and the stench was overwhelming.”

　　The children listened, both shocked and fascinated, utterly absorbed.

　　But one child’s eyes showed a hint of doubt:

　　“Grand-uncle, are there really ghosts in this world?”

　　Over the past year, Henry Walton had often wondered about this while listening to the stories.

　　Are there really gods and ghosts in this world?

　　Having never seen them, he dared not say for sure.

　　But if not, why are the tales so widespread and vivid?

　　“Of course there are! How could there not be?” The old man raised his eyebrows. “I’ve told you so many stories of monsters and ghosts, many with real names—are they all made up?”

　　“Have you seen one?”

　　“Of course I have! Haven’t I told you before?”