When Wei Zhongtang was but a Xiucai (scholar), weary of constant interruptions, he moved his study to a monastery. Yet, the monks' quarters were rife with mosquitoes and fleas, making sleep impossible at night. One day, after a meal, as Wei Zhongtang lay resting on his bed, suddenly a diminutive warrior—his hair adorned with a chicken feather—stepped in. He stood barely two inches tall, riding a horse no larger than a grasshopper. The warrior wore soft green leather bracers, and then, a falcon, the size of a common housefly, swooped in from outside, circling the room with swift, agile movements.

As Wei Zhongtang stared, in the blink of an eye, another figure entered, identically attired to the first. This one carried a tiny bow at his waist and led a hound the size of a giant ant. In moments, hundreds of these infantry and cavalry arrived, accompanied by hundreds of falcons and hundreds of hounds. Mosquitoes and flies rose up within the room, but the tiny men deployed their falcons to fight them, slaughtering them all. The hounds sprang onto the bed and scaled the walls, sniffing intently. They tracked down fleas and lice emerging from the tiniest crevices, unerringly finding their marks. In an instant, the fleas scattered, and the lice fled for their lives—all were swiftly eliminated.

Wei Zhongtang feigned deep sleep, seizing the opportunity to observe. He watched the mass of falcons alight and the hounds dart about, constantly sweeping past his side. Soon after, a man in yellow robes, wearing a Pingtian Guan (a high, flat crown), looking every bit a king, ascended another bed and tethered his mount near the edge of the rush mat. The warriors dismounted one by one, presenting the slain mosquitoes, flies, and fleas. They stood in attendance, whispering amongst themselves, though he could not discern their conversation.

Before long, the king ascended a sedan chair. The guards hastily mounted their tiny steeds. All Wei Zhongtang heard was a sound like ten thousand hooves pounding the earth, dense as falling rain of pearls, thick with mist. In mere moments, the entire contingent vanished without a trace.

The scene was vivid in Wei Zhongtang’s mind, leaving him astonished and bewildered, thinking, “Where in heaven did these people come from?” He rose, slipped on his shoes, and went outside to inspect the surroundings. Silence reigned; not a trace remained. He turned back into the room and searched everywhere, still finding nothing. Only on the blue brick of the wall remained one small hunting dog. Wei Zhongtang carefully picked it up. The little dog was exceedingly tame. He placed it in a box and played with it repeatedly. Its fur was soft, fine, and smooth. It wore a tiny ring around its neck. When offered food, it only sniffed before refusing to eat. It jumped from the bed to seek out cracks, killing any remaining lice or fleas, and after eating its fill, it would obediently return to the box to rest.

After one night, fearing the hound might escape, Wei Zhongtang opened the box lid only to find it still curled up and motionless. Wei Zhongtang lay down to sleep, and the hound took up its patrol on the bed. If it encountered any insect pest, it instantly bit it dead, and the mosquitoes and flies dared not approach. Wei Zhongtang grew extremely fond of it, treating it as a priceless treasure.

One day, Wei Zhongtang was napping in bed with the hound lying quietly beside him. When he stirred and turned over, he accidentally pinned the dog beneath his lower back. Sensing something indistinctly, he quickly sat up to check, only to find the hound flattened and lifeless, as thin as a sheet of cut paper.

Though the hound was dead, from that day forward, pests vanished entirely from the room.

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