Chapter 23: The Guardian Deity of Hearth and Home, Lord of the Kitchen

In the past, I would have believed these things were mere superstition, but now that I myself have become a demon corpse, I am utterly convinced about ghosts, spirits, and the supernatural. Firecrackers burst, sesame stalks are scattered, the new year arrives, and all evil spirits and monsters scatter—though this is just a folk rhyme, you mustn't underestimate it.

One thunderous blast of firecrackers, and all the monsters and ghosts believe heavenly thunder is coming; they cower underground, not daring to emerge until after the second day of the second lunar month. Scattering sesame stalks and pasting "fortune" signs at New Year is essential, for in folk legend, this ritual is meant to drive away the Broom Star, the last of the three hundred and fifty-six celestial spirits. Not all celestial spirits are evil; in the Song and Yuan dynasties, one hundred and eight spirits descended to earth, and not all of them became heroes.

So, in every profession, and among gods, immortals, demons, ghosts, the seven realms and three paths, there are both good and bad. The Broom Star, though one of the three hundred and fifty-six, acts much like a harbinger of misfortune—wherever it goes, calamity follows. Eventually, the Jade Emperor decreed it could not visit places of fortune; thus, people began pasting "fortune" signs in their homes.

In the blink of an eye, it was the twenty-ninth day; tomorrow night would be New Year's Eve. On this day, if an old woman knocks on your door asking for unwanted shoes, you must give them to her, for she is the "Evil Deliverer." The word for shoes sounds like "evil" in the local dialect—by giving her your shoes, she takes away your year's misfortune, ensuring your family's peace.

On this day, I was busy helping my family prepare offerings for the household deities. An odd thought struck me, so I opened my demon corpse eye and looked toward the Jade Emperor’s shrine. There, I discovered a shocking secret.

Three feet above our heads, there are spirits; three feet below, ghosts. Above the shrine, clouds of incense smoke and a peaceful radiance enveloped a miniature palace floating above the Jade Emperor’s plaque. Peering closer, I could see tiny heavenly soldiers wielding halberds flanking the palace. The burning incense offerings drifted toward the palace—I realized this must be what movies and novels call "power of faith." If this phenomenon existed in my home, surely it did in others as well.

I dared not gaze too long, lest I be discovered. The palace seemed oddly artificial, but I did not dwell on it. I turned toward the kitchen, the domain of the Kitchen God, sanctuary of the household guardian.

Stepping inside, I saw the Kitchen God, legs crossed, munching on crispy rice stuck to the pot. Old Ma once told me that aside from the household guardian, all other wandering gods in our Northern Ma family were mere images. This white-haired old man, however, was real.

The Kitchen God had a full head of white hair and two twitching little mustaches, comically animated. His small eyes were fixed on the crispy rice, utterly ignoring me.

Damn, the old fellow was completely disregarding me. But it was understandable—he must have assumed I couldn’t see him, so he acted with impunity.

With that in mind, I decided to play a little trick on him. Watching the Kitchen God, butt raised, rummaging for crispy rice, his gaze occasionally lingering on the offerings I held, I deliberately set the offerings on the stove. Each time his hand reached out, I would move the plate away, repeating this over and over. His mustaches bristled in irritation, and when he realized my amusement, he finally sensed something was amiss.

He plopped down on the stove, legs crossed, pinched his mustache, and smiled slyly at me. His grin made my skin crawl—he looked downright lecherous.

I pretended not to notice, continuing to carry the offerings around the kitchen. Our kitchen was the typical rural sort, with a four-meter-high chimney at the back, essential for the wood-fired stove.

The Kitchen God stared intently at me, undoubtedly wondering if I could see him. He hopped off the stove, approached, scrutinizing my eyes. When he was half a meter away, I thought he’d speak to me, but instead, the shameless old man snatched a plate of offerings and vanished against the wall. He’d played a trick on me.

Gods consume only the essence of offerings, so the Kitchen God merely took the spiritual essence from the plate; the physical items remained, but they lost their flavor, as Old Ma explained to me, since I knew nothing about such matters.

I set the plate on the stove and left the kitchen, returning to my room for a nap. By the time my father called me for dinner, night had fallen.

After hurriedly choking down a meal as tasteless as wood, I retreated to my room. There was a small window between my room and the kitchen, through which, in the darkness, I could vaguely observe the kitchen.

I closed my eyes, seeking the mystery of sleep. When I opened them again, I saw a white-bearded old man hovering above my body—the Kitchen God, our household guardian. Startled, I shivered; that shiver betrayed me, but at least I didn’t scream.

The old man floated to my bed, smiling, and whispered, “Dongya, you can see me, can’t you?” As he spoke, he drew closer.

Having been discovered, I could only nod. If Old Ma had been present, he would have called me a fool, since gods are not like ghosts—if a god takes your soul, it’s complete annihilation. Thankfully, our Kitchen God hadn’t done that.

Seeing my nod, he sat at my bedside, still smiling, and said, “Dongya, I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve guarded your family for seven generations; you’re the first to see me. But don’t worry, I finally have someone to chat with—I won’t take your soul.”

Hearing this, I was puzzled. This old man had been my family’s guardian for seven generations—dating back to my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. If each generation lived eighty years, he’d protected us for five hundred and one years.

But remembering what Old Ma told me—that the first Golden Corpse King was so fearsome even gods respected him—I realized I needn’t fear a mere Kitchen God. Still, as our guardian for over five centuries, he deserved some respect, so we began to converse freely.

We discussed everything about demon corpses through five thousand years of Chinese history. To my amazement, the Kitchen God knew it all. Yet I also felt some pity—after five millennia in heaven and earth, he’d only managed to become a humble Kitchen God, not even as prestigious as the Earth God! How embarrassing.

When our conversation turned to the ultimate Demon Corpse King, Jiang Chen, the Kitchen God stared at me in shock. “How do you know this?” he asked.

I couldn’t reveal my evolved form, so I whispered in his ear, “An old Taoist told me. He said I had fine bones and wanted me as his disciple, but I refused.”

To my surprise, the Kitchen God believed me. We chatted for an hour, and then I said, “Kitchen God, I’m sleepy—please return.” Hiding under the covers, I heard him sigh, repeating, “Fate decreed, heaven and earth reject!”

I understood his words. When I lifted the blanket, he was gone.

“Fate decreed, heaven and earth reject”—isn’t that a saying from the Taoist ‘Corpse Scripture’?

A corpse is like a cloud, bloodthirsty by nature, rejected by heaven and earth; heaven will not accept, earth finds no burial.

Indeed, gods are different from ghosts. Even a humble household guardian can see through fate, while I had foolishly assumed gods could be easily deceived. How laughable.

Just then, a scene appeared before my eyes. My grandfather was a feng shui master; as a child, I’d pestered him to divine my fortune. I remember him frowning, then smiling, telling me, “Our Xiao Dong can live as long as heaven itself—immortality.” I thought he was joking, but at eighteen, a Taoist insisted on divining for me, and his words echoed my grandfather’s: he said I had the mark of immortality. Yet I never imagined my immortality would manifest as a demon corpse.

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