Chapter Nineteen: A Bowl of Rice

What exactly is the passage of the ghostly soldiers? Perhaps no one can describe it with certainty. It seems that people have merely passed down this “phenomenon” by word of mouth.

Some say it is an illusion created by subterranean vapors released during earthquakes or volcanic eruptions. Others claim it is the toxic miasma formed from the accumulation of corpse gases after a great disaster. In any case, after every major catastrophe, tales of the ghostly soldiers passing through abound.

Those who believe in science offer explanations grounded in scientific reasoning. Others, with less understanding or religious convictions, insist these ghostly soldiers are emissaries from the Underworld, escorting souls of the dead.

There are countless ways to interpret the passage of the ghostly soldiers. Some say they are real entities; others call them hallucinations. Some attribute them to science, others to superstition.

Yet there is one fact universally acknowledged.

The appearance of the ghostly soldiers always foretells a coming massacre.

Few know, however, that before or after their passage—much like earthquakes—we often find many “omens” hinting at their arrival: infants crying through the night, sinister laughter from willow groves, magpies moving their nests, blood bubbling from wells, and so forth.

What I refer to as the Underworld “buying provisions for the ghostly soldiers” is one such omen, a tradition circulated among the cooks.

To understand it, we must first consider the ancient ritual of “buying provisions,” and its meaning.

“Buying provisions,” as the name suggests, is the act of providing rations for soldiers. Specifically, it refers to the first meal granted to a new recruit upon joining the army in ancient times.

It is less a matter of food, more a matter of ritual.

The process went as follows:

In ancient times, my own unit followed an unwritten rule: whenever a civilian was conscripted as a soldier, regardless of his physical strength or skills, he would immediately be given a bowl of wine.

This bowl of wine was called “farewell wine.” Only two types of people would drink it: condemned prisoners, and soldiers setting out for war.

The manner in which the wine was drunk was also significant. Whoever received it, whether accustomed to drinking or not, had to finish it on the spot. Yet the condemned and the soldiers drank it in entirely different ways.

According to custom, the condemned would drain the bowl in one gulp, then smash the bowl and set out on the “red journey.” Soldiers, however, must not finish the wine nor smash the bowl.

New recruits would always leave half the wine, then splash the remainder skyward, letting it fall to the earth—ideally yellow earth—to offer sacrifice to Heaven, ancestors, and the land, praying for safety and prosperity.

Once the wine was gone, the recruit would leave the bowl behind, and the officer would fill it with white rice, preferably glutinous rice. This bowl of rice was the “bought provisions.”

Afterward, the recruit would give his first handful of army rations to the military cook, who would prepare a hearty meal for him.

For thousands of years, this unwritten rule persisted in the armies of my homeland. The custom of “buying provisions” was not unique to us; it subtly influenced neighboring countries such as Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, where similar practices were adopted. Even during World War II, the Japanese Army and Navy maintained the tradition of serving new recruits “red bean glutinous rice” as their bought provisions.

Why the farewell wine? Modern explanations cite a longing for safety and courage. But why the bought provisions? There are many theories, but no consensus.

Regrettably, this is a gap in our heritage.

The modern Chinese culinary world lacks the spirit of deep exploration into our food traditions, focusing instead on ingredients and taste. As a result, Chinese cuisine boasts delicacies but lacks the accompanying “ritual,” leaving us in an awkward position.

Often, this is why foreigners feel our cuisine lacks refinement, with poor environments and little attention to etiquette.

Nowadays… few remember, I suppose? A cook ought to respect “knife, fire, skill, and ritual,” and ritual is the key to food bridging the spiritual realm.

Of course, I was not reminiscing over a moldy grain of glutinous rice to complain. Rather, it was because I had long heard from my old sergeant and local rumors tales concerning moldy glutinous rice.

Among whispers in the Five Viscera Temple, moldy glutinous rice was said to be a specialty provision for recruiting ghostly soldiers by practitioners of the occult.

This notion arose from a certain phenomenon.

Legend has it that wherever ghostly soldiers pass, inexplicable moldy foods are found: rice and flour that were fresh would rapidly rot and vanish before one's eyes; vegetables and fruits, once fresh, would suddenly mold, become infested, and decay.

Unable to explain this, people would say that the ghostly soldiers “ate” these provisions as they passed.

My old sergeant once spoke of these dark taboos, mentioning that a “branch” within the Five Viscera Temple would exploit this phenomenon to prepare a special “molded” glutinous rice. This rice, imbued with the mold and gloom of heaven and earth, easily attracted spirits. Once the summoned ghosts ate the rice, they would become ghostly soldiers, ready to serve their temporary “master”...

Upon recalling this, I felt regret and surprise. Regret for not asking my old sergeant more questions, and surprise that the Five Viscera Temple produced such peculiar practitioners obsessed with summoning spirits through food. They weren’t priests, so what use had they for ghosts—perhaps to cook for them...?

Thinking of this, I clenched the grain of glutinous rice tightly in my palm and, clinging to a final hope, looked down at the ground.

“What are you looking for?” Zhao Hong eyed my strange actions and couldn’t help but ask, “There’s only soil here.”

I waved him off, “Check again, see if there’s any more rice on the ground... If you find some, take a look...”

Before I could finish, sharp-eyed Ah Si interrupted, “Brother Tian! There’s rice here! All glutinous rice!”

Little Ah Si spoke, waving his hand nervously at the ground before him.

I hurried over, took out my phone, and shone the flashlight down.

Grayish moldy glutinous rice snaked among the stones, stretching out like a serpent along the old Qi Road, winding from the three tables toward… our car.

“Moldy glutinous rice, square tables, bright red paper, white porcelain bowls, three sticks of incense...” As I gazed at these items, recalling all the information I could, I quickly arrived at an astonishing hypothesis. Even I could hardly believe it—after all, what era was this?!

“These three tables aren’t set for a meal or a sacrifice!” I suddenly realized, “Someone is arranging a ritual here! The purpose is… to summon ghostly soldiers!”

“To summon ghostly soldiers?! So it is them?!” Zhao Hong was equally astounded, sweat breaking out in beads on his brow. His expression suggested my words had touched upon some deep taboo.

His next words confirmed my suspicion.

In a rush, Zhao Hong said, “Quick, let’s get back to the car! What you said makes it all clear to me.”

“Clear what?”

He anxiously pointed toward the road, “I’ll explain later—out here isn’t safe. That landslide wasn’t a coincidence, I tell you...”

Just as Zhao Hong reached the crucial moment in his explanation, the lights shining on our pickup truck suddenly went out.

A shrill scream sliced through the night.

From the darkness, we heard a sharp woman’s cry from the direction of the pickup. Instantly, Zhao Hong’s uncle’s black dog began barking madly.

Amid the dog’s howls, Zhao Hong and I were stunned, unable to react to the sudden turn of events.

“A woman’s scream...” Zhao Hong was the first to speak.

His words snapped me back to my senses, and I immediately continued, “Xian Hongye!”

Grabbing short-legged Ah Si, Zhao Hong and I sprinted toward the pickup.

In the darkness, our pace was not quick and I felt only foreboding about the sudden developments. Yet when we finally reached the pickup, breathless and anxious, the situation had deteriorated beyond anything we could have imagined.

In just those few seconds, everything inside and outside the pickup had changed!

Wang Hou and Hongye had vanished without a trace. The pickup’s door was open, the right window smashed with a gaping hole, both headlights ruined.

From the outside, the pickup was empty and desolate, as if freshly looted, with only the black dog “Dudu” remaining in the back.

At that moment, the dog was barking furiously toward the old Qi Road, straining so hard against its chain that the links were stretched thin.

Amid the dog’s mournful howls, I stared, numb, at the scene before me—everything overturned, shattering my very understanding.

Two living people, gone in an instant? I couldn’t comprehend it.

If Xian Hongye alone had met with misfortune, perhaps it could be explained. But Wang Hou? He was our district’s runner-up in military competitions, a man who could take on a dozen strong men—a walking killing machine!

Even Wang Hou had vanished in those few seconds. What did it mean? Was our adversary in the darkness truly... ghostly soldiers?

I didn’t know, nor was I willing to ponder it, though I dared not think too deeply.

Resigned, I reached out, puppet-like, and gently opened the slightly ajar pickup door.

Though I knew there would likely be nothing inside, I still clung to a sliver of hope, wishing Wang Hou and Hongye were in the car, perhaps hiding under the seats.

The door opened.

Under the pale moonlight, I saw everything inside. My last hope was shattered.

There was no Wang Hou, no Xian Hongye—only shards of glass scattered across the seats and floor, and two blood-stained stones placed on their seats.

“Stones! It’s the ghostly soldiers!” Zhao Hong, seeing the scene, nearly lost his composure. Pointing at the ordinary stones, he cried out, “You were right! Ghostly soldiers are passing through! We’re all going to turn into stones!”