Adapted from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio

To be

honest, I never intended to adapt *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, especially not the erotic version. I've seen many films and television series on this subject, the most famous being the Hong Kong productions. I've seen quite a few, but I never thought of adding embellishments to my favorite chapters and rewriting them as erotic versions.

It wasn't until I read *The Secrets of the Dream of the Red Chamber* by the author Mysterious Man that I realized it could be done this way. Of course, I must admit that my writing style and storytelling ability are far inferior to Mysterious Man's. I can't completely recreate the antique charm of the original, nor do I possess Mysterious Man's erotic writing style, which doesn't fade with time. On the contrary, it adds a touch of reality to the erotic atmosphere, making it more immersive for readers.

While I'm not particularly clever, I'm not stupid either. I'm always good at playing to my strengths and avoiding my weaknesses, if that counts.

I first encountered *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio* when I was in my second year of high school. At the time, I read the original text, but I couldn't understand many of the words and sentences. It wasn't until I found a vernacular version that I became incredibly engrossed in reading it—or rather, I loved the tales of fox spirits, female ghosts, and scholars' frivolous romances (and sexual encounters), becoming completely absorbed and unable to put them down. I even wished I could be born in ancient times and be a dashing scholar.

But now, I don't think that way anymore. It's not that it's unrealistic; on the contrary, it's very realistic, extremely realistic. After learning what life was like in ancient times, I really dislike time-travel novels. A loser is always a loser, no one is Xiang Shaolong (a legendary figure in Chinese folklore known for his bravery and resourcefulness), especially since he was introduced as a powerful and capable special forces soldier. Even though it's fiction, it at least gives a sense of realism.

In modern society, being a loser means nobody pays attention to you; you're lucky if you are. In ancient times, you wouldn't even know how you died. That's why I like modern society; at least I can still daydream and type on the keyboard.

In ancient times, living in a prosperous era was fine, but if one was unfortunate enough to be born into a time of war, chaos, incompetent rulers, and powerful eunuchs, the people suffered greatly, and cries of despair filled the land. Given the scarcity of material resources in ancient times, people would blow out candles, even use twigs to wipe their bottoms, and boil wild vegetables or tree trunks into soup. Was that really acceptable

? I'm not going to speculate, but the author probably enjoys the lifestyle of ancient men who didn't treat women like women. If a woman were to write this kind of time-travel story, I would find it hard to believe, and then I would be speechless. You see, women in ancient times had no status; they were men's "sex slaves" (well, ancient times are the most suitable setting for erotic fiction).

Ancient men didn't so much marry women as wives as they wanted "uteruses"—they only wanted reproductive organs to continue their lineage. Having multiple wives and concubines was commonplace. No wonder Liu Bei said, "Brothers are like limbs, wives are like clothes." They could discard or divorce their wives at will, without consulting the women; "everything is decided by the man." Under certain circumstances, women were cruelly reduced to the personal property of men, given away or sold at will. Furthermore, the vast majority of women in ancient times did not have the right to education.

I just don't understand what's so great about time travel to ancient times? Aside from the spiritual and cultural heritage left by a certain dynasty that we modern people admire and marvel at, I really don't see why so many people like time travel novels. That's why I'm not going to speculate, maybe they're a bunch of perverts.

*Liaozhai* was the first erotic novel I truly encountered, even before the fanfiction *Journey to the West* I read in 2012. My first impression of it was that it was erotic but not obscene; the writing was full of poetic imagery, and even the vulgar language was quite refined, far from the explicit and naked language of modern vernacular literature. I clearly remember reading *Liaozhai*, getting an erection, having erotic dreams at night, waking up in the morning to find my pants wet, and feeling completely bewildered and panicked. Thinking about it now, it's funny!

Actually, I really hate using vulgar and obscene words. What I can't stand the most is "chicken something." When I was young, after my college entrance exams, I worked a summer job and had the opportunity to work with people from other provinces. I heard them say "chicken something," and I thought it referred to some part of a chicken. As a result, I was laughed at by them. When I learned the original meaning, I felt physically uncomfortable.

I'm a very traditional person. Writing erotica is purely a hobby, and I also have many concerns. I haven't truly let go and written about popular themes. But I still used that word in my first novel, and now I regret it.

There's a story in *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio* that I love the most. I reread it a few days ago, and a sentence in it inspired me to write the short story "Nana." I'm very grateful for that.

I plan to create a series based on *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, rewriting or expanding on chapters I like. I don't intend to cater to anyone, as writing is a very personal matter, and I don't plan to make money from it (I admit my writing skills are poor and the themes are outdated, I'm ashamed). It's just a personal hobby, a way to pass the time, and also to incorporate my thoughts into my writing, perhaps even "brainwashing" everyone (haha, just kidding, we're all adults).

Therefore, the original texts will be my primary reference. I don't plan to import other *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio* TV series adaptations, nor will I borrow from mainland Chinese *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio* films.

It's possible that I might occasionally overlap with Hong Kong adaptations, given that I watched too many horror movies of this genre as a child. I also feel that these two characteristics of culture deeply influence people's thinking: one is profound and lasting, the other is subtle and gradual.

I think no one can escape this influence. Precisely because I've watched so few mainland Chinese and Taiwanese film and television adaptations of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, I have the courage to say that I probably won't steal their stories and rewrite them for my own.

Many people think they've written an interesting dialogue, scene, or plot, and applaud with delight, believing it's their own creation. But that's not the case. Without the trees planted by predecessors, how can we enjoy their shade? Or rather, we're mostly making small contributions and efforts based on the work of those who came before us. There's really nothing to be proud of.

Who hasn't thought of and considered the things we're doing and thinking about? Because of this, I never consider anything I write to be copyrighted. I don't agree with that. After all, it's just one person's opinion. Perhaps I don't make a living from this, so I don't care or concern myself with it. Furthermore, since I won't make it my profession, I'm just spouting nonsense here, hoping to become a laughingstock. I treat it merely as a hobby.

However, we writers really work hard typing out so many words and crafting plots; the time cost is too high, so asking for some money is understandable (I disagree with this point; I'm a traditional person, and it would be shameful for me to sell this for money, just like the story "Huang Ying" in *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, which is aimed at pedantic people like me—alas, I'm too deeply poisoned by it). But I won't do that (of course, I can't afford it now, haha).

Firstly, because my writing is clumsy; secondly, I'm merely repeating the thoughts of predecessors; and thirdly, I only do it as a hobby. I'm already happy if someone appreciates it, and if not, I can idolize myself.

In short, we should respect other people's work and just do our own job well. Enough rambling, let's read the story.

Chapter One:

My name is Pu Songling, the author who compiled and adapted *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, and also an ambitious but impoverished scholar. I was born into a declining landlord and merchant family. From a young age, I was well-versed in literature and literature, and intelligent and studious. At the age of 19, I passed the county-level imperial examination, ranking first. I thought that from then on, I would rise to prominence

. However, when it came to passing the provincial-level examination, I failed repeatedly, yet I tried again and again, remaining a poor scholar until the age of 70. I am learned and talented, yet I have never achieved my ambitions in my life, which is quite tragic. Even though the world is unfair and fate has not been on my side, I am determined to learn from the history of my predecessors, to transform my frustrations and resentment about my unsuccessful career into words. I would set up a teahouse by the roadside and ask passersby for a story or two. As I collected these stories, I suddenly had my own idea. Didn't the ancients often "express their aspirations through objects" or "express their views through books"?

Although the literary inquisition in the dynasty I lived in was exceptionally severe, the worst in all of history, as a scholar, a frustrated and impoverished scholar, I deeply felt the darkness of the official career and the lack of justice in my personal experience, which filled me with indignation. This is why I created "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio".

Even before I finished writing *Liaozhai*, people were already captivated by it, eagerly copying it and spreading it far and wide, greatly increasing my fame and boosting my confidence to continue collecting and compiling supernatural tales. To my utter surprise, although *Liaozhai* became a worldwide sensation, recited by countless people, I felt a surge of anger seeing so many readers indulging in tales of foxes and ghosts, satisfying their morbid curiosity. Was this my original intention in collecting and adapting these stories? No, absolutely not.

Later, in my poem "Feelings of Indignation," I wrote: "News always enters the realm of ghosts and foxes; even a jug of wine cannot dispel my pent-up sorrow."

Alas, enough, enough! I sighed, covering my face. Who in this world can understand my painstaking efforts? At the moment I left this world, my soul departed from my body. Was I dead? No, my soul remains.

*Liaozhai* spread overseas, almost every household possessed a copy. People began to sing my praises, to extol me. What good are the honors bestowed after death when I could not obtain them in life?

I don't care, but I just can't stop it. Yes, I'm already dead, but my soul is immortal, wandering the world all day, untouchable and unreachable. What infuriates me most is that someone actually plans to adapt my painstakingly crafted collection of supernatural tales, *Liaozhai*, into pornography. When I found out, I was furious beyond words, my soul nearly leaving my five orifices, almost causing my two-hundred-year-old ghostly lifespan to dissipate.

No, I can't, I absolutely cannot let him have his way. I need to know what he's up to, what that guy named A-Mei really wants.

When I carefully read his preface, I suddenly understood. I think I understand him now. What he's doing now is nothing more than the same as me—life is meaningless, ideals are shattered, and he can only pass the time and wait to die by doing this.

The fall of the Qing Dynasty, the Xinhai Revolution, the Northern Expedition... until the founding of the People's Republic of China, I witnessed the bloody history of three dynasties. I was tired, truly tired. My nerves were exhausted. So I meditated in the Himalayas. I wasn't afraid of the cold; the colder the better. Who cares about the cold? But when I awoke, sixty years had passed, and it was the 21st century. Material life had greatly improved. Everyone could afford a house, a car, and a plane—something I couldn't understand no matter how hard I tried.

When I returned to the human world, to a world both familiar and strange, thankfully, the world hadn't changed. Yes, human nature hadn't changed, for thousands of years. Humans are greedy, driven by power and fame. The poor toil like ants, working desperately. Or rather, what do people live for?

I don't know, I really don't know. I've lived for hundreds of years and still don't understand. I once read something in *Dream of the Red Chamber* about a hundred years of life—what nonsense! It's all so fake, and I don't care about that anymore.

I wandered through life for a few more years, and with my studious spirit, I began to understand that modern society was beginning to decline, draining urban dwellers and adopting a "city-encircling-the-countryside" strategy, squeezing farmers' hard-earned money. This model hadn't worked before, and now, I don't know, but I've definitely seen restrictions placed on farmers building houses.

I've personally witnessed bulldozing newly built houses. If they had money, who wouldn't want to develop in the city? If they had money, who would want to stay in the countryside? If they had money, who would want their descendants to be city dwellers, or even go abroad, to be "superior people"?

Now I'm starting to feel that they're forcing farmers to move to the city, and I'll tentatively believe they're doing it for the farmers' own good. Really.

But now, they've changed their tune, something like "Have many children early, and you'll have a happy life."

I don't want to get involved in these trivial matters; after all, it's none of my business. But wherever I go, I hear people saying, "Son, why aren't you married yet?" "Why are you more worried than the emperor? Your generation implemented the one-child policy, and now all the girls in our generation are gone! Mom, where am I going to find a husband? There will be tens of millions of bachelors in the future. Who am I going to argue with?"

I'm really annoyed. Every time I hear these things, I get a headache. In my time, there was no such thing as restricting or planning for childbirth. Sigh, what can I say? Later, I met a guy named Amei. This guy was pessimistic about the future, only caring about the present, living for today, why bother with anything else? A typical selfish guy.

It was through him that I learned this era had elevated scholars to a pedestal, far removed from the label of "stinking intellectuals." In fact, the reason scholars were hailed as "the pride of heaven" was to win hearts and minds. Moreover, as far as I know, nine out of ten scholars who rebelled failed; the tenth was either a coward or a cultural traitor.

Haven't I seen enough? Take, for example, "that guy who became an American overnight." As someone from ancient times, I can't say much, but I have my own values, and I feel he disgraced scholars and lacked backbone.

When I asked A-Mei about this, he scoffed and said: "What's so special about that? If the country doesn't love him, does it have to kill him in the country he loves? Ancient times valued blind loyalty; modern people aren't that foolish. Let me tell you frankly, those who love their country but are harmed and framed by it—that courage is commendable, but not worthwhile. Because I believe in eradicating evil completely, without hesitation."

I asked him, "Then how did you end up like this, making a living by writing erotic fiction?"

Amei replied, "You don't understand. You think I really enjoy writing erotic fiction? I'm just deceiving the people. To tell you the truth, I'm just—" Amei realized he'd spoken out of turn and quickly shut up.

Like a fish hooked by bait, I was hooked and pressed him for an answer. No matter how much I pressed, Amei wouldn't answer.

Then a thought struck me. Knowing he wrote erotic fiction, I decided to use it to blackmail him, accusing him of moral depravity, shameful writing, and copyright infringement.

He smiled broadly and demanded proof.

Yes, I'm a ghost, someone who can't see the light of day, a ghost without a shadow. How could those with shadows and crooked hearts believe my words?

"Those who are not of my kind are sure to have different hearts." I'm a ghost, he's a human. How could I possibly defeat a human? I lowered my head in thought, my mind drifting back to the Qing Dynasty, to when I was still human. When I was writing *

Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, I sometimes wished I were a ghost or fox spirit. But now, as I wished, I seemed even older, and more afraid of people. "Hey, old man, what should I call you?" A man in his twenties, with a full beard but unusually clear eyes, asked me.

I looked at this impolite young man. I'm an old man, after all. Instead of asking me to sit down, he just yelled, "Hey, old man!" Couldn't he at least pretend to call me "Grandpa"? "Get lost!"

I was a little angry. I've seen too many disrespectful young people these days; what's one more? But I was still annoyed. I'd

made up my mind. I decided to teach this kid a lesson, to tease him: "I don't know how to address myself either. I have too many names. Some people used to call me 'The Historian of Strange Tales,' others 'The Hermit of Willow Springs,' but I prefer to be called 'Mr. Liaozhai.'"

"Haha, you call yourself Mr. Liaozhai? That's hilarious! You might as well just say you're Pu Songling." Amei scoffed. "

A problem?"

"Of course," I said with a grin, "If you were Pu Songling, I'd adapt his masterpiece into something erotic, just to infuriate you, you old codger." "

You—" I said helplessly, "Fine, write it if you want. The world doesn't understand my cynical, unbridled creative passion anyway. Since you like it, go ahead and add your own embellishments. I can't stop you."

The old man was sensible; he knew he couldn't sway me.

I was heartbroken.

I didn't know what fate this decision would bring him; I wished him well.

But that night, when I planned to visit Amei's humble abode again, I found him dead, lying beside his desk. Using my synesthesia, I finally learned that he had participated in a protest in Japan in October 2012 and had been stabbed several times. I was stunned.

As we all know, demonstrations are not allowed in this country. Yet, during that anti-Japanese event, people from all walks of life, including ordinary citizens, university professors, and university presidents, participated—a rare instance of "universal participation." I simply can't believe this is still the country that halted its democratization process. It's unimaginable

that the government didn't support it behind the scenes, or even openly provide a green channel for people. In fact, Amei's death is no longer important. I went to his side, intending to help him to the sofa. As I stood up—looking at the blood-stained manuscript on the table—I didn't know whether to be happy or sad. Even in this state, he still wanted to continue writing erotic tales. It seems his persistence was supported by a great determination to complete this task.

I sighed, casually pulled up a chair, sat down, and picked up the manuscript. What caught my eye was my favorite chapter. The manuscript was very thick. I didn't know how many of my Liaozhai stories he had rewritten. Anyway, I had plenty of time. Looking at this manuscript, my eyes welled up with tears. Perhaps this was why he wanted to rewrite Liaozhai. At that time, I had already opened the first chapter he had written to read.

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Adapted from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio

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