Chapter 1

A few months ago, I created a group chat where friends gather daily to shoot the breeze. We discuss all manner of ghouls, ghosts, fox spirits, and demons. Among us is a photographer surnamed Watson—who prefers to remain anonymous—who once shared a story from his past.

It was back when Brother Watson was in university and had just fallen into the photography pit. He bought himself a camera and practiced diligently every day. His skills improved rapidly, and before long, he had gained a modest reputation.

At that time, there was a well-known "Clavicle Bodhisattva" on campus. Her surname was Lee. We shall not speak of her character; suffice it to say she was a top-tier influencer on Xiaohongshu. Relying on her nine-or-ten-out-of-ten looks, she walked the line of suggestive content while simultaneously berating men. Every post began with "Men, stay out," and in every photo, her waistband was pulled up to her shoulders.

Rumor had it that in private, she was used as a vessel by old men, yet she could hold more than any cup. Thus, she earned the nickname "Rosamond".

Rosamond somehow obtained Brother Watson’s contact information. She wanted him to take some private photos for her, claiming that when her youthful beauty faded into wrinkled old age, she would look back on them fondly, and swore she would never sell them in discount groups for fifty cents a set.

By rights, Rosamond should have paid Brother Watson some silver for tea money. But she spent lavishly without restraint. Ancient Gucci, Chanel—she bought indiscriminately. The little money the old men gave her went straight to counterfeit goods from Putian, leaving her deep in debt to online lenders. Where would she find money to pay a photographer?

Yet she was desperate for the photos. So, she proposed a "TFP" (Time for Print/Free Collaboration) arrangement, employing various coquettish gestures we need not describe. But when Brother Watson took a whiff, beneath Rosamond’s perfume lay a faint odor of shrimp and crab. Mixed together, it hinted at the stench of Chaoshan raw marinated seafood, or perhaps vaguely, the fishy scent of ancient imperial tombs in the dunes.

Looking closer, through her gauzy shawl, her lotus-like arms were dotted with marks like plum blossoms falling on snow—a striking sight. One wondered if they were wax dripped by an old man, or the pox from Poland or the plague from France. At this thought, he politely declined. But Rosamond would not give up. She teased him daily, sometimes even sitting in his lap during class and breathing hot air into his ear.

We shall not dwell on Brother Watson’s thoughts, but this behavior enraged another bystander.

This man was named Falstaff. He had secretly admired Rosamond for ages, regretting only that he could not taste her charms. If not for eternal love and growing old together, then at least a fleeting romance, half a day as mandarin ducks, would satisfy his heart.

But his parents kept a tight leash on his finances. How could he compete financially with the rich old men? He could only stare hungrily at the meat he couldn't eat.

Every night at midnight, back in his dorm, he would open Xiaohongshu and pull out his "musket." On good days, aiming at Rosamond’s photos, he could fire a "VanVleet." His bird musket fired with the majesty of a Maxim gun, the killing intent of a Gatling gun—tu-tu-tu-tu-tu. One man constituted crossfire; he was known as the Verdun of the bedchamber, the Somme beneath the quilt.

Over years, this Cyber-Nie Xiaoqian hollowed out Mr. Falstaff. His rifling was worn smooth; when he relieved himself, he could barely control the trajectory. Not only was the spread wide, but sometimes he fired chain-shot, sometimes grape-shot. Classmates stayed yards away, fearing their shoes would get soaked.

Because Mr. Falstaff always sported two dark circles, looking dazed and ghost-like, he too earned a nickname: "Falstaff".

Seeing Rosamond constantly clinging to Brother Watson, Falstaff burned with jealousy, wishing he could hurl a halberd at him. Hearing their conversation clearly, he stepped forward and said, "Rosamond, don’t listen to his nonsense. Why use a Nikon for photos? In my opinion, you should use an OPPO A5."

Rosamond rolled her eyes and scolded, "You ignorant fool! What do you know about photography? I’m talking to Brother Watson; stop making noise here. Go find a cool spot to play with your bird instead of embarrassing yourself."

Falstaff flushed red. "Rosamond, be careful! These photographers are no good. They’re lecherous gluttons coveting your body, always thinking about free collaborations. They won’t put in real effort!"

Rosamond laughed. "What business is it of yours? He knows photography; if he wants to screw me, let him. If you knew photography, I’d let you screw me too. What’s the big deal? Now get lost."

With that, she walked away.

Hearing this, pink light seemed to glow in Falstaff’s pupils. His heart pounded wildly, sweat beading on his forehead. The world before him became a blur of dancing flowers and swaying lotuses, ripples shaking violently. In mid-air, banners rose and military tents unfurled.

Falstaff immediately went online to check camera prices. He calculated that if he skipped meals every month to save up for the same model as Brother Watson, he’d have to start saving since the Chenghua Era of the Ming Dynasty. And if he needed two extra lenses, perhaps by then Communism would have been fully realized.

Falstaff pondered bitterly until he nearly pissed blood. First, he maxed out every available loan app. Then, using a bit of alchemy to turn dad into gold, he listed his grandfather on Shuidichou (a crowdfunding platform), finally scraping together eight thousand coins.

But high-end cameras start at tens of thousands. His eight thousand was like a stone thrown into the sea—not even a splash.

As the saying goes, "The passes of Qin eventually fell to Chu." Through Brother Watson’s introduction, Falstaff found a second-hand site and bought the same model for seven thousand. It was fifty percent worn and had changed hands three times.

Ladies and gentlemen, why was this camera so cheap?

The original owner was a renowned photographer in the circle. His skills had reached perfection; a casual snap became art. Dynamic or static, girls loved him dearly. He was called the "Liu Sanbian of Photography." How skilled was he? Let’s just say that at twenty-five, he contracted AIDS from work and rode the crane to the West.

The second owner wasn't famous but was a hidden master who specialized in free collaborations with married women. Like a mad bee among flowers, a wanton butterfly in the forest. Alas, heaven envies talent. While working, he was caught red-handed by the aggrieved husband and stabbed over a dozen times in bed, achieving immortality through violent release.

The third owner was a "Broadsword Anti-Tank Mine Girl"—extra value without extra cost, full weight, honest to young and old. She used the camera to document her knife work. Today a ginger julienne cut, tomorrow a lychee carving. One day, careless, she sliced her own jugular. Merit fulfilled.

Now this treasure fell into Falstaff’s hands. It was dark and glossy all over, the color of ebony. In the height of summer, it needed no AC; placed under the quilt, its chill repelled mosquitoes.

The lens aperture flickered with cold light, like the soul ring of a ten-thousand-year spirit beast. Pressing the shutter released a sobbing sound, like ghosts weeping on an overcast day.

The results were… unique. Landscapes came out as portraits; solo shots became group photos. Dog photos sometimes had three heads, sometimes a dog’s head on a human body. It saved the subscription fee for Photoshop—truly economical.

With camera in hand, Falstaff felt ants crawling in his heart. He couldn't wait a moment longer. He immediately sought out Rosamond, wishing to devour her whole right then and there.

Rosamond was a veteran of romantic arenas, an exquisite creature. Seeing the camera in his hand, she instantly understood his intent. Looking at the camera, her demeanor transformed. Her willowy waist twisted, ripples spreading through her eyes.

"Brother, what brings you to me today?"

Falstaff raised the camera: "Came specifically to photograph Little Sister."

She asked coyly, "Does Brother require tea money?"

Falstaff squeaked like a monkey in haste: "No money! Free collab! Free collab!"

Lowering her head in feigned shyness: "I am a girl of pure family; how could I engage in such things?"

Falstaff swallowed saliva and smiled obsequiously: "Let me snap two first. Let Sister see them, then we’ll negotiate."

She nodded: "Then trouble Brother." With that, she twisted her waist, moved to a bright spot, and struck a pose.

Falstaff steadied his mind, lifted the camera, trying to look professional. Click-click. Unable to contain himself, he showed her the photos to claim credit.

Rosamond took one look and her face changed. Eyebrows inverted, dimples fierce, she cursed: "Son of a bitch! What did you shoot? Do I really look like that?"

Stunned by the abuse, Falstaff took the camera back and looked. There, glaringly, was a Rosamond weighing over two hundred jin.

He scratched his crown and muttered, "Impossible!" He photographed others nearby—no anomalies. Only Rosamond appeared with a dark, cyan complexion, short stature, and a massive belly, looking like an iron drum turned spirit.

Looking up, Rosamond had already stormed off, leaving only a distant remark: "Practice more!"

Baffled, Falstaff returned and found a master craftsman to disassemble the camera. Nothing unusual was found.

Today was wasted. So much time lost. Forget tasting her charms; he hadn’t even touched a finger. Frustrated, he wrapped himself in blankets, fired two VanVleets at Rosamond’s photo until his body water content dropped thirty percent, and fell into a deep sleep.

After an unknown time, Young Master Falstaff stiffened in a half-dream state, paralyzed. Vaguely, he felt a weight on his chest. Looking down, a two-hundred-jin Mine Girl sat upon him, covered in knife wounds, muttering:

"Incense masks rotting flesh, a powdered skull;

Flower arrows pierce bone, yet worry is null.

War drums echo within silk curtains;

Beneath mandarin duck drapes, life meets its end."

Young Master Falstaff pondered briefly, looked at the Mine Girl, suddenly raised his banner, and roared: "I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANY OF THAT!"

Startled, the Mine Girl vanished into thin air.

He woke abruptly. It was but a dream. Smacking his lips unsatisfied, he began messaging Rosamond again, begging for another chance, sending messages day and night without rest.

As the saying goes, "Even a chaste woman fears a persistent suitor." Let alone Rosamond, whose chastity archway was buried upside-down underground, with pink bubbles rising from her ancestral grave. How could she withstand Young Master Falstaff’s persistence? She agreed to meet again at a secluded spot on campus.

Skipping the details of their meeting, Falstaff took two acceptable photos this time. Rosamond giggled delightfully, trembling like a flower bewitching the eye.

"Rosamond, let me take one more, then we’ll get a hotel room for even better shots!"

Rosamond blushed: "Dead man, why so hasty? Can’t you wait a moment?"

Falstaff teased: "White reeds bundled pure, a maiden fair as jade. I cannot wait a moment! Today I must consume this little fluttering bird!"

Raising the camera, he pressed the shutter. Instantly, darkness filled his vision. In the viewfinder, there was no beauty, but a muscular titan: chest protruding, waist like General Zhang Fei, leopard head with ringed eyes, tiger legs. Twelve feet tall, eighteen-foot waist, head pointed sharp. Truly a reckless brute.

Falstaff muttered, "Why is the camera acting up again?" Before he finished, he felt weightless, hoisted into the air by his collar. It wasn't the camera malfunctioning; the giant stood right before him.

Dazed, Young Master Falstaff asked, "Good sir, why is your skull pointed?"

The man shouted urgently, "I ask YOU! Are you a ph-ph-photographer or just some guy taking pics? You, a guy taking pics, saying such things…"

Narrator's note: This man was one of Rosamond’s nominal boyfriends. She had four boyfriends, all sharing her in a "French relationship," treating each other as brothers. They nicknamed themselves Arthur, Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival—referencing the chivalric brotherhood of the Round Table sharing all honors and spoils. Known in the jianghu as the "Four Golden Turtles," truly a spectacle of ethics.

These four possessed immense strength and fierce appearances, bullies of the school. No one dared mention the pointed head to his face. Today, interrupted by Falstaff drilling in the grove with Rosamond (making her a quintuplet bride) and mocked for his pointy head, rage erupted from his heart. With a roar, three more brutes jumped from the bushes with clubs, grabbing Falstaff by the scalp and beating him wildly.

They beat Side A, flipped him over to beat Side B. Clubs rained down pi-pi-pa-pa, lively and loud. In Falstaff’s brain, cymbals and drums clashed; three souls left his body, seven spirits fled. He was beaten until he resembled Bocchi the Rock.

Having had their fill, the four spat and dragged Rosamond away, leaving Falstaff collapsed on the ground like a torn sack.

Kind passersby called a doctor. Treatment aside, Young Master Falstaff lay in bed for half a month.

One day, his left hand barely healed, pain wracking his body, he tremblingly pulled out his phone and fired three VanVleets at Rosamond’s photo to soothe his soul, finally drifting into sleep.

Again, he stiffened. Sleep paralysis struck. This time, a male ghost lay on his chest. Handsome brows, starry eyes, nose like a hanging gallbladder—a peerless gentleman of the mortal world. Except his belly was riddled with bloody knife holes, bleeding endlessly. Horrifying.

The male ghost chanted:

"Flowers lean o'er walls to display spring;

Another courtyard's shadow steals the soul.

Sudden gales arise today;

All crushed into mud and dust."

Falstaff pondered again, then roared: "THAT WORKS TOO!"

The male ghost, startled, dissipated instantly.

Waking up, Young Master Falstaff contemplated deeply before realizing the key: The camera was definitely haunted. Once recovered, he visited Fortune-Telling Street to seek an expert exorcist.

But monks and Daoists alike glanced at the camera and refused, claiming the entities within were too vicious; carelessness would lead to harm.

Clutching the camera, wandering the streets, Falstaff felt sorrow. He hadn't screwed Rosamond, got beaten severely, and his grandpa was still listed on Shuidichou. He couldn't bear to throw the camera away, nor keep it. He paced aimlessly.

Suddenly, a voice called: "Benefactor, come check out my place!" Falstaff looked up to see a priest wearing a Catholic mitre and a Nine-Angel embroidered robe. Above hung a sign: "Old John Traditional Chinese Exorcism."

Falstaff bowed: "Any advice, Master?"

The priest said: "I see black aura surrounding you, Benefactor. You’ve been harmed by demons. My exorcisms are super effective, really, no scamming!"

"Father, do you truly have a method?"

The priest scratched his head: "Well, you might not believe me. Heavenly Brother is my big bro; results speak louder than words. If it doesn't work, no charge!"

Entering the shop, Falstaff watched the priest place the camera on the altar, pick up a tambourine, and begin Mass.

He sang: "Hey~~ Sun sets behind western hills, sky turns black; Families shut their doors, only one remains open. Left hand holds Moses' staff, right hand holds the Holy Shroud. Beating gongs and drums, I summon Heavenly Brother! Savior, mighty power, showing valor in Jerusalem! Sent down four Heavenly Younger Brothers, displaying divine powers to slay Qing demons! Slay Qing demons! Sweep away evil miasma! Protect the people and secure the borders! Wuchang Uprising songs ring high! Men become yo-yos, women become…"

Falstaff was shocked: "What the f*** is this?!"

The priest twitched, eyes rolling back, speaking slowly: "I am the Second Son of Heaven, Candidate Messiah, Lord Protector Cromwell! You summoned me from Heaven; what is your business?"

Just as Falstaff opened his mouth, Lord Cromwell raised a hand: "Patience! Descending from Heaven has made me hungry! Benefactor, order me a Crazy Thursday meal first. Once fed, I shall capture ghosts!"

Falstaff thought inwardly: Lord Cromwell loves fried chicken too? He ordered a Family Bucket via Meituan, delivered swiftly by an idle fellow.

Lord Cromwell puffed his cheeks, bared his molars, devouring Original Recipe and Colonel’s Nuggets indiscriminately. Soon, it was clean.

Wiping his mouth, the Lord declared: "Fed and satisfied! Perfect for exorcism! Watch closely!"

Lord Cromwell bent over, farted silently at the camera, laughed thrice, and proclaimed: "Exorcism complete!"

Confused, Falstaff asked: "Why does Your Majesty’s behavioral pattern seem so familiar?"

The Lord extended his hand: "V me 500 RMB for a bullet train ticket back to Heaven." Falstaff transferred five hundred from the Shuidichou funds.

Upon receipt, the Lord convulsed, eyes rolled back, and the priest gradually awakened: "How was your chat with Lord Cromwell?"

"I just sent him to the station."

The priest smiled: "Please settle the bill, Benefactor! Five hundred yuan. Prosperity to you!"

"Didn't I just transfer it?"

The priest burped solemnly: "That was for Lord Cromwell, not me."

Carrying the camera back to the dorm, Falstaff remained skeptical. Did this foreign Taoist’s exorcism actually work?

While pondering, his phone buzzed. Checking it, joy surged. Why, you ask?

Rosamond, feeling guilty over his beating, had booked a hotel herself and invited Young Master Falstaff for private photos.

Leaping up, Falstaff thought: That foreign bald donkey really has skills! Fortune smiles upon me!

Rushing out, ignoring the journey, he pushed open the hotel door. Rosamond wore only a dudou (bodice), reclining on the bed. The scene:

Mountain hues like pink peaches, waters ever graceful;

Landscape beauty gathers charm, reflecting the moon bridge.

Mock not the fool’s obsession; once saw the darling’s allure.

Back at Jinyang Palace banquet, jade table warmed with mallows.

Falstaff snapped to attention, asking breathlessly: "Sh-should we wear school uniforms?"

Blushing, she replied: "N-no need."

Stripping instantly, ready for conjugal rites, he paused. Such scenery! Why not snap a few photos first for daily VanVleet ammunition? Wouldn't that be glorious?

Grabbing the camera from the bedside, he instructed Rosamond to lie prone. Focusing, the vista of romance filled his lens. Breathing heavily, palms sweaty, he thought: I, Young Master Falstaff, a virgin boy, am about to mount the steed today!

Over-excited, his "Frankish cannon" misfired. Trembling, the camera slipped from his hand, hung in the air momentarily, and CLANG—struck Rosamond squarely on the back of the skull. Weighing over two jin, like a black bone-mace, it drew blood instantly. She went limp.

Panicked, between calling for help and "striking while hot," he chose the former. Doctors arrived; Rosamond was hospitalized.

Back in the dorm after settling everything, remorse consumed him. He punished himself with four VanVleets before sleeping.

In a trance, his soul left his body, arriving at a dark, indistinct place. A white-robed man stood bowing. Falstaff returned the bow: "Who are you, sir? Where is this?"

"This is inside the camera. I am its original owner."

Falstaff raged: "YOU bastard ruined my fun!"

The white-robed man smiled: "Truly mortal flesh, unaware of danger. Just like me back then—lustful, lingering in brothels, dying young from disease. After death, my spirit lingered, unable to reincarnate due to violent death, trapped in this camera. Unwilling to see you repeat my mistakes, I saved you three times."

Falstaff retorted: "Saved me? You only made me embarrass myself everywhere!"

The man bowed again: "Enough. I won’t argue. My karma is cleared, merit fulfilled. The local City God summons me for clerical duties. Farewell!"

With a salute, he vanished.

Waking up, Falstaff felt inexplicably moved. He unfollowed Rosamond on Xiaohongshu, ceased firing his musket entirely, ignored worldly distractions, and focused solely on studies.

Years passed. Graduating, finding work, getting a proper girlfriend. One day, walking with her, he spotted a familiar figure in the distance—none other than Brother Watson.

Approaching, Falstaff bowed: "Brother Watson, long time no see."

Recognizing his old classmate, Watson returned the greeting. They settled in a teahouse to chat.

Reflecting on their student days brought sighs. Brother Watson, being mischievous, brought up Rosamond: "Brother Falstaff, you were utterly bewitched by her back then."

Falstaff smiled apologetically, waving his hand: "Youthful ignorance. Let’s not mention it."

Yet, inexplicably, memories of Rosamond resurfaced. He asked Watson: "What does Rosamond do now? Is she married?"

Watson sipped his tea, puzzled: "She died of AIDS senior year. Didn't you know?"