The grandfather of my brother-in-law, Mr. Song Tao, was a county scholar.

One day, lying ill in bed, he suddenly saw a government clerk holding an official document, leading a horse with a white patch on its forehead, approach and say: “Sir, you are requested to attend the examination.”

Mr. Song asked: “The examining official has not arrived. How can an examination be held so suddenly?” The clerk did not answer, merely urging him repeatedly to set out. Mr. Song had no choice but to mount the horse and follow, though the road they traveled seemed entirely unfamiliar.

Before long, they arrived at a city that looked like an imperial capital. Presently they entered a government compound, where the palaces were towering and magnificent. On the great hall sat over a dozen officials, most of whom Mr. Song did not recognize—except for one, whom he knew to be Guan Yu, Lord Guan the Mighty.

Beneath the hall, before the eaves, stood two desks and two stools. A scholar was already seated in the lower seat, so Mr. Song sat down beside him. Paper and brushes lay on each desk. Presently, an examination paper with the topic written on it floated down from the hall.

Mr. Song looked and saw eight characters: “One man, two men—with intention, without intention.” After both had finished their essays, they presented them to the hall.

In Mr. Song’s essay appeared this line: “To do good with deliberate intention—though it is good, it deserves no reward. To do evil without intention—though it is evil, it deserves no punishment.” The officials in the hall passed the essay around, praising it incessantly.

They then summoned Mr. Song before the hall and said to him: “The position of City God in Henan is vacant. You are well suited to take up this post.” Only then did Mr. Song understand. Kowtowing and weeping, he said: “How dare I decline such an important charge? But my elderly mother is already over seventy, with no one to care for her. Please allow me to come and serve only after she has passed away.”

The emperor-like figure on the throne immediately ordered a check on Mother Song’s lifespan.

A long-bearded official took up the register of human lifespans, flipped through it, and said: “Mother Song has nine years of yang-life remaining.” While the officials were hesitating, Lord Guan the Holy Emperor said: “Why not let that scholar Zhang serve as acting City God for nine years, after which he may take up the post?” So the emperor-like figure said to Mr. Song: “Ordinarily you should take office immediately. But in consideration of your benevolent filial piety, we grant you nine years‘ leave. When the time comes, you shall be summoned again.” He then spoke a few words of encouragement to Scholar Zhang. The two scholars kowtowed in gratitude and descended from the hall together.

Scholar Zhang shook Mr. Song’s hand and escorted him all the way to the outskirts, introducing himself as a native of Changshan, surnamed Zhang. He also presented Mr. Song with a poem as a parting memento, but Mr. Song forgot most of its lines—remembering only the couplet: “With flowers and wine, spring abides always; without candle or lamp, night turns bright of itself.”

Mr. Song mounted his horse and bade farewell. Upon returning home, he awoke as if from a great dream. By then, he had already been dead for three days.

Mother Song heard groaning from inside the coffin and hurriedly helped him out. It was half a day before Mr. Song could speak again. He sent someone to Changshan to make inquiries—and sure enough, there was a scholar surnamed Zhang who had died on that very day.

Nine years later, Mother Song truly passed away. After completing the burial, Mr. Song bathed and arranged his affairs, entered his room, and died. Mr. Song’s father-in-law lived inside the city’s west gate. That day, the family suddenly saw Mr. Song riding a handsomely adorned horse, followed by a retinue of carriages, horses, and servants, enter the inner hall, bow in farewell, and depart.

The whole household was astonished, not knowing that Mr. Song had already become a deity. His father-in-law sent someone to Mr. Song’s hometown to inquire, only to learn that he had died.

Mr. Song had written an autobiography, but unfortunately it was not preserved through the wars. What is recorded here is only a rough outline.

(The End)