AGJN 069: Can I Pet Your Family Guardian Spirit?

Song Qiyun sat on a chair, explaining the scene to Lan He and Xiao Yuqian.

The upcoming scene involved the characters played by Lan He and Xiao Yuqian visiting a temple. Xiao Yuqian’s character, a ghost from the underworld, was disdainful of the temple and focused solely on calculating accounts in his notebook. Lan He, however, paid his respects at the altar, prompting Xiao Yuqian to mock him. This led to a dialogue between the two, where the ghost questioned the seemingly unique protagonist’s decision to pray to gods.

After communication between Lan He and Song Futan, the name “Xiao Lai” had been removed from the script, and they didn’t replace it with another name. Song Qiyun felt it was better this way—the protagonist’s name never appeared throughout the film.

After explaining the scene, Song Qiyun asked if they had any questions. Xiao Yuqian replied, “Director Song, I feel like… you’re talking about religion or philosophy here.”

Song Qiyun and Lan He both laughed.

Xiao Yuqian chuckled. “I’ve heard you say this story is about ghosts, but actually it’s about people. It’s just that even when you look deeper, the protagonist, who’s supposed to symbolize ghosts and gods, isn’t what I expected.”

“I remember you grew up abroad, right?” Song Qiyun asked.

Xiao Yuqian nodded.

Song Qiyun explained, “The concept of ghosts and gods comes from human civilization. Ancient civilizations were born in river valleys—like the Nile, the Indus, and the Yellow River—each producing a major religious system. The core of two of these systems revolves around prophets, prophecies, and mysticism. But in the Chinese system, the core belief isn’t about those; it’s about sages. It’s a philosophical religion with a stronger rational component, especially after incorporating Buddhist ideas.”

Thus, even though he depicted absurd ghosts and gods, there was a rational philosophy amidst the absurdity.

Xiao Yuqian nodded repeatedly, feeling he needed to delve deeper into traditional stories.

Afterward, when he acted out the scene again with the protagonist, he felt a new sense of depth.

During the scene, Xiao Yuqian’s character asked the protagonist, “You’ve prayed at so many temples, to so many gods. Which temple is the most effective? Is it Mount Tai? Wudang Mountain? Or this shabby temple?”

The protagonist stared at the dust on the statue and softly said, “Everywhere is effective. Everywhere is ineffective.”

“Cut!” Song Qiyun shouted loudly.

Lan He and Xiao Yuqian stopped acting.

Yu Mengmeng, who was watching from the side, laughed, “Director Song, it’s really tough on you. Every ‘cut’ has to be shouted so loudly.”

Song Qiyun, usually a gentle person who avoided scolding actors, explained. “Since we’re filming a ghost story, tradition dictates that the ‘cut’ must be loud—not just for the actors to stay in character, but also to let anything else know that it’s just a movie.”

Song Qiyun forced a smile. He had debated whether he still needed to shout since there was already an emissary of the underworld on set. But in the end, he decided the shouting was for everyone else’s peace of mind.

“By the way, since we’re already at the foot of Mount Tai, should we take some time to visit the temples?” Xiao Yuqian suggested. “I heard there’s a temple dedicated to Bixia Yuanjun here.” He had just said he wanted to understand traditions, and now he was eager.

“What, are you going to pray to the Lady of Mount Tai for a child?” someone teased.

Xiao Yuqian: “… What the heck?”

Yu Mengmeng laughed as she helped him out. “Why should praying to the Lady of Mount Tai only be for having children? Clearly, you don’t know. The Lady of Mount Tai commands the gods of the Yuefu Army, observes human virtues, protects all living beings, and answers prayers across the Nine Provinces.”

“Exactly!” Xiao Yuqian’s face turned red as the goddess backed him up. “So, compared to the temple on Jinding Miaogan Mountain near Beijing, which one is more effective?”

“Didn’t you just finish your scene?” Lan He replied. “Obviously, both are effective, and both are ineffective.”

Xiao Yuqian: “…”

Yu Mengmeng offered her interpretation. “Exactly. Sincerity is what makes it work!”

Some people chimed in, expressing interest in going.

Yu Mengmeng organized them, saying, “Alright, if you’re going, be serious about it. Locals told me you can’t make casual wishes on Mount Tai, or the Lady will be upset. And there are certain kinds of people who shouldn’t go up Mount Tai at all.”

Some of those who initially wanted to rest became intrigued by the taboos and started asking if they could go.

“The first type of person who can’t go is the *Tai Mountain children*,” Yu Mengmeng began, her eloquence making the atmosphere feel mystical. “It’s the same rule as at Miaogan Mountain. If your mother prayed for a child at the Lady’s temple, and that’s how you were born, then you can’t go up. That’s because you were originally one of the Lady’s attendants. If she misses you, she might take you back as soon as she sees you.”

Many people didn’t know about this, and as they whispered among themselves, their interest grew. “What about others? Can people with light horoscopes go?”

Yu Mengmeng responded seriously, “There are others who can’t go, like those with heart and lung diseases, high blood pressure, or cardiovascular issues…”

Everyone: “…”

They burst out laughing.

Yu Mengmeng, her playful demeanor restored, turned to Song Qiyun. “Director, are you going?”

Song Qiyun first turned to Lan He. “… Are you going?”

Everyone noticed this and thought the director must really value Lan He, even asking his opinion about climbing the mountain. Little did they know, Song Qiyun was simply considering that this was practically Lan He’s “home turf.” It wouldn’t be appropriate not to include him.

Lan He replied, “Climbing the mountain sounds fine.”

“So, you’re skipping the incense offering. We get it.” Xiao Yuqian patted Lan He’s shoulder, referencing the famously atheist actor.

Lan He smiled bashfully.

“Lan He really is a good actor,” the lead cameraman remarked, reflecting on the subtlety of Lan He’s performance in the earlier scene.

“Yes, truly excellent,” Song Qiyun muttered blankly as he walked away.

…

The crew had some filming to do on the mountain, and afterward, a group of volunteers climbed further up to the Bixia Yuanjun Temple to offer incense.

On either side of the winding mountain path, many branches were tied with red ribbons and weighed down with stones. This was called “压枝” (*pressing branches*), also known as “压子” (*pressing children*), a ritual to anchor the souls of children and grant them long lives.

Dou Chunting, his face battered and bruised, carried phones and water bottles for Lan He and Song Futan. It was his punishment for a slip of the tongue—he’d been serving his cousin obediently for days now.

Even in his current state, Dou Chunting couldn’t keep quiet. “That day, I left in a hurry…”

Song Futan shot him a glance.

Dou Chunting corrected himself. “That day, I *fled* in a hurry and didn’t hear how you two explained things to Uncle. Brother, can you tell me exactly how you two met? And what happened later at Xing Shuang? Especially your first meeting performance.”

Lan He figured it was better to tell him outright than to let him imagine things on his own. Last time Dou Chunting filled in the blanks, he came up with a melodramatic tale of love and betrayal. Keeping it simple, Lan He said, “That was the first time we met *alive*. You’ve seen it before. In the underworld, I always had my face covered.”

After Lan He finished his brief explanation, Dou Chunting said emotionally, “I can’t believe, in this day and age, I’ve witnessed a *blind marriage and mute wedding*!”

Lan He and Song Futan: “??”

Dou Chunting gestured animatedly. “One of you didn’t give your name, and the other hadn’t seen their partner’s face. Isn’t that basically a blind marriage and mute wedding?”

Song Futan: “…”

Song Futan retorted, “Did you know what your wife looked like before confessing to her?”

Dou Chunting: “…”

Dou Chunting deflated instantly. He always forgot he had met his wife online and thus had no room to mock anyone else. Song Futan’s comment also made him realize why his cousin had been so particularly harsh the last time he sought advice.

Lan He couldn’t help but remark, “Neither of you is in any position to judge the other.”

Dou Chunting: “…”

Song Futan: “…”

Dou Chunting observed that his cousin truly stayed silent. Impressive—this was a clear sign of the household hierarchy.

The crew, moving at different paces, gradually reached the Bixia Temple. Many chose to offer incense while others were busy burning prayer papers and offerings. Lan He and his group stood off at a distance, merely enjoying the scenery without participating in the rituals.

As they watched, a piece of ash from a burning prayer paper drifted on the wind and landed right in front of Lan He.

Lan He reached out and caught the ash, inspecting it closely.

“Brother, what are you doing?” Dou Chunting asked curiously when he noticed Lan He holding onto the ash and studying it.

“This is a letter from Old Bai to me,” Lan He replied. “He wants to see me but doesn’t dare approach, so he wrote a letter begging for mercy, asking if I can promise not to hit him if we meet.”

Dou Chunting’s eyes widened. “Seriously?” He scrutinized Lan He’s expression before slapping his forehead. “Ugh, acting skills—can’t trust them.”

Lan He: “…”

Dou Chunting turned to Song Futan. “Cousin, do you think this is really a letter? A real apology letter?”

Song Futan replied, “It’s a letter, but I don’t recognize the writing. The underworld has its own script.”

Lan He nodded. “Yeah, it’s like encryption. He probably finds it embarrassing and doesn’t want anyone else to read it.”

The writing, which Lan He had never formally studied, was haphazard and messy—something he naturally understood after becoming an emissary of the underworld.

Dou Chunting joked, “So, it’s like an underworld version of a fancy script?”

Lan He: “…”

After some lighthearted banter, the crew members who had offered incense finished, and they began descending the mountain.

Before they reached the bottom, commotion erupted behind them. Lan He turned, initially thinking some crew member had been recognized by tourists. But upon seeing someone lying on the ground, he realized something was wrong.

Rushing over, he saw that it was one of the crew’s cameramen who had collapsed.

“Could it be a medical issue?” Lan He asked, recalling how Yu Mengmeng had mentioned earlier that people with health problems shouldn’t climb the mountain.

“We’re checking his health card, but nothing’s showing up,” Song Qiyun replied. They asked the head of the camera department, who explained that the cameraman was young, strong, and physically fit. He regularly exercised to handle the heavy equipment he carried on set.

The emergency call had already been made, and medical personnel were on their way from the scenic area, though everyone couldn’t help but worry.

A coworker who shared a room with the cameraman hesitated before speaking up. “I just remembered something. When Yu mentioned the legend about the Tai Mountain children, he told me that his mother did pray at Mount Tai for a child and ended up having him.”

Everyone: “… What the—?!”

“I… I mean, I’ve heard of this legend before,” Yu Mengmeng stammered, stunned. “But why did he come, then?”

The coworker replied, “I asked him that too, and he said, ‘Why not? My dad also went to an infertility clinic at the same time, so who’s to say whether I’m a gift from the Lady of Mount Tai or the attending physician.’”

Everyone: “…”

While it was entirely possible he had some undiagnosed chronic condition and this was mere coincidence, the situation made it hard for anyone not to wonder.

“Let’s wait for the medics and not move him,” Lan He said calmly. “Even if you want to entertain superstitions, remember, Dou Chunting still has his talisman.”

“Right, right. Maybe he just needs some medication or an injection. Everyone, spread out and give him space to breathe,” someone called out.

Lan He’s words reassured the group somewhat, but a few couldn’t help mulling it over. The talisman in question bore an image of Zhong Kui, yet Mount Tai was under the Lady of Mount Tai’s jurisdiction. And Zhong Kui’s “boss” was technically related to her. Could the talisman even work here?

Song Qiyun quietly approached Lan He, whispering anxiously, “What’s going on here? You need to figure it out right now!”

If something serious happened to someone here, it would be disastrous.

Song Futan interjected, “Lower your voice.”

Song Qiyun’s voice hadn’t been quiet enough, and a few people had already glanced their way.

Trying to cover it up, Song Qiyun said hastily, “Lan He, can you ask that doctor friend of yours?”

Lan He replied in a low voice, “Director Song, if you want me to ask, you’ll need to find a place where I can die first.”

Song Qiyun: “…”

Lan He added, “And if I leave my body, Song Futan will also be pulled away—my soul tether is tied to him.”

Song Qiyun: “What?!”

A wave of dizziness hit Song Qiyun; he hadn’t known about this.

*I’m lucky, I’m lucky,* Song Qiyun mentally repeated to himself twice before reluctantly saying, “Fine, I’ll cover for you two. Hurry up and investigate.”

Feigning nonchalance, Song Qiyun pretended to instruct them to go find a spot with better signal to call an expert.

The two slipped away to a car, where Dou Chunting stood guard. Afterward, they left their bodies.

As they sat there lifeless, Dou Chunting reached out to check their breathing. Realizing there was none, he playfully pretended to smack Song Futan, though he didn’t actually hit him. He just gestured, looking amused.

Lan He commented, “Does your brother not realize that if we were really dead, it wouldn’t have happened this fast?”

Song Futan replied, “Not enough brains to think that far.”

Lan He sighed, exasperated, and turned his attention back to the task, floating up toward the mountain.

In their soul forms, their speed far outpaced their physical bodies. Lan He drifted to the temple and was immediately greeted by a raucous, boisterous laugh—loud and carefree like clanging cymbals: “Ha ha ha! Hehehe…”

If Lan He had been in his physical body, he would’ve gotten goosebumps.

“That sounds like the photographer,” Lan He remarked, recognizing the voice. Peering over the temple wall, he saw the cameraman’s soul in the courtyard, playing house with a group of naked toddlers.

The toddlers’ appearance was eerily familiar. Lan He had seen similar figures at Miaogan Mountain, one of whom later reincarnated as Miaomiao. Their true nature was obvious.

Although the toddlers were cheerful and innocent, the scene’s ominous undertone couldn’t be ignored. The dimming sky, the burly photographer giggling mindlessly, and their meal—composed of incense and candle flames—created an eerie, unsettling tableau.

Even Lan He swallowed nervously before steeling himself.

“Let’s go,” Lan He said to Song Futan, stepping into the courtyard. “Hi there, kids! Just a quick question—when did this new little friend arrive?”

One of the toddlers spotted Lan He and ran up to him, shouting, “You stay too! Stay with us!”

Lan He laughed nervously. “No rush, no rush. Big Brother will play with you, but first, can you answer my question? Did this little friend just get here?”

He pointed to the cameraman, who was still laughing foolishly.

The toddler answered, “Yes, he just got here. We were short one person, so he stayed to be our playmate.”

“Why don’t you play a different game? Something more asymmetrical, maybe?” Lan He suggested.

The toddler ignored him and tugged on his hand. “Come on, come on!”

“Wait a moment,” Lan He said gently, holding the toddler in his arms. “How about this—let that little friend go home, and the two of us will play a really fun game with you. Deal?”

The little naked toddler hesitated, looking at Lan He.

“If not, then I’ll leave, and you all can keep playing without me.”

“No! We want you, we want you!” The Tai Mountain toddlers, who clearly liked Lan He, clung to him and agreed to the trade.

Lan He pulled out his fan and waved it at the still-giggling cameraman. “Soul, return to your body!”

…

Meanwhile, Old Bai was crawling up from the underworld. Although Lan He hadn’t replied to his letter, Old Bai missed him terribly—especially after losing a gambling round just moments ago. Desperate, he decided to take a risk.

“Father—” Old Bai called out in an eerie tone, but there was no reply, only the cheerful laughter of children.

*Playing with kids?* Old Bai rubbed his hands together, pasted on a smile, and stepped into the courtyard. The first thing he saw was Lan He and Song Futan playing jump rope with a group of ghostly toddlers. They were turning the rope while the children jumped in one after another, all chanting in unison, “One! Two! Three! Next one in!”

The jumps were impressively synchronized—nearly twenty toddlers hopping at once without tripping. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t even a regular jump rope—it was their standard-issue soul-reaping cord, with one end held by Lan He and the other by Song Futan!

Old Bai: “…”

He felt his head spin. *How many uses are they going to come up with for a soul-reaping cord?*

Lan He glanced over. “Does it need to be longer? I can extend it. Or we could use two ropes for double jumping—do you dare?”

Realizing what was happening, Old Bai let out a horrified scream, “No!!”

*Double ropes?* He suddenly pictured them adding Xie Bian’s soul-reaping cord to the mix. The thought was too much to bear.

Lan He noticed Old Bai and asked, “Hm? What are you doing here?”

Old Bai, clutching his robes, shuffled forward awkwardly. “I came to pay my respects. You’re… playing with these little ones?”

Lan He gave him a faint, knowing smile.

Old Bai immediately assumed a defensive posture, ready to dodge at any moment.

“I’m not going to hit you,” Lan He said. “But I do need your help with something.”

Old Bai’s face lit up with joy. “You mean… the past is forgiven?”

Lan He nodded.

Ecstatic, Old Bai rolled up his sleeves. “What do you need? Just tell me!”

Thirty seconds later, Old Bai and a paper doll were the ones turning the rope.

The Tai Mountain toddlers, unimpressed, complained, “He’s no good at it.”

Old Bai protested, “Nonsense! I was the champion of the underworld jump rope competition!”

The toddlers sneered, “Pfft! The Lady has never mentioned such a competition!”

Old Bai: “…”

*Damn it. These little brats are sharper than they look.*

“How much longer do we have to keep shaking?” Old Bai turned back to look for Lan He, but Lan He had disappeared without a trace while he was chatting with the Mount Tai dolls. The bare-bottomed dolls, realizing this too, stopped jumping rope and jumped onto him crying loudly, “It’s all your fault! It’s all your fault!”

These were the children of the Bixia Temple; hitting them was out of the question. Some were even said to be exceptionally gifted, destined to be great officials or heroes in their next lives. Old Bai’s face turned green as he tried to crawl away, only to be dragged out by his waistband.

—

Emergency responders arrived and rushed the fainted photographer to the hospital, managing to revive him. However, they couldn’t determine the exact cause of his condition. After asking about his work, they concluded it was due to lack of rest.

The crew’s work was demanding, so this explanation seemed reasonable. However, the team still discussed the incident involving the Mount Tai doll, feeling it was a bit eerie.

Around the same time, the company sent Lan He some good news: he had been nominated for Best Supporting Actor for a film award. Or rather, *Chase* had been submitted for numerous categories in various film awards, and this was one of the most prestigious nominations. Besides him, the film also earned nominations for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Cinematography, and many other categories.

This wasn’t a particularly competitive year for films, and given that it was a carefully crafted work by Liu Chunyang, the results were expected.

The crew congratulated Lan He, and Xiao Yuqian even spent half a day analyzing his chances of winning.

Lan He was already quite content with just being nominated. Thinking about it, his portrayal of the character was partly inspired by his side job, proving that Old Bai wasn’t entirely useless… Speaking of which, he wondered if Old Bai had made it out of the temple yet.

Thinking this, he decided to burn some additional “child support” offerings for Old Bai.

The filming in Dai’an was also wrapping up, and the crew prepared to return to Beijing to continue filming. Before leaving, the staff reminded everyone in the group chat that the weather in Beijing had been terrible lately, with constant heavy rain, and to prepare umbrellas and raincoats to avoid getting soaked upon arrival.

The crew’s equipment was transported back via a dedicated vehicle on the highway, a trip that only took a few hours. Song Qiyun had a nightmare about the equipment and footage being lost and insisted on accompanying the shipment.

Lan He wondered if the nightmare might have actually been about him. He quickly discussed it with Song Qiyun and decided to travel back together by car.

Since both his uncle and elder brother were avoiding high-speed trains, Dou Chunting couldn’t leave them behind. He enthusiastically joined them, claiming that with his talismanic “spiritual judge,” they could sleep soundly, and his uncle would no longer have nightmares. He took every opportunity to boast about his abilities.

Song Qiyun and another crew member took the large vehicle, while Dou Chunting drove a smaller car with Lan He and Song Futan.

Just as they entered Beijing’s jurisdiction, barely crossing the border, Dou Chunting suddenly exclaimed, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, look! Cousin! Cousin-in-law! Look!”

Song Futan glanced outside. “A whirlwind? It’s pretty small.” It wasn’t a tornado, as those are unlikely inland—just a whirlwind about as tall as a person.

Lan He: “Cousin-in-law?”

Dou Chunting: “Small or not, it’s still a whirlwind! I heard from my dad that there’s such a thing as ghost whirlwinds—gods at the top, ghosts at the bottom!” A ghost whirlwind supposedly carries spirits, and anyone encountering it would have bad luck.

Song Futan: “It seems to be heading this way…”

Lan He: “…”

Why was he the only one who heard those two words earlier?

Lan He gave up struggling and turned to look. Sure enough, the small whirlwind was heading straight for them. As the car moved, it followed.

Lan He squinted and peered into the whirlwind, then chuckled, “I got startled for nothing. It’s fine; it’s probably just my household spirit coming to pick me up.”

They had just entered Beijing and were still at the border. Clearly, they missed him a lot. Spirits, not just ghosts, could ride whirlwinds—it was simply more efficient.

Dou Chunting shifted nervously. “Household spirit? I’ve heard tons of tales about fox and weasel spirits, but I’ve never seen one. Are they friendly? Could… could I pet it?”

Fox and weasel spirits were among the most commonly heard of household spirits. Although Dou Chunting’s cousin could see paranormal entities, he rarely discussed them. Having had his own ghostly encounter, Dou Chunting was naturally curious about protective household spirits.

Lan He: “Pet it?”

He glanced around. Just off the highway, with no cars close behind, he rolled down the window. The whirlwind rushed in, and a large hedgehog tumbled into the car. It sat up, its black-bead eyes spinning dizzily—it was none other than the audacious Yiping.

Dou Chunting: “………Excuse me.”

---

Author’s note:

Lan He: Don’t worry, there’s another one—a fox fresh from unblocking the drains.