At No. 444 Wenchang Road stood a century-old Spiritual Consultation shop, positioned directly across from the largest manhole cover on the street—a storefront of less than seventy square meters, with two large red characters for “Spiritual Consultation” pasted on either side of the glass door. The LED screen beside the door displayed the same, but apparently thanks to a loose connection, only a single character—”shi”—still glowered resentfully in the dark.
As expected, it was the ninth day of the ninth lunar month. Lu You had just returned from making offerings to his entire family. The weather was overcast today; he came down the street riding a light breeze, and the moment he stepped into the shop a wave of clamor crashed into his face—a man’s explosive bellow tangled with a woman’s shrill sobbing.
“I’m calling the police right now, you believe that? Peddling feudal superstition until families are ruined! And you call yourself a Master? Go tell it to the police!” That was a very gruff male voice.
“You’ve got the guts, huh? Then summon a Great Shaman to possess you right in front of the cops—if nothing comes up, you can wait for your prison cell!”
The woman wailed shrilly: “You bastard, I’m divorcing you this instant! Keeping a mistress was bad enough, but you went and offended the immortals too! Aren’t you afraid of retribution?!”
“I’ve lived upright and sat straight! Immortals? A pack of charlatans—what kind of immortals would that be?!”
While the shop was in full blaze, Lu You let himself in. First he drew nine sticks of Incense and lit them at the Everburning Lamp on the Altar Offering Table, blew out the flame, bent down, and planted them neatly in the Incense Burner.
Spread across the altar was a great vermilion velvet tablet three feet three inches long. Along its right edge was written: Cultivating one’s nature in the deep mountains; along its left: Emerging from ancient caves, renowned across the four seas. In the very center, in wild, domineering strokes dipped in gold ink: Answering All Who Seek. Below that flowed the names, in lavish script, of the assembled immortal families—Hu, Huang, Chang, and Mang.
By the time Lu You finished the offering and turned around, the shop had quieted considerably, everyone staring at him, momentarily speechless. His gaze swept over the quarreling pair and finally settled on a young face seated in the Executive Chair behind the central desk.
His voice was cool and light: “Shuheng. What’s going on?”
Qin Shuheng sprang up at the sound of him and scurried over, ushering Lu You toward the chair while murmuring at his ear: “The woman’s an old Patron Client. Day before yesterday she came to ask whether her husband was having an affair, so I told her what the mistress looked like and how old she was. She went home, checked her husband’s phone, and actually found one—now they’re mid-divorce. The man somehow dug up our address and came to raise hell, threatening to call the police!”
Lu You nodded, settled firmly into the Executive Chair, and ordered Qin Shuheng to go buy three cups of bubble tea. Qin Shuheng took his orders and left.
It was the ninth lunar month, not yet properly cold, and mercifully there was no sun today, only wind. Qin Shuheng sprinted to the tea shop at the intersection and packed three hot drinks, gone barely a quarter hour in all. When he got back, the man who minutes ago had been spitting fire was now sitting bolt upright directly across from Lu You, reverently clasping Lu You’s hand and crying, “A living immortal!”
The woman, tears melted into smiles, had run off to the sofa to fix her makeup. Qin Shuheng didn’t dare make a peep; he stabbed a straw into each drink and set them respectfully on the offering table. Only after the couple had finished their business and gone did he finally dash over to Lu You, eyes full of stars.
“Master, you’re incredible! That man was mad enough to breathe fire and you still brought him to heel—how?”
Lu You was gathering up the Yellow Joss Paper beneath his hand. Qin Shuheng’s sharp eyes caught that the paper bore, written out neat and square, the names and Eight Characters of Birth of the couple from before—and judging by the hand, it came from the same pen as the “Answering All Who Seek” on the red tablet.
Only when the paper was put away did Lu You finally speak: “Haven’t I always taught you—Spiritual Consultation must never stop at knowing that something is so. You must know why it is so. When a Patron Client asks about an affair, do you simply check whether there’s peach blossom near the man?”
Qin Shuheng had a vague premonition and scratched his head: “I didn’t misread again, did I?”
“Your reading of the peach blossom around him wasn’t wrong—the person does exist.” Lu You seemed somewhat tired, his voice drained of force. “That girl is a student sponsored by the client’s husband, and the client herself knows it. The student was simple-hearted; after meeting the man a few times, she quietly lost her heart. The man entertained the idea but in the end never agreed. Nothing has happened—whether it ever would or not.”
Qin Shuheng said hotly: “But I plainly saw the man had already taken the thought into his head!”
“Whether a man thinks or acts—is that yours to touch?” Lu You’s tone was flat, his gaze settling on his Disciple, patience clearly worn thin. “What are the rules of our trade? Better to tear down a temple than destroy a marriage. Even if you think this marriage isn’t worth keeping, you leave it standing for someone else to tear down. Why should you shoulder that Karma yourself?”
He rose to his feet.
“Copy scripture. Pick the text yourself this time. Ten full copies, then press it under the altar overnight and burn it.”
“Not you too, Master!”
Qin Shuheng let out a wail, and his whole being seemed to be smashed midair by a giant wrecking ball, shattering into pieces.
Lu You stepped past him to go upstairs and rest. A yellow shadow flicked past the edge of Qin Shuheng’s vision, trailing behind. He shut his mouth, realized what it was, and smacked his lips twice after it.
“Oh, right. One more thing.”
Lu You turned back. Qin Shuheng snapped to attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, and then heard Lu You say, gravely:
“Huang Kuaipao is a Patron Spirit. If I ever find out you’ve been calling him like a dog again, I won’t let you off.”
Guilty, Qin Shuheng peeled his upper lip back into a textbook eight-tooth smile: “Understood, Master! Won’t happen again!”
Huang Kuaipao was Lu You’s personal Scout Messenger Spirit—roughly the standing of a grand eunuch at an ancient Emperor’s side.
Lu You sighed and went upstairs, Huang Kuaipao at his heels, shooting Qin Shuheng a smug grimace and flicking his big tail as he followed.
The Second Floor of the shop was Lu You’s rest room. When he opened the door there came a rustling clatter of colliding paper; long used to it, he walked in and absently gathered the collapsed pile of Paper Gold Ingots behind the door into their dedicated storage bag.
Huang Kuaipao bounded lightly onto the work desk, stretched out an arm, and waved it, trying to catch Lu You’s attention.
Lu You had a pair of deeply affectionate, beautiful peach-blossom eyes with pale irises; whatever light struck them always drew out a glint of amber. He looked over and kept it brief: “Talk.”
Huang Kuaipao giggled twice. “The Grand Hall Keeper told me you’ve got a mission today.”
The Grand Hall Keeper was the Altar Cult Leader of the Altar Hall—in other words, the Boss of all Lu You’s Patron Spirits.
Lu You frowned. “Mission?”
“One of the seven missions of your life, remember? The ones you agreed to when you were little.” Huang Kuaipao patted through his pockets. He was, in fact, a stark-naked Yellow Weasel, yet he loved imitating human habits—whenever he wanted to produce something he had to pretend he had pockets, like some Doraemon. “Here—the Grand Hall Keeper sent this for you.” He pulled out a Paper Slip, unfolded it, and held it up for Lu You to see.
Lu You leaned in. The slip held only three sparse lines of characters:
First line: Chengchun University
Second line: He Zhuchun
Third line: Pride
Below them, a smaller line: Dear Disciple, don’t panic—we are with you!
And a lopsided little heart.
He skipped the small print entirely, staring instead at the three lines: the first was plainly a place—his alma mater. The second looked like a name. The third was unclear—whether a trait or a theme.
Nine generations of Lu You’s family had served as Incense Bearer Mediums, Lu You being exactly the ninth—and the last generation before the spirits’ Immortal Ascension. But from beginning to end, whether from Heaven’s secrets leaking or Karmic Debt pressing down, no Incense Bearer Medium ever escaped one inescapable curse: a lifespan that reached barely thirty years, not a single day more.
History proved it out: the previous eight Incense Bearer Mediums, men and women alike, had all died in accidents on their thirtieth birthdays. Lu You knew perfectly well he couldn’t outrun that fate, so he didn’t struggle much against it.
And owing to the special nature of his identity, he carried one extra pact compared to his eight forebears: to complete the seven special missions the spirits had left for him.
He’d learned of it at eight years old. Muddle-headed little Lu You had asked the Cult Leader: “What are the missions?”
Before him sat an enormous fox, its fur a red gone nearly black, nine tails stirring behind it without a breath of wind. The Grand Cult Leader said little, leaving only one word: Wait.
That wait had lasted twenty years. Just when Lu You had assumed the pact had lapsed, on the Double Ninth Day—his birthday, no less—Huang Kuaipao, his personal Scout Messenger Spirit, finally delivered the mission’s contents before his eyes.
Lu You lowered his lids. “What does this actually mean?”
Huang Kuaipao tucked the slip away, propped his chin on his paws like a person, thought a while, and guessed wildly: “Maybe they want you to date the person on the slip?”
Even as he said it, Huang Kuaipao found it absurd himself. He grinned, then mumbled: “I just made that up. You shouldn’t take it too serious—”
Lu You said: “It’s not without logic.”
Lu You had spent half a life slacking off, and facing something he wasn’t good at, he felt a rare flicker of anxiety. He picked up the Gold Ingot Paper on the desk and idly folded two thousand Paper Gold Ingots, and only when they rose past the tops of his shoes did he finally breathe out.
Lu You frowned, face blank as he spoke: “I’ve long heard that the Incense Bearer path grinds through three trials—the trial of wealth, the trial of life and death. I’ve ground through both. So the trial of love is the one you’ve saved until now.”
Huang Kuaipao looked sheepish: “How do you manage to make everything logically consistent?”
“You spirits always have your reasons for what you do. If a Disciple can’t even trust his own spirits, what business does he have keeping an Altar Hall?” He stood and headed downstairs. “The trial of love is just a gate. It’s nothing.”
In trusting the spirits, Lu You had all but perfected the art. He seemed to trust them absolutely—unconditionally, the kind with no strings attached. Huang Kuaipao had zero doubt that if the Altar Cult Leader told Lu You he could learn to fly by leaping off the twentieth floor, Lu You would hop right over the edge, legs shaking all the way down.
But it was precisely this mutual trust and support between Disciple and spirits that had carried him step by step to today. The curse of thirty had cost Lu You his family in childhood and left him to live alone; through a dozen-odd years of hardship, had he doubted the spirits even once, he might never have clawed his way through those countless perils to see today.
Just like the eight Disciples before him.
Huang Kuaipao thought.
The Disciples of this bloodline all seemed to be terrifyingly stubborn.
Downstairs, Qin Shuheng had just spread open his scripture book when he saw Lu You hurrying down, Huang Kuaipao perched on his shoulder, tail bouncing up and down. He found it amusing and still had the leisure to greet him.
“Out on business, Master?”
He assumed his Master had picked up a sudden Ritual Service—but Lu You merely waved a hand. He was already out the door by the time his voice drifted lazily back into Qin Shuheng’s ears.
“Going to find love.”
The frosted glass door swung shut. Qin Shuheng froze, looked toward the Altar Hall, and asked, half-questioning: “Huh?”
Not one spirit on the altar deigned to answer him.
The sky darkened further, layers of black cloud bunching together, not a thread of sun in sight—more like the dimming sky of five or six in the afternoon.
Lu You got out of the taxi at the university gate. The wind had stiffened; his rather thin hem and the golden rain trees along the road rustled together, clusters of blossoms torn loose like handfuls of golden osmanthus.
Lu You’s instincts said rain was coming—unfortunately he’d left his umbrella at home.
Huang Kuaipao adored this kind of weather. He first took a spin through the drifts of fallen petals, then darted onto campus, calling out as he ran.
“Little Disciple, hurry up and get in here!”
Lu You followed him in. Huang Kuaipao had already looked up He Zhuchun’s whereabouts; he picked a direction and set off on four little legs, pattering double-time. Lu You trailed him the whole way, until at last, not far from the library, they intercepted a male college student.
The student stood before him in a thin denim jacket, gave Lu You a leisurely once-over, and arched a brow.
“Do we know each other?”
Huang Kuaipao was right at his feet, wildly signaling the specialness of the target. A distinctly unpromising premonition took shape in Lu You’s mind.
Still clinging to a shred of hope, Lu You asked: “Do you know He Zhuchun?”
The student nodded: “That’s me.”
Lu You fell silent for a beat.
He had only paid attention to the chun at the end of the name, assuming it referred to a girl—and Huang Kuaipao hadn’t thought to correct him.
Huang Kuaipao was so guilty he didn’t dare breathe. Seeing the two victoriously meet at last, he obediently climbed back onto Lu You’s shoulder, hugged his tail, and played dead.
Three seconds of silent contemplation.
“Fine.”
Lu You extended a hand, as if summoning up tremendous courage: “Hello, He Zhuchun. I’m Lu You.”
He Zhuchun asked: “Lu You as in ‘mountains multiply, streams double back—I doubt there’s even a road; willows cluster, blossoms shine—another village ahead’?”
“Lu You as in ‘who in this life could have foreseen—a heart set on the Tianshan frontier, a body growing old in Cangzhou.'”
“Got it, Mr. Lu.” He Zhuchun gave a short laugh and asked: “What did you need me for?”
“This may come across as offensive, but I really do have a favor to ask of you, He Zhuchun.” Amid the fur of Huang Kuaipao’s tail bristling straight up on pure instinct, Lu You feigned carelessness and swept the weasel off his shoulder, confessing with a perfectly blank face: “It concerns romance and dating.”
He Zhuchun raised a brow and offered no reply, waiting for the rest.
“Plainly put: I want to date you.” Lu You said. “Perhaps we could try seeing each other.”
He Zhuchun looked at him the way one looks at a madman for a good while, then answered with reasonable politeness: “Sorry, but I don’t do that.”
Lu You was equally polite, offering a suggestion: “Same thing.”
Truthfully, the scene was not a normal one. In a different setting—say, a psychiatric hospital—their behavior, especially Lu You’s, would have read far more ordinary. But this was happening at the gate of Chengchun University’s library, and one of them was a student who had just finished studying and was heading off to lunch.
He Zhuchun did not believe dating a man could be the same as dating a woman. He bared a mouthful of cold white teeth: “I do not accept your premise.”
The wind carried a bite now, and he was anxious to be off—but two steps out, a hand abruptly seized his shoulder. He turned and found Lu You staring at him, unwavering.
That same voice, calm to the point of coldness: “I think you owe me a chance.”
He Zhuchun’s patience ran dry. “On what grounds?” he asked coldly.
“I can offer you a trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“For instance.” Lu You looked at him. The two stood nearly eye to eye, yet He Zhuchun suddenly had the illusion of being gazed down upon; a chill surged up his spine in waves, and the voice at his ear was colder still—so cold he couldn’t stop himself from shivering.
“How about I deal with the Female Ghost clinging to your back?”
“…”
“She’s been troubling you for quite some time now, hasn’t she, classmate He Zhuchun.”
A bolt of lightning abruptly lit He Zhuchun’s none-too-pleasant expression. He narrowed his eyes and looked over, and the air between the two turned inexplicably taut.
Muffled thunder rolled at the horizon; the air grew damper still. The next moment, with a crash, water tipped down as if the sky had overturned—the rain came sheeting down in earnest.
