The grandfather of my brother-in-law's mother, Mr. Song, styled Tao, was a stipendiary scholar of the county. One day, lying ill in bed, he saw an official holding a document and leading a horse with a white forehead, who said, "Please come to take the examination." Song replied, "The chief examiner has not yet arrived—how could the examination be held so hastily?" The official said nothing but pressed him on. Song, despite his illness, mounted the horse and followed. The road was strange, and they came to a walled city resembling an imperial capital. After a while they entered a government office, with magnificent palaces. More than a dozen officials sat above, none of whom Song recognized except Guan Zhuangmiao (Guan Yu). Beneath the eaves were placed two desks and two stools; a scholar was already seated at the far end, and Song took a seat beside him. On each desk were writing brushes and paper. Soon a sheet bearing the examination question fluttered down—eight characters: "One man, two men; with intent, without intent." Both men completed their essays and presented them. In Song's essay were the words: "Good deeds done with intent, though good, are not rewarded; misdeeds committed without intent, though wrong, are not punished." The gods read it with endless praise. They summoned Song before them and said, "Henan lacks a City God; you are fit for the office." Only then did Song understand; he kowtowed and wept, saying, "I am honored by this gracious appointment and dare not refuse. But my old mother is past seventy and has no one to care for her. Let me fulfill her natural span of years, and then I will obey your summons." The figure resembling an emperor ordered his mother's lifespan to be checked. A long-bearded official turned the pages of the register and reported, "She still has nine years of earthly life." While all hesitated, Lord Guan said, "Let Scholar Zhang act as magistrate for nine years, after which the office can be exchanged." He then told Song, "You should have assumed your post at once; but out of regard for your filial and kind heart, I grant you a leave of nine years. At the appointed time you will be summoned again." He also spoke a few words of encouragement to the scholar. The two men kowtowed and descended together. The scholar clasped Song's hand and escorted him to the fields, saying he was a certain Zhang of Changshan. He presented a parting poem, of which Song remembered only the lines: "With flowers and wine, spring is forever; without candle or lamp, the night shines by itself."
When Song had mounted, he parted and went his way. When he reached home, he woke as if from a dream. By then he had been dead for three days; his mother heard groaning from within the coffin, helped him out, and after half a day he could speak. Inquiring of Changshan, they found that a certain Zhang had indeed died that very day. Nine years later Song's mother died; after her funeral was completed, Song bathed, changed clothes, entered his room, and passed away. His father-in-law's household, living in the west gate quarter of the city, suddenly saw Song in resplendent attire, riding with a large train of attendants. He entered the hall, made one bow, and departed. All were astonished, not knowing he had become a god; running to the village to inquire, they learned he was already dead. Song had written a brief account of himself, but unfortunately it was lost in the wars; this is only an outline of it.