Chapter Forty: Mortal Bonds Severed, the Path to the Underworld Opens

Today was the Ghost Festival. Out of concern for the elderly Madam Hong, her grandniece had stayed with her in the small cottage all day. In the quiet night, with only a solitary lamp burning, the two exchanged a few scattered words before the young grandniece went to bed early, leaving Madam Hong alone by the lamplight, lost in her thoughts.

A night breeze drifted in, and suddenly Madam Hong felt she heard a familiar footstep outside—a sound that once belonged to her son. Her heart leapt to her throat as she cried out, “Is that you, Yuan’er? Is it you? Mother hears your footsteps. Answer me, my son!” She forgot her blindness and groped her way eagerly toward the door.

A voice called out, thick with emotion, “Mother, your unfilial son has come to see you. Please, move slowly!” With that, Hong Kangyuan knelt before his mother, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Mother, how are your eyes?”

“My sight is failing with age, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re home.” Madam Hong pulled her son’s head to her chest, and mother and son wept in each other’s arms. Suddenly, she remembered something and smacked him on the back. “You have a hard heart! You left for years, your wife fell ill and you never returned. Your son sent letter after letter, all unanswered. Even on her deathbed, your wife was still calling your name. Your son went to find you and never returned. You left your old mother here, waiting and waiting, day after day, night after night. I feared I would never live to see you again!” All her pent-up grievances poured out with her tears, until, at last, she calmed herself and led her son inside. The lamp’s flame continued to waver in the night.

“Mother, do you still keep this lamp burning every night?” Hong Kangyuan asked, holding her hand.

“You and Ding’er always said you couldn’t find your way home when it got dark, didn’t you? So I thought, if you come back late, you’ll see this lamp and find your way.” Madam Hong wiped her eyes. “A few days ago, a Daoist priest came and asked for half a tael of lamp oil and a bit of fire. On leaving, he told me you would all return. When I told the others, no one believed me. But I believe it. I know you’ll find your way home. While you were gone, my grandniece has cared for this old blind woman. You must thank her later—a rare and good-hearted child.”

“Yes, Mother, I will thank her. Have you been well all these years?” Hong Kangyuan asked.

“How could I be well?” At this, Madam Hong’s tears fell again. The solitary lamp shone on as mother and son spoke of the long years apart. She listened to tales of his travels and nodded from time to time. But when Hong Kangyuan recounted how he’d been stricken by illness and lay bedridden at an inn, he abruptly stopped and said, “Mother, wait here. I must thank my niece for all she’s done for you. In the next life, I’ll repay her kindness.”

Madam Hong laughed through her tears. “That’s your own niece! No need for next lives—just give her a generous dowry when she marries.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he replied vaguely, then slipped away for a moment before returning to sit quietly with his mother by the lamp. The night wore on.

Outside, the figures of the Day Patrol and Night Patrol gods appeared. Hong Kangyuan knew his time had come. He knelt once more before his mother, kowtowing three times, and said, “Mother, I must go. Please take care of yourself. Ding’er will return soon; he will care for you in my stead.”

Madam Hong was startled and cried out, “You’ve only just returned—why must you go so soon? Why?” She clung desperately to her son, unwilling to let him leave. “Mother,” Hong Kangyuan called sorrowfully.

At that moment, the Day and Night Patrol gods entered, having finished their discussion with the gods of the eaves and the earth. “Madam Hong, your son has already died in a distant land. Out of compassion for your charity—donating lamp oil and fire—the Immortal Liaochen has allowed your son to return for one last visit. But now his time is up. If he stays past the appointed hour, he will become a wandering ghost.” With that, they seized Hong Kangyuan’s hand and led him toward the door.

“My son!” Madam Hong cried, hurrying after them, but she stumbled over a chair and fell heavily to the ground. With a start, she awoke from her dream. Blinking slowly, she realized she had fallen asleep by the lamp. At that moment, her grandniece ran in from the back room and said, “Great Aunt, I just dreamed of Cousin Kangyuan. He asked me to take good care of you and said he’d repay me in the next life. What a strange dream!”

“Child, perhaps it wasn’t just a dream,” Madam Hong replied, tears streaming down her face as the solitary lamp continued to burn. She knew her son would never return.

The next day, Madam Hong donated half a tael of lamp oil, and word spread throughout the village that she had bought a brief reunion with her son’s soul. One person may dream from longing, but for two to dream the same dream—this was something else entirely.

Several months later, Madam Hong’s grandson returned, bringing with him Hong Kangyuan’s ashes. He explained that a Daoist priest had rescued him and entrusted him with his father’s remains, instructing him to bring them home for burial so the roots might return to the earth. He was then to stay and honor his grandmother in his father’s place.

News of these events caused a sensation. Those who had given lamp oil that night were elated, proclaiming, “Good deeds bring good fortune—it’s true! See, when a stranger came seeking oil at night, we knew he was no ordinary person. Thank goodness for our kind hearts and sharp eyes!” Those who had refused the oil, on the other hand, lamented their miserliness, ruing a lost chance to meet a celestial immortal.

As the story spread further, it reached the local authorities, who confirmed that the man in question was none other than Liaochen, the newly appointed Imperial Preceptor—a true immortal among men. In his honor, a shrine was erected, incense burned unceasingly, and almsgiving became the custom. The region gained a reputation for kindness and virtue. The imperial court, in recognition of their good deeds, exempted the local people from corvée labor for three years—a tangible reward for their compassion.

Meanwhile, after Hong Kangyuan’s return, Liaochen sat in the center of the lamp’s glow and rang his purple-gold ritual bell to open the gates of the underworld, inviting ghostly soldiers to lead the wandering souls to rebirth.

Seated amidst the flickering light and surrounded by jars of bones, Liaochen’s presence was ethereal. The bell chimed softly, breaking the silence of the night, while the sound of chanting—sometimes near, sometimes far—filled the room, each word clear as crystal. One by one, the spirits drifted from their urns, kneeling before Liaochen, hands clasped in prayer.

“By the Supreme Mandate, may all lonely souls and errant ghosts, of every birth and fate, be granted release:
Those with heads, those without,
Those slain by gun or blade, drowned or hanged,
Those who died in darkness or injustice,
Debtors, enemies, and children lost,
Kneel before my altar as the eight trigrams shine,
Step out of the pit and into rebirth,
Whether as man or woman, your fate is your own,
Wealth or poverty, it is yours to draw,
I command your salvation—be reborn, be reborn!”

Over and over, Liaochen recited the mantra for salvation, mind wholly immersed in the scripture, oblivious to the world around him. He did not know how much time had passed before a sudden flash of light pierced the darkness of his mind. He finished the scripture and addressed the spirits: “Dust returns to dust, earth to earth. There is no road back from the Underworld. All in the world of the living is but a dream. Upon waking, it no longer concerns you. I wish you swift release from suffering and a blessed rebirth.” With a bow, he invoked, “Great Heavenly Lord of Universal Salvation.”

Returning to his altar, he folded a paper boat, only an inch long, and placed a tiny candle within. Whispering an incantation, he lit the candle and said, “The road to the Yellow Springs is long, the waters of Oblivion swift. I send you this little boat—may it carry you swiftly from suffering.” He let the boat go, and it began to rise gently.

The spirits, kneeling on the ground, wept bitterly, casting one last glance at the world of the living. After three bows, they entered the little boat in turn. Liaochen nodded to the ghost general. “I leave them in your care.” The ghost general said nothing, only gazed deeply at Liaochen, then led his ghostly soldiers aboard.

When the boat was full, Liaochen took up his peachwood sword, closed his eyes in silent concentration, then opened them wide and cried, “Let a clear breeze send you forth, let the road between worlds open, let the paper boat be your vessel—go, go, go to your next life!” With that, he thrust the sword into the ritual urn.

The boat began to rise higher and higher. At that moment, a miracle occurred that would be told in Shuozhou for a thousand years. The countless lamp-lit boats floating in ponds and courtyards across the city also began to rise, gathering in the sky and forming a glowing stream behind Liaochen’s paper boat, drifting through the heavens as if borne by a river, shining like a myriad of stars before vanishing into the distant night.

By dawn, those who had witnessed the spectacle hurried to the burial grounds, only to find the cottage deserted and the jars of bones gone. Liaochen the Immortal had departed, leaving behind the legend of his compassion—a story that would live on for a thousand years.