Chapter 18: Heifengkou Wild Man Gully

The train departed at 2 p. m. the next afternoon; we were so excited we didn't sleep all night. I asked Pangzi how much money we had left in total, and Pangzi counted it up and said a hundred and fifty yuan — just enough for the return fare and food expenses.

I thought, this won't do; we haven't been back in over a decade, and showing up empty-handed to see the fellow villagers would be too inappropriate. We had to find a way to scrape together some money to buy gifts for the villagers.

Pangzi said we might as well sell this piece of jade of mine for a thousand or eight hundred.

I said you'd better keep it; you son of a bitch, stop always coveting that little bit your dad left you — once it's sold you can't get it back, don't wait until you regret it so much your intestines turn green.

In the end I found something of value: we had an Yingge-brand mechanical watch, which my dad bought me when I became a company commander — a limited-edition limited supply, something you couldn't necessarily buy even with money, worth over two hundred yuan on the market at the time. I went to Panjiayuan and sold the watch to Da Jin Ya; this grandson buys anything, and the moment he heard we were heading to Inner Mongolia to operate, he even sponsored us a hundred yuan and agreed that anything we found, he would contact the buyers for us.

In the eighties, three hundred yuan was enough for an ordinary family to live a luxurious life for two or three months — a very considerable sum. With these three hundred-plus yuan, I bought a lot of food: preserved fruits, milk candy, canned goods, chocolate, tea, and the like — things you can't get in the mountains. The remaining money I exchanged entirely for nationwide grain coupons on the black market.

The two-day, two-night journey felt rather long amid our anticipation. After arriving at the station we still had to ride a tractor for a day, then walk mountain paths for another day and night.

After entering the mountains, the two of us walked less than a day before we couldn't walk anymore. The gear was too heavy — each of us carrying over a hundred catties. I gritted my teeth and could still hold on, but Pangzi truly couldn't; he sat under a big tree panting heavily, unable to even speak.

Fortunately we ran into the accountant who had come out from the village on business. When we were sent down to the countryside he was still a half-grown kid, trailing behind us all day, calling us "Brother" every other word.

Seeing how much luggage we had, the accountant hurried back to the village and brought a few men leading donkeys to meet us. The elders among them we all recognized, and there were two girls of twelve or thirteen, born after I left — they all called me "Uncle," and hearing it made me indescribably awkward.

I asked the accountant: "How come I don't see any young men in the village?"

The accountant answered: "The village's able-bodied men have all gone to work for the archaeological team. Wasn't there the Great Tangshan Earthquake in '76? Although it's ten thousand li away from us, our gully lies on the same seismic belt. That quake split the Niuxinshan in Lamagou wide open, revealing a huge tomb like a palace. Quite a few bold fellows from our village went in and moved things out — good stuff, a whole lot of it. But somehow they alarmed the county government, and the archaeological team followed. They said it was the mausoleum of the Liao Dynasty's Empress Xiao, and took away all the good things from everyone's homes, not leaving a single piece. Then the archaeological team didn't stop at Niuxinshan — they said there were still many more good things to excavate under the mountain. They hired all the village's able-bodied men, room and board plus three yuan a day per laborer. It's been several years now and they still haven't finished; quite a few people are still working there."

Pangzi and I nearly coughed up blood hearing this — truly daring to burn incense for us two brothers, even the Buddha would fall on his ass.

But there was no help for it; we couldn't very well go fight the archaeological team and the cultural relics bureau for state-owned territory. Since we're here, we'll stay a few days first, then think of a way to find another place later — anyway, Niuxinshan isn't the only large ancient tomb.

As we neared the village, the fellow villagers who'd gotten the news were all waiting at their doors. Everyone swarmed over, asking after our health. Yanzi, leading her daughter, cried as she said to us: "Oh, Lao Hu, Pangzi, you've made us miss you to death. How come you've been gone so many years without a single word?" Yanzi's father hugged the two of us tight: "You two little rabbit cubs, one departure and no shadow. This time if you don't stay two or three years, nobody's allowed to leave."

Pangzi and I both cried. Pangzi lived here six or seven years; I only lived one year. But mountain people are simple — if you've lived here, they'll always treat you like family. It's still the same as before, not a bit changed — no electricity, no highway. There are quite a few people here who've never seen an electric light in their lives. The more I thought about it the sadder I felt, figuring that once I had money I'd definitely build a road for the fellow villagers — but when would we ever have money?

Just then the village's old Party secretary came over supported by someone, and before he even reached us he shouted loudly: "The Chairman's children have returned? Is the Chairman still well? How did the Cultural Revolution turn out?"

I was baffled listening — whether the Chairman is well or not, how would I know? I hurried forward and supported the old Party secretary's arm: "He's doing fine, lies in the Memorial Hall every day; whoever misses him can buy a ticket and go see him. Oh, right — the Cultural Revolution ended long ago; now Comrade Xiaoping is leading us all in reform and opening up."

The old Party secretary seemed not to hear what I said, stretching his neck and shouting: "What? Comrade Xiaoming is in charge of what?"

Yanzi told me from the side: "Don't listen to him. Don't know how it happened, but he's been deaf since '73, can't hear clearly, and often gets muddled."

Only then did I understand. I shouted in the old Party secretary's ear: "Secretary, I brought you lots of delicious food; I'll send it over later, you eat slowly."

Talking as they walked, the crowd entered the village. The old Party secretary still shouted from behind: "Children, when you go back report to him that we firmly support the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution... however it's done, that's how we'll do it."

In the evening, Yanzi's kang table was laid full with stir-fried mountain chicken slices, smoked deer leg, and in the middle a big sand pot boiling sour cabbage, vermicelli and blanched pork. Yanzi's husband used to be very close to us too; he went to work at Niuxinshan and hasn't returned, so we can't see him for now.

Yanzi's father drank and chatted with us. I brought up the matter of the ancient tomb at Niuxinshan, and by the way asked if there were any other ancient aristocratic tombs in these big mountains.

Since ancient times, mountain people have always regarded tomb-robbing as a side business for income, with no moral issue involved. The north is like this; in the south, the Xiangxi region takes robbery and murder as a side business — peasants by day, bandits by night, hiding in the woods, specializing in killing passing out-of-town merchants, never leaving survivors. This is the survival environment forced by a thousand years: *live off the mountain, live off the water*; poor mountains and evil waters eat ancient tombs, eat passing living people. As long as there are ancient tombs nearby, someone will go dig. In remote areas, the mountains are high and the emperor far away; the law doesn't reach here. Although this reasoning holds no water legally, the fact is these things are very normal deep in the mountains and old forests. The ancient tombs around here are mostly too old; seas have turned to mulberry fields, and they long ago lost any obvious markers — otherwise the mountain people would have dug them all up long ago.

Yanzi's father said that long ago, before Liberation, the village also produced a few young amateur "tomb robbers." At the time they didn't know Niuxinshan had a tomb; they went to a legendary place to dig graves for gold. In the end, who knows what they encountered — all of them went in and never came back. Yanzi's second uncle was one of them. Yanzi's father knows the approximate location of that legendary place, but has never dared go there.

Speaking of the past let the old man sink into memory. He lit his Yabuli old pipe, puffed *badaba* a few times, and pondered a long time before speaking: "You want to find ancient tombs — around here besides Niuxinshan there are none. Elders pass down that from here, heading north through Tuanshanzi into the mountains, five days' journey, at the Sino-Mongolian border's Heifengkou there is a Wild Man Gully. Legend says that whole area is full of tombs of the Great Jin's royalty and nobility. But the place is rarely visited by humans, and wild men appear there — do you have the guts to go?"

The name Wild Man Gully I'd heard of before, but I hadn't heard there were ancient tombs there. As for what exactly killed that previous batch of tomb robbers — never mind that I don't know, Yanzi's father doesn't know, nobody in the whole village knows clearly.

Deep in the mountains and forests, there are too many dangerous things: all kinds of wild beasts, even weather changes and the natural environment can take your life. If you run into a *dayanbao* and get smothered inside, even a Great Luo Immortal couldn't escape.

We were determined to go, and Yanzi's father couldn't stop us. No one in the village has truly been to Heifengkou Wild Man Gully; they only know the approximate direction. Because it's near the border and uninhabited, even village people hunting or gathering mountain products never go that far. Plus Yanzi's father is old, suffers from rheumatic legs, and can't enter the mountains anymore. Yanzi was pregnant with her second child at the time and couldn't travel far. The village's young and able-bodied men are all working at Lamagou and won't be back for a while.

Yanzi's father said: "I'm not at ease unless I personally take you there. Actually the danger of Wild Man Gully doesn't come from wild men — the key is the complex terrain. Once winter arrives the white-haired wind blows, and it's easy to get lost inside. But it's early autumn now, so you don't need to worry about that. If you go, you must bring plenty of good dogs, and find a good guide. Our village has raised a few mastiffs these years — this time I'll give them all to you."

*Ao* doesn't refer only to Tibetan Mastiffs. In the Northeast, huge fierce dogs are called *ao* dogs, and they're not exactly the same as Tibetan Mastiffs.

Hunters and herdsmen living in the northern grasslands and forests, threatened by wolf packs and black bears, found ordinary hunting dogs hard to cope with, so they adopted the mastiff-raising methods learned from Tibet to raise *ao* dogs. A saying goes: "Nine dogs produce one *ao*." This doesn't mean one *ao* appears among nine dogs. It must be a pure-bred bitch that whelps nine puppies at once. The nine puppies are thrown into a cellar pit from birth, given no food or drink, left to kill each other. The sole survivor is the *ao*. *Ao* are by nature incomparably fierce — three *ao* dogs can tear a prime adult bear to shreds alive.

The village had three *ao* in total, plus the five best hunting dogs — all handed over to us. Yanzi's father also recommended a guide: "Yingzi."

Yingzi is only nineteen, a rare Ewenki in this village. Among the younger generation of hunters here, no one is more outstanding than Yingzi. She's a famous sharpshooter in the big mountains. Don't look at her young age — she's been hunting in the woods with her father since childhood. There's nothing about the old forest she doesn't know. Two of the village's three *ao* dogs were raised by her own hands.

Before departure, I had Yanzi help prepare some things: bird cages, glutinous rice, black donkey hooves, crowbars, a large vat of vinegar, and sorghum liquor.

Once everything was packed, Yanzi's father gave a thousand exhortations and ten thousand admonitions: if we really can't find it, don't force it; go fast and return fast. He saw us all the way into Tuanshanzi before turning back.

I'm fairly confident about finding ancient tombs. As long as we reach Wild Man Gully, if there's no tomb then so be it; but if there truly is one, I'll definitely find it. Regarding tomb-robbing, I learned part of my knowledge from books, and most of the rest from listening to my grandfather. My grandfather Hu Guohua served as an officer in the old warlord armies; some of his soldiers had been subordinates of the Great Eastern Tombs thief Sun Dianying, and participated in multiple large-scale tomb-robbing operations — rich experience. My grandfather's knowledge and hearsay mostly came from listening to them.

Throughout history, tomb-robbing has been divided into two types: private and official. Official robbing is done openly with torches and weapons, targeting imperial mausoleums specifically. The Chu Overlord Xiang Yu at the end of the Qin should be considered the ancestor of official robbing. As for the Juezi Army and Mojin Xiaowei of the Three Kingdoms period, they merely systematized official robbing into an assembly-line operation. Private robbing also has amateur and professional distinctions. Amateurs dig whatever they find; professionals specifically seek aristocratic and royal tombs — smaller ones they look down on.

The key to tomb-robbing lies in being able to locate the ancient tomb — this is an extremely profound discipline. China's thousands of years of dynastic succession, rise and fall, changes — the construction and siting of imperial mausoleums are not all the same. In the Qin and Han periods, the superiors set the example and the inferiors followed; most were *fudou*-style tombs. *Fudou* means the shape of the sealing mound — like an overturned grain measure, with edges and ridges on four sides, the very top a small square platform, somewhat resembling Egypt's pyramids, except China's has one more edge, yet astonishingly similar to the pyramids discovered in the "lost civilization" of the Maya in South America. No one can speculate on the connection between them.

The Tang dynasty carved mountains for mausoleums — massive engineering, majestic momentum — also related to the Great Tang's flourishing national power. Tang royal mausoleums everywhere exude that "who else but me, number one empire under heaven" air.

From the Southern Song to the late Ming and early Qing, wars and disasters followed one after another. The greatest natural disasters in Chinese ancient history all occurred in this period. China's national power was weak, so the scale of royal and aristocratic mausoleums was not as extravagant as before.

Later in the Qing dynasty, the Kang-Qian period, the nation's economy and productive forces recovered greatly. The mausoleum architectural style changed once more, focusing more on above-ground structures, combined with ancestral temples and gardens for worship. Drawing on previous dynasties' anti-theft experience, Qing underground palace tomb chambers are exceptionally sturdy — the hardest to break into.

Ultimately, no matter the dynasty, China's thousands of years of tomb forms all derive from the Five Elements feng shui layout evolved from Fuxi's sixty-four hexagrams. Ten thousand changes never depart from the root — all strive to occupy the full terrain of the world, boiling down to eight characters: "Within creation, heaven and man are one."

This tomb culture is the essence of Chinese civilization. Mongols, Uyghurs, Tibetans, Jurchens, Wusun, Xianbei, She, Nuchen, Dangxiang and other minorities were all deeply influenced, their mausoleum layouts all imitating Central Plains forms — but most only got the superficial appearance. It can be said: as long as you understand the vein-direction of the world's mountains and rivers, no matter how deeply hidden an ancient tomb is, it can be found easily.

Further ahead lay the boundless primeval forest. Yingzi led eight big dogs clearing the way in front. Pangzi led a short horse carrying tents and other supplies and equipment. I carried a hunting rifle at the rear. The party entered the towering mountains of the Sino-Mongolian border.

As he walked, Pangzi asked Yingzi ahead: "Big little sister, what's the deal with the wild men of Wild Man Gully? What exactly is a wild man? Have you ever seen one?"

Yingzi turned her head and said: "I don't know what a wild man is either. My dad says in recent years many people have seen them, but no one has caught a live one, and no one has seen a corpse either. Those who've seen them can't describe what they look like clearly."

I laughed from behind: "Pangzi, you really are a son of a bitch with no culture. By name, wild man means wild-born human. Study hard from now on. Know what a wild-born human is? Born in the wild — maybe grown on trees, maybe grown from the ground. In any case, not man-made."

Wild men are very mysterious. The legend of the Shennongjia wild men goes way back. I heard about it in the army — supposedly a PLA soldier once shot dead a wild man in Shennongjia, the corpse fell down a ten-thousand-zhang cliff, and in the end they never figured out whether the wild man was human or just a big hairy monkey. Almost all eyewitnesses who've seen wild men swear: "Wild men are tall and sturdy, covered all over with fine long black hair."

Listening to Yingzi tell us, that Wild Man Gully at Heifengkou wasn't originally called Wild Man Gully — it was called "Dead Man Gully." Even earlier, in more ancient times, it wasn't called Dead Man Gully either — it was called "Pengyue Gully." Historically it was the burial ground of the Great Jin nobility. Later the Mongol army crushed the main Jin forces at Heifengkou, corpses piled like mountains. The Mongols threw the dead into the gully, nearly filling the whole valley. So locals called it "Dead Man Gully." Later someone saw wild men near this valley. The story spread, and the name Dead Man Gully was replaced by Wild Man Gully.

Wild men aren't scary. However fierce a wild man is, can it compare to *ao* dogs? A thought suddenly popped into my head: what price could a wild man fetch on the market? But then I immediately thought: doing that isn't very humane. Better not hit on live creatures. Better put my mind on digging ancient tombs — that's the real business.

Because we had horses, we couldn't climb slopes that were too steep. When we encountered big mountains we had to detour, making this journey exceptionally slow. Fortunately it was autumn in the primeval forest — gorgeous scenery, red and yellow leaves covering the mountains, forests dyed in layers, a sight that never tires the eye. Occasionally we'd see a mountain chicken, wild hare, roe deer, tree shrew, or musk deer dart out from deep in the woods. Yingzi would unleash the dogs to chase. At night we camped, gathered some mountain grass mushrooms and spices, lit a campfire and roasted them. Pangzi and I both feasted — these days we haven't eaten the same wild game twice.

Traveling in these big mountains, without hunting dogs you can only sleep in trees. We brought three giant *ao* plus five big hunting dogs — this force has almost no match in the forest, unless we run into three or more bears. Yingzi said *ao* are the nemesis of bears. Forest bears hearing *ao* barks immediately flee far away. So at night we all slept in tents. The loyal hunting dogs kept watch around the tents — nothing to worry about. These dogs are far more *reliable* than people.

Yingzi's temper is even more explosive than Yanzi's was when young. She's a lone garlic head that chokes you to death, won't let the little chili pepper. The route we take, what we eat — all have to follow her orders. Who made her the guide? Those dogs all obey her too. Even though I'm used to being a company commander, with her I can only swallow it and act as an ordinary soldier.

But Yingzi truly has real skills. Hunting, pathfinding, finding spring water, distinguishing poisonous from edible mushrooms in the deep mountains, how to find wood ear, mushrooms, hazelnuts, persimmons, dangshen, schisandra, and so on — there's simply nothing she doesn't know. And some animals in the mountains I can't even name, never seen in my life — Yingzi can identify them all: what animal, what environment it lives in, what it eats, what trap can catch it alive. Pangzi and I listened with big eyes staring small eyes, only able to say two words: "Convinced."

Their Ewenki people are all born hunters. "Ewenki" is the official name for this ethnicity, not entirely accurate. Sometimes they also call themselves "Eerchun" or "Olechun." It means "people who hunt deer wandering in the forest sea and mountain ridges." They've long wandered the forest sea of the Lesser Khingan Range, living a nomadic fishing and hunting life. When China was just liberated, the entire Ewenki population was less than a thousand. The government had them come out of the harsh deep mountains and old forests to live settled lives. But the clansmen have a near-deified worship and yearning for the nomadic hunting life of their ancestors. They believe in shamanism, worship nature. Even though they live settled lives now, they still regularly go into the mountains to hunt.

No words along the way. To keep the story brief: we traveled by day and lodged by night, six or seven days in the primeval forest, finally reaching Heifengkou on the Sino-Mongolian border. The forest density at Heifengkou is indescribable. Deep inside there's almost no place to set foot — all Korean pine, larch, birch, poplar and other cold-resistant species. Dead branches and fallen leaves on the ground layer upon layer. One step sinks deep. Humans are manageable, but the horse's own weight is huge — it often sinks and can't move. We had to use all our strength, pulling and dragging, advancing a stretch, pushing a stretch, inching forward.

Who knows how many years the bottommost layer has accumulated. Rotting branches and leaves and wild beasts that sank and died in it give off waves of rotten stench. This foul smell mixes with the fragrance of Korean pine and wild flowers — smells weird, not too pleasant. But after smelling it a lot, it makes you feel a bit addicted.

We had reached Heifengkou; from then on, it was my responsibility. We found a valley that should be the legendary Wild Man Gully. The appearance here is nothing special, not as fierce as Lama Gully, but that is only a superficial impression. Yingzi said the valley must have opium pits, and we must check carefully before descending, for falling into an opium pit means no escape. To enter Wild Man Gully, each person must prepare a large wooden pole to probe the path, as the fallen leaves below are too deep, worse than a marsh. Fortunately, it is not the rainy season now, otherwise we could not go down.

Wild Man Gully is a spur of the Greater Khingan Range, with gentle slopes on both sides, the valley running north-south, hills on east and west sides, the central area receiving little sunlight year-round, giving it a gloomy, yin-filled atmosphere. The valley floor is covered with decayed leaves and weeds, apart from some low, sparse shrubs, no trees grow. Beyond the valley, trees become even sparser, the primeval forest ends here, and over two hundred li ahead lies the vast Outer Mongolian grassland.

It was nearly dusk, the blood-red sun hanging on the horizon. We climbed the slope and looked out: the setting sun seemed about to fall, the horizon filled with vast red clouds, the whole sky appearing as if drenched in thick oil paint. The forested, undulating mountains and the endless grassland in the distance all became hazy in our view—truly, green mountains like a sea, the setting sun like blood.

Seeing this beautiful scene, Pangzi felt great delight: "Lao Hu, this scenery is too beautiful; we didn't come here for nothing."

What I cared most about was the ancient tomb in Wild Man Gully. Referring to the *Sixteen-Character Yin-Yang Feng Shui Secret Technique*, I carefully observed the valley's terrain and took out the compass to identify the eight trigrams directions, thinking to myself: "Finally, I've found the right place, damn it; this valley must contain a noble's ancient tomb."

Wild Man Gully, originally named "Penglai Gully," has a stable and majestic terrain, giving a feeling of swallowing the universe. One end is grassland, the other connects to the Greater Khingan Range, the Outer Mongolian grassland like a vast ocean, while Penglai Gully resembles a great river flowing into the sea.

Although the feng shui here is not grand enough to bury emperors, burying a prince, marquis, or great general is more than sufficient. When the moon reaches high heaven, its light will point out the tomb's location for us.

The sky gradually darkened, the sun slowly sinking into the western horizon, the great forest about to be swallowed by shadow. This place was once called "Penglai Gully" because when the moon rises to the zenith above the valley, if one lies on their back in the deepest part and looks up at the sky, the afterimage creates an illusion: the two highest hills on either side seem like two giant arms stretching toward the bright moon. The deceased in this tomb took the essence of sun and moon, pure and auspicious qi. In my ancestral feng shui book, the chapter on "Heaven" explains this in detail. Though some literal content is hard to understand, combining it with on-site observation makes it easy to infer roughly nine-tenths of the truth.

If Wild Man Gully were not covered with such thick decayed leaves and weeds, we could directly find the central point. But now we must wait until nightfall when the moon rises, then use the moon's position in the sky as reference to descend to the deepest part of the valley floor to search for the tomb. Mainly, our manpower is limited; we cannot afford errors during work, or the workload would become too great.

Since it was still early before midnight, we pitched our tent under a large tree on the slope, tethered the small horse to the tree, fed it fodder, lit a bonfire to boil water and cook rice. Tonight's game was a small fawn caught by the hunting dogs. This fawn looked somewhat strange: it had plum blossom spots on its body, was small in size, poorly proportioned, with hind legs unusually thick, large ears without horns—likely a female.

Yingzi saw the hunting dogs dragging this strange fawn, rushed forward, turned the carcass over to examine its belly. Bloodstains marked the fawn's abdomen. She then pried open its mouth, as if searching for something, but found nothing in the end. Angry, she kicked the carcass hard twice and shouted at the large hunting dogs: "You damned things, all you know is eating, good for nothing—none of you are allowed to eat tonight!"

Pangzi, standing nearby, looked puzzled and asked Yingzi: "Little sister, what are you looking for?"

Yingzi, while drawing her dagger to skin the fawn, answered Pangzi's question: "Pang brother, you've never seen this kind of animal, have you? This is a musk deer; the female musk deer has musk in its navel—ah, mother, it's worth a fortune! But this creature is extremely cunning: as soon as it sees someone trying to catch it, it bites off its own navel, chews it to pulp. Damn it, these few dogs are too clumsy; if they moved faster, they could get a piece of musk."

Pangzi, hearing this, *leaned against a large tree, sat down, bent his head and waist, and repeatedly exerted force on his own belly.

I slapped his head: "What the hell are you thinking, you idiot? Do you think you're a deer, able to reach your own navel with your mouth? Besides, your navel is full of dirt—worth nothing."

Pangzi got angry: "You're spouting nonsense, Lao Hu—I just have an itch on my back, rubbing against the tree twice, and you're the one who wants to bite your own navel!"

We two argued a few words, then split up to tidy things. I went to gather dry firewood, Pangzi went to help Yingzi roast meat. We only roasted one hind leg of the musk deer, which was enough to eat. The musk deer's organs were fed to the five large hunting dogs. Yingzi is sharp-tongued but soft-hearted; just now she said she wouldn't give these dogs dinner, but now she fears they won't have enough to eat.

The other three mastiffs stood proudly squatting in the distance, not even glancing at the ordinary hunting dogs fighting over the animal's entrails. Yingzi gave the musk deer's two forelegs to two of the mastiffs, and one hind leg to the largest mastiff, named Huzi.

The three of us sat around the bonfire eating roasted meat. Yingzi gave each of us a small knife and a small bowl made of salt rock. The deer leg was skewered over the fire, turning as it roasted. We sliced it piece by piece with the small knife, and a rub in the bowl gave it a salty taste. The meal was eaten quickly; I only thought about the tomb in the gully and didn't notice any difference between musk deer meat and ordinary venison.

After eating, the moon had already risen. By its light, we could see the clouds moving swiftly across the sky—indicating a strong wind would come that night. Seeing the time was about right, we left the hunting dogs to guard the camp, and the three of us each took a wooden pole and hunting rifle, descending into Wild Man Gully.

With every step forward, we first had to violently thrust the wooden pole into the ground ahead to check for opium pits. The conditions below Wild Man Gully were much better than we had anticipated: although some areas had lost leaves down to the thigh, no opium pits had formed (decayed leaves soaked by rainwater and rotting into marshes). It seems that to dig the tomb, we must first clear the leaves covering the burial chamber.

I looked up at the moon, then took out the compass for comparison, surveyed both sides of the valley, and finally confirmed our position. This valley may contain many tombs, but the most important one, belonging to the highest-status noble, lies directly beneath where we stand.

I inserted a wooden pole here as a marker. Today, we will first return to rest well, replenish our strength, and tomorrow morning begin digging. This deep mountain forest has no other people within a radius of several hundred li, so there's no need to sneak around and work at night.

As I walked back, I told Pangzi about tomb robbery. Since we are in this line of work, we should learn more about it, not rely solely on brute force. Since we entered the mountains, I have been constantly lecturing him.

In China since ancient times, the earliest recorded tomb robbery occurred about three thousand years ago, during the Zhou dynasty—specifically the Zhou of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, Xia, Shang, and Zhou. This Zhou dynasty period also divided into Eastern and Western Zhou, the dynasty of the *Fengshen Yanyi* where Jiang Ziya and others assisted King Wu, which had over eight hundred years of rule. In that era, two major tomb robberies were recorded: one was the tomb of King You of Zhou being robbed, and another was the tomb of Tang of Shang being robbed. In King You's tomb, two fully naked, lifelike young male and female corpses were discovered, frightening the tomb robbers into fleeing headfirst. In Tang of Shang's tomb, a large turtle shell was unearthed, covered in oracle bone inscriptions.

Pangzi said: "Lao Hu, don't bother me with this useless stuff—just tell me if there are ghosts in the tomb? If there are ghosts, how do we deal with them? Also, what about that 'ghost-blowing lamp' you mentioned earlier? I heard it and thought it was really evil-sounding."

Yingzi said: "What ghost-blowing lamp? Is it the opium-pit ghost-blowing lamp they talk about in the northeast?"

I said: "No, it's not that northeastern one. It's a superstitious practice of the Gold-Tapping Captains. Actually, it might not be useless: if the air quality in the tomb is poor and candles won't light, anyone entering will surely die of poisoning. This can also be explained scientifically. As for ghosts in ancient tombs—those are just superstitions. Even if they existed, we wouldn't need to worry; I've prepared black donkey hooves, glutinous rice, and other warding-off items. In short: when tomb-robbing, don't believe in evil; if you fear ghosts, don't rob tombs."

Pangzi suddenly understood: "Oh, after all this fuss, you had Yanzi prepare these things to ward off evil—I thought you were just being arrogantly fearless of ghosts. By the way, what are the vinegar and birdcage for?"

I was about to answer when suddenly a chorus of frantic barks came from the hunting dogs on the slope. All three of us felt a sinking heart, thinking perhaps some wild man or beast was attacking our camp? But there were three mastiffs there—even if they had eaten a bear's heart and leopard's gall, they shouldn't dare provoke trouble. What exactly was causing the hunting dogs to bark wildly? We hurriedly rushed two steps back up the slope.

Returning to beside the tent, a bloody scene lay before us: the small horse tethered to the tree had been torn apart by some fierce beast, its entire belly ripped open, intestines spilled across the ground. The horse had not yet breathed its last, lying on the ground convulsing continuously—clearly, it would not survive.

The hunting dogs circled the horse, barking furiously at it, as if they had seen something terrifying, their voices filled with uneasy agitation.

By common sense, horses and dogs are friends; the horse's intestines certainly were not bitten by dogs—so what wild beast did this? The three mastiffs and five hunting dogs surrounded the scene on both sides, yet none had captured the perpetrator?

Scanning the surroundings, there was no trace of any wild beast—only empty mountains, dead silent, the night wind making the forest leaves rustle softly. Our hands gripping the hunting rifles were already slick with cold sweat.

Blood foam came from the horse's mouth, white vapor still rose from its nostrils. Although its intestines had spilled onto the ground, it had not yet breathed its last. Yingzi aimed at the horse's head and fired a shot, ending its final suffering.

I suddenly noticed the horse's intestines moving—not a physiological twitch, but as if being pulled underground, dragging the horse's internal organs downward, with something hiding beneath the horse's corpse.

I quickly pulled Yingzi back a step. Pangzi and Yingzi had also seen what just happened. The three of us exchanged glances, each thinking: "Could it be the work of a wild man?"

Being in Wild Man Gully, the first thought is naturally of wild men. But could a wild man have such strength to tear open a horse's belly? Perhaps it used a weapon—but if it could make weapons, it wouldn't be a wild man? So the idea that a wild man did this cannot stand.

Before we could figure it out, the entrails on the ground had been dragged completely beneath the horse's corpse, the situation below now entirely obscured by the horse's body.

We must first move the horse's corpse. I hefted my hunting rifle—this gun is far more advanced than the tooth-raising gun I used over a decade ago in Lama Gully to fight the bear-man. However, this sporting air rifle has too small a caliber to inflict lethal damage on large fierce beasts. Still, in this situation, having something is better than nothing—after all, it's much better than a fire stick.

With guns and dogs, the group felt somewhat reassured. Thus, the three of us joined forces to push aside the horse's corpse. In the grass below, there suddenly appeared a bottomless pit.

The hole was about as wide as a small bucket; an adult trying to squeeze in would be difficult. The horse's intestines had been dragged into the hole by something. When we first arrived, the hole was covered by grass—no one had noticed. Seeing grass growing here, we had tethered the horse to this spot. During our descent into Wild Man Gully to search for the tomb, the creature in the hole suddenly attacked, tearing open the horse's belly. Although the hunting dogs are ferocious beyond compare, the hole was blocked by the horse's corpse, so they frantically barked but could do nothing.

I shone my flashlight into the hole—pitch black, unfathomable depth. Looking at the marks on the hole wall, my experience as a combat engineer for over three years came in handy: I could almost certainly say this hole is not man-made, but dug by some animal's claws, and the claws are very sharp—it's an expert digger. Otherwise, how could it tear open the horse's belly in one go? But what kind of animal it is, I truly cannot imagine. Even Yingzi, who knows the forest like the back of her hand, shook her head repeatedly—she had never seen or heard of such a creature.

I estimate there will be other holes nearby. It seems Wild Man Gully appears peaceful and scenic, but in fact hides deadly danger. No wonder that team of tomb robbers who came here decades ago never returned—perhaps they too encountered this underground ferocious monster.

This place is not suitable for lingering. We decided not to wait for dawn, but to move overnight. We split into two teams: I and Pangzi with five hunting dogs would go down into the valley to dig the tomb; Yingzi with the three mastiffs would search nearby for the monster that attacked us. That creature, no matter how fierce, would not be more ferocious than three mastiffs. Rather than passively defend, we should take the initiative. If either side detects anything, we will fire a gun to signal, and the other side will rush to reinforce as quickly as possible.

Speaking of Pangzi leading the five large hunting dogs, I carried the tools and supplies, we went one after the other, following the previously probed path down to the valley floor.

I took out two combat shovels, kept one for myself, and threw the other to Pangzi: "Little Pang, work efficiently—this place is not suitable for deep burial; the tomb beneath the leaf layer won't be too deep. Let's dig up the antiquities as soon as possible, then hurry out of this damned place and go home. Sell the loot to fund a road for the villagers."

Pangzi spat twice on his hands: "Watch Pangye's skill."

The German combat shovel flew up and down, each thrust digging up a large clump of sludge formed from rotted branches and leaves.

Although Wild Man Gully's valley has few trees, when the wind blows, it carries leaves from the surrounding mountains, accumulating over years into a truly thick layer. We took turns digging, and after six or seven meters, we finally reached soil. I grabbed a handful—it was very fine, with distinct particles, no clods. I licked it with my tongue—slightly sweet. Correct, this is the sealing soil; four or five meters below lies the burial chamber.

When nearing the burial chamber, caution is needed, as some tombs have anti-theft mechanisms. Tombs from the Northern Song, Liao, and Jin periods differ from those before the Tang, which used falling stones, hidden traps, etc. By the Northern Song period, anti-theft technology had matured, especially for noble tombs—they could not undertake projects as large as imperial tombs due to limited manpower. Of course, this is only relative; the contents inside are certainly not lacking, otherwise they would not deserve this feng shui treasure site.

For example, the late Northern Song Jin people's tomb here would likely use the then-popular anti-theft technique: the Tianbao Dragon Fire Liuli Dome. This structure is highly advanced: the tomb chamber is hollow, the ceiling first paved with an extremely thin layer of liuli tiles, on which are bags of Western Regions fire dragon oil, then another layer of liuli tiles, and finally the sealing soil. As soon as external force enters, this ceiling breaks upon contact, the Western Regions fire dragon oil ignites on contact with air, burning the corpses and burial goods in the chamber to ashes, leaving tomb robbers with nothing.

Of course, this is a last-resort measure—the tomb owner would rather perish together than let tomb robbers desecrate the corpse. This mechanism was popular only during the late Northern Song Jin-Liao period; afterward, more advanced mechanisms appeared, and the Tianbao Dragon Fire Liuli Dome was replaced.

This small mechanism cannot escape me—its greatest weakness is that digging from the side, the dragon fire liuli tiles on top will not break. So once we reach the sealing soil, we begin digging sideways and downward. The two of us worked with great enthusiasm, not knowing what fatigue was, having dug a large pit six or seven meters deep on the side.

Unnoticed, the sky had already brightened. Yingzi returned, saying she found nothing nearby; she had gone into the forest to hunt for lunch. Once the food was ready, she would send a dog to call us.

After Yingzi left, we two continued working. Finally, on the side we hit a layer of hard soil, as hard as rock; striking it with the combat shovel left only a white mark.

Pangzi cursed loudly: "Fuck, why is there still cement? If I'd known, I'd have brought explosives in advance—how the hell are we supposed to dig this?"

I said: "Explosives are for amateurs; this is tamped earth, with a mechanism on top protecting it. The builders would not neglect the four walls of the tomb chamber. This soil was prepared using the imperial court's secret formula of the time, mixed with some glutinous juice, children's urine, and other miscellaneous stuff—harder than your mother's modern concrete. This formula belonged to the Northern Song emperor; after the Jin destroyed the Northern Song, it passed into the hands of Jin nobility."

I moved that large bucket of vinegar over and had Pangzi use a large spoon to drizzle it onto the tamped earth layer, one spoonful at a time. After this bucket of vinegar was poured, the tomb wall would be nearly corroded through. Don't underestimate vinegar's weak corrosiveness—it works wonders on this tamped earth prepared with the secret formula. This is what is meant by 'one thing subdues another'; later, digging will be almost like cutting tofu.

Following the procedure, sure enough, we saw the tomb chamber about to be opened. Just as the two of us were feeling pleased, suddenly a gunshot rang out from the forest, startling the birds on the trees into flight.

Pangzi shouted urgently: "My big sister fired the gun!"

I picked up the sapper shovel and hunting rifle: "Let's go check it out quickly."

The two of us didn't care about our fatigue, swung our legs open, and hurried forward, sinking one step at a time into the layer of fallen leaves.

We rushed toward the source of the sound deep in the woods, and the five large dogs followed closely behind, running into the forest for a stretch, when suddenly we saw Yingzi leading three massive mastiffs charging toward us.

Seeing she was unharmed, I finally let go of the tension in my chest: "Big sister, was it you who fired the gun? Did you discover anything?"

Yingzi's face turned pale, running until she was out of breath: "Oh my goodness…… I was scared to death. I found a few huts ahead in that corner, went inside to look, and it terrified me—full of corpses, rotting black and foul. At first I didn't see clearly, thought they were savages, so I fired a shot. In the end, I still couldn't tell whose corpses they were."

Only then did I understand: don't think Yingzi is all tough and fearless—she actually has a weakness. She's terrified of corpses, and I had assumed she feared nothing in the forest.

But discovering corpses and huts in the deep mountains of the Sino-Mongolian border is already astonishing enough. Since they built huts, it shows they lived here. Who were these dead people? Why would they reside in this uninhabited deep mountain?

Maybe we should go take a look—perhaps we can still find some clues. I vaguely felt in my heart that they might be connected to the batch of tomb robbers who disappeared here before.

Yingzi led us to the huts she had discovered. These huts were crudely constructed, made of mud and straw mixed together, with a small amount of timber, all built in the densest parts of the trees, erected on large trunks, and their color was also well concealed—if not viewed up close, they would be hard to spot.

We crawled into one of the huts and saw many animal pelts inside. Sure enough, in the corner were three corpses. Due to advanced decay, the bodies had turned black, muscles almost completely rotted away, skin withered, and maggots and ants occasionally crawled in and out of the eye sockets and nostrils. I thought: this must be the legendary savages of the Wild Man Gully.

Pangzi leaned in to take a look, then said to me: "Lao Hu, I said why we couldn't see any savages in Wild Man Gully—turns out they're all already dead from old age."

I nodded and said: "Strangely, these savages' tools are quite advanced. Look—they're even wearing clothes. Who's ever heard of a savage wearing clothes? I feel like I've seen this clothing somewhere before..."

The corpses were all wearing nylon overcoats, worn for many years—probably several decades—so tattered and filthy they were barely recognizable. Yet from the style, they always gave me the feeling I'd seen them somewhere before.

I noticed that on the collar of the innermost corpse, there seemed to be a metallic object. I removed it, wiped off the grime, and it looked like a military uniform's collar insignia—but definitely not from the Chinese army.

At that moment, Pangzi also found something: he felt around in the corner and pulled out a combat knife. The knife hadn't been drawn in many years. He exerted great effort, and finally with a "shing" sound, pulled it out. The blade's edge was excellent—after so many years, it still gleamed like a mirror. Clearly, the owner had cherished this knife in life, surely wiping it clean from time to time.

Upon seeing the knife, I understood: damn it, the legendary savages were actually these few Japanese devils.

Pangzi, however, couldn't figure it out: after Japan's defeat and surrender, weren't they all supposed to return home? How come these little devils didn't leave?

I said this isn't strange at all—you know too little about history, exposing your ignorance. Pangzi said: "Stop the nonsense, hurry up and tell us—what's really going on?"

Based on my inference, just before Japan's unconditional surrender, the Soviet mechanized army advanced southward to attack the Kwantung Army stationed in China's Northeast, shattering the famed million-strong elite Kwantung Army into fragments. Some Japanese soldiers were scattered, drifted deep into the forest, dared not emerge, lost contact with the outside world, and didn't know Japan had already surrendered—so they kept hiding in the forest until they died of old age here.

Some people in this area have seen a few suspicious, sneaking Japanese devils—their clothes long since filthy, living in the forest without shaving—so naturally, they were mistaken for savages.

Actually, I'm just speculating too. The real reason? Unless these few devils come back to life and explain themselves, no one will ever know the truth. After my explanation, Pangzi and Yingzi could understand.

Yingzi said: "Those little Japanese devils must have gotten lost. Sure, this is the forest's edge, but head north and it's all vast grassland, plus big mud sinks (a kind of all-marsh swamp)—you can't get out northward. To the south is primeval forest, no dog leashes, even the most experienced old hunters couldn't make it out—truly, they got what they deserved."

I flipped through the belongings of these corpses, wondering if there was anything valuable. Halfway through, I suddenly thought: could those people who came to rob tombs in the late 1940s have run into these Japanese devils and been killed? It's certainly possible. They never imagined they'd encounter Japanese devils in such a desolate place.

Just then, I suddenly discovered a military-style carrying pack inside one of the huts. Inside was a notebook written entirely in Japanese, the paper yellowed, the handwriting still legible. However, none of the three of us understood Japanese. Fortunately, there were many Chinese characters in it, so we could only read by interpreting the Japanese kanji using their Chinese readings. But Japanese kanji and Chinese meanings often differ greatly—sometimes even oppositely. (For example, the Japanese kanji term "留守" means "to go out," opposite to its literal Chinese meaning.) Even so, by stringing these words together and adding our own subjective inferences, we could roughly grasp about half the meaning, which essentially said:

The main force of the Kwantung Army in Dongning was shattered by Soviet mechanized units, and Lieutenant Colonel Mu Xu brought the remaining small squad of soldiers (in the Kwantung Army's Type A Division, a squad's establishment was 120–200 men) fleeing to a secret underground fortress at Heifengkou, preparing to join the remaining Kwantung Army inside the fortress and fight a final battle against the Soviets, to die honorably for the Emperor. As they neared the destination, they stepped into a large opium bubble, and the only soldier who knew the fortress's location, along with the guide leading the way, fell in and drowned. The rest never found the secret fortress's entrance, tried to turn back but got lost, had no communication equipment, and so settled deep in the mountains—living there for over thirty years, one by one dying off…… After that, nothing more was written—likely the writer died at this point.

I tossed the notebook aside—no time to read this junk now. The tomb walls in the valley have already mostly corroded. Let's hurry back, grab the stuff, and get out—no need to bother with these Japanese devils anymore; they're practically rotted away anyway. Pangzi said: "This knife can be mine. Back then, I had several officer's knives at home, but during the Cultural Revolution, they were all confiscated. I still wanted to keep one." I advised him: "This is a controlled weapon—you can't bring it on the train. Wait until we return to Beijing, then check the secondhand market—see if there's anything, and I'll buy you a new one."

We three rushed back to the ancient tomb at Wild Man Gully. The grave-digging work was nearly done. I used the sapper shovel to chop a few times, and the tomb wall was already broken open into a large hole. I shone my flashlight inside—the space was still decent, and this hole was over a meter above the tomb chamber floor. Pangzi was overjoyed, rolled up his sleeves, and wanted to go in, but I grabbed him by the arm: "You don't want to live? Go, catch a few sparrows, put them in a birdcage, lower them into the tomb to test the air quality first."

The sparrows in the woods are easy to catch—they avoid crowded places, they're clever. Using the simplest trap: sprinkle a few grains of millet, place our cooking pot upside down on top, we hide at a distance, watch the sparrows come under the pot to eat the millet, then pull the rope to tip over the pot's supporting stick, the pot falls down—and if you catch the sparrow, it works.

In one try, we caught three. I first put one into the birdcage, tied a rope to the cage, and tossed it down into the depths of the tomb chamber below. I smoked two cigarettes, estimated the time was about right, then pulled the cage back up. Looking inside, the little sparrow had its eyes rolled back—already dead.

This tomb has been sealed underground for hundreds of years. The air inside doesn't circulate. Before corpses decay, they must first swell, fill with corpse gas, and only then do the skin, muscles, and organs begin to rot from within outward. Although the tomb chamber doesn't truly constitute a vacuum environment, if there's no ventilation, the stench of rotting corpses will still linger inside—even after hundreds of years, it won't dissipate completely. Even without corpse gas, air that hasn't moved for hundreds of years can still form harmful toxins to the human body. Once inhaled, mild cases cause dizziness and headache; severe cases lead to poisoning and death. Unless equipped with a gas mask, one must not be careless at this stage.

It seems the tomb still needs time for mountain winds to clear the toxic gases. So we returned to the slope, ate some dry rations and meat jerky. We hadn't slept all night yesterday, and today we've done a lot of work—we're all exhausted. But just thinking about the treasures in the tomb, the fatigue vanished instantly. This is our first hands-on tomb raid—hopefully we can unearth something valuable. Previously, my understanding of tomb robbing was only theoretical. Today's practice, honestly, isn't that hard—of course, it also relates to our target selection. The Jin Dynasty Jurchen people at that time were still uncivilized barbarians. They built this tomb almost entirely copying Northern Song style—very small in scale. Likely constructed by Song Dynasty craftsmen captured as prisoners. After all, that Longbao Dragon Fire Glazed Tile technique is extremely complex—without superb craftsmanship, it's hard to build. Even a slight deviation would burn the tomb builders alive inside.

After finishing the dry rations, I checked the sky—it's getting late. I suppose the tomb's air has mostly exchanged by now. We're all worried about being attacked at night by whatever monster lurks in the underground cave, so we're eager to get the stuff and leave quickly. Thus we took our equipment, and descended again into the valley of Wild Man Gully.

This time, we again first lowered the sparrows into the tomb. Seeing they were retrieved still lively and jumping, it seemed safe now. I and Pangzi each took a few sips of baijiu to bolster our courage. We put on masks and gloves, hung the grave-touching talisman around our necks, tucked the black donkey hoof and glutinous rice into our pockets, took the flashlight, hung the sapper shovel at our waists, and prepared to enter the ancient tomb.

Seeing this, Yingzi hurriedly pulled me and said anxiously: "Take me in too to have a look—I've lived this long and never seen what's inside an ancient tomb."

I said: "There's nothing special in an ancient tomb—just ancient corpses and burial goods. What's there to see? Actually, this is my first time too—like a young lady riding in a bridal sedan for the first time—I've never been inside before. Besides, you're afraid of corpses, right? How come you're not afraid now?"

Yingzi is very curious. Seeing me and Pangzi acting so mysteriously only made her more eager to go in. I thought: well, this is a remote mountain wilderness—no need for someone to keep watch (tomb robbers rarely work alone; usually it's a team of three—one digs soil, since soil can't be piled outside the pit, so another is needed to haul away the dirt, and a third keeps watch from afar). Letting her come in to look around won't be a big deal. So I found her a mask, told her to wear it, gave her a few warnings: once inside, never take off the mask—first, the air quality inside is poor; second, human breath must not linger in the tomb—it's unlucky; third, don't breathe directly onto the ancient corpses—if you accidentally blow on one, that's serious trouble. Although these are all superstitions and legends, these rules have been passed down for thousands of years. Whatever the case, they must have some basis. We'll be careful—nothing serious will happen if we just follow the old ways.

Pangzi had already grown impatient: "Hu Bazi, when did you become such a nagging old woman? If you don't dare go down, let Grandpa Pang go himself—you just wait and count the money."

I said: "Go to hell, you. If you go down, you might not even find the coffin. Alright, let's stop bickering—it's getting dark soon. Hurry up and get to work."

The hole we dug in the tomb wall is only about a meter above the tomb chamber floor—no rope needed, we can just drop down. My foot touched the ground, and I couldn't help but feel a little nervous—finally, we're inside.

The tomb chamber isn't large—at most thirty square meters. Judging by the layout, it's designed like a living person's courtyard: main chamber, rear chamber, two side chambers. Our entry point happened to be a side chamber, and the tomb owner's coffin stands right in the center of the main chamber.

No tomb bed—just a shallow pit dug in the center of the main chamber, where the dark, heavy coffin lies, half-exposed above. This is a tomb within a tomb.

In the corner of the main chamber, several skeletons are piled up—skulls sunken and cracked, with clear signs of blunt-force trauma. They were likely sacrificial victims—captives or wives, concubines, servants buried with the tomb owner. We're not archaeologists, so we don't bother with them.

Yingzi suddenly grabbed my arm: "Uncle Hu, look—there are paintings on this wall too."

I shone my flashlight on the wall Yingzi pointed to—sure enough, it was painted with colored relief carvings depicting scene after scene. The figures are ancient and simple, yet lifelike. Over time, the colors have remained vivid, but as fresh air enters the tomb, these murals will fade before long.

Pangzi praised: "Looks like the person buried in this tomb might have been a painter in ancient times."

I said: "Stop pretending you know what you're talking about. During the Tang and Song dynasties, most royal and noble tombs had murals to record the tomb owner's major life events. Let's see who's buried here."

There are eight murals in total. We viewed them in order: some depict hunting scenes in the forest, some show friends drinking wine in a hall, some portray marching out to war, some depict escorting prisoners, and the last one shows a scene of being ennobled. In every mural, there's a man wearing a fox-fur hat—he must be the tomb's occupant. So this is a general's tomb—at least a marquis of ten thousand households.

Back then, when the Jin forces marched south to destroy the Song, they truly looted vast amounts of gold, silver, and treasures. This Jin general might have brought some of his war loot down with him into the underground—after all, it's all Han Chinese treasure anyway—so we might as well not be polite about it.

The three of us first wandered around the tomb chamber. The two side chambers contained only ceramic jars and clay bowls—nothing else. The rear chamber had four horse skeletons and some armor and weapons. Otherwise, there's nothing much left—looks like the Jin people didn't emphasize lavish burial. I felt a bit disappointed. I lit a candle in the southeast corner, and the three of us walked together to the front of the tomb owner's coffin in the main chamber—whether there were dates or not, we just looked at this one thing.

The tomb owner's coffin isn't small—it's made of rosewood black lacquer, with gold-colored patterns painted on it. The color and shape are very strange—probably related to the Jurchen ethnic totem or something similar. I touched the coffin planks—very thick. Ordinary poor people couldn't afford such thick coffins; being able to have a thin one would already be nice. Those who did well would just wrap themselves in grass mats and casually bury themselves in the ground.

The finest part of the coffin is the nanmu wood's tree heart—also called the tree core. A piece of nanmu wood, from growth to becoming usable timber, takes at least several thousand years. This top-grade material is extremely rare—only the imperial family could enjoy it. Bodies placed in nanmu tree hearts and buried underground never rot—more valuable than crystal-made anti-corrosion coffins, more effective than a refrigerator's preservation function. Next comes nanmu, linden redwood, thousand-year cypress—the thicker the tree heart, the higher the value. First, it prevents corpse decay; second, it prevents insect infestation, effectively stopping maggots and ants from gnawing—unlike ordinary wood, which would soon be rotted by insects. No tomb owner would want their corpse after death to be eaten by bugs—that thought alone is nauseating. So noble coffins have strict material requirements.

The coffin before us, in terms of wood, though not up to imperial clan standards, still counts as extremely luxurious. I inserted the sapper shovel into the seam of the coffin planks and tried to pry it open—didn't expect it to be nailed so tight that even applying force twice didn't budge it.

Pangzi also pulled out his tool and came over to help. The two of us working together, the coffin made a "creak creak creak" sound, and finally we pried open a large gap. We then shifted positions, one after another, and began prying up the coffin nails.

The tomb interior is very dry. The special-material tomb walls have excellent waterproofing, and the glazed tiles on the roof don't leak either. Moreover, most of the rainwater in Wild Man Gully is absorbed by the leaf litter layer, so there's quite a bit of dust in the coffin. This movement sent the dust flying—although we wore large masks, we still choked and kept coughing. When we go back, we'll definitely need to prepare a few gas masks—otherwise, we'll surely end up choking on something sooner or later.

Pangzi wanted to push open the coffin lid, but I suddenly thought to scare him a little, play a prank—so I grabbed his arm and said: "Pangzi, guess what's inside this coffin?"

Pangzi said: "How would I know? Anyway, whatever's inside, if we pull it out, we can exchange it for RMB… or even for national grain coupons."

I deliberately lowered my voice and said: "I once heard my grandfather tell me a story from《Taiping Guangji》: two tomb robbers, one fat, one thin, dug up a big coffin in an ancient tomb. No matter how they used swords, axes, or chopping methods, they couldn't open it. The fat tomb robber could recite the《Great Compassion Mantra》—he chanted it at the coffin, and the lid automatically opened a crack… from inside stretched out a long arm covered in green hair…"

Pangzi wasn't scared, but Yingzi was terrified—she immediately hid behind Pangzi: "Uncle Hu, you'd better not spout nonsense—don't even look where we are, trying to scare people to death."

Pangzi knew I was trying to scare him—aside from having a fear of heights, he really isn't afraid of anything. Back in school, when he fought other kids, he was the one with the black hand. Now his face showed no fear at all, utterly unmoved by my intimidation, with a solemn, righteous expression: "Big sister Yingzi, don't listen to him—this kid just wants to scare me. Besides, look who I am—damn it, what have I ever been afraid of? You let him keep talking."

I continued: "That arm, covered in green hair, with fingernails over three inches long, grabbed the fat tomb robber who was chanting the Great Compassion Mantra, dragged him into the coffin, and the lid snapped shut immediately. All we could hear were his miserable screams from inside, which frightened the other tomb robber so much he turned and ran."

Pangzi gave a dry, forced grin, laughing a few times with obvious strain—he must have been muttering to himself too, but he insisted on playing the tough guy, stepping forward to help me push the coffin lid. We shoved too hard, sending the entire lid crashing to the ground, exposing everything inside the coffin.

A tall male corpse lay inside, its bodily moisture long evaporated, leaving only dark purplish desiccated skin stretched over the skeleton. After nearly a thousand years, this is relatively well-preserved (the wet corpses unearthed at Mawangdui in Hunan are extremely rare—one in a thousand miles). Though the features were sunken, the eyes and nose reduced to black hollows, the face was still discernible: about forty or fifty years old, wearing a heavenly crown, a red robe with blue trim embroidered in gold thread, and cloud-stepping boots, hands resting on the chest.

Yingzi peered out from behind Pangzi, took one look inside, and shrieked: "Oh my god, that's terrifying!" She quickly looked away, too scared to look again.

Her scream made my scalp tingle, but the coffin was open—could we really turn and run now? I steeled myself, clasped my hands in prayer before the ancient corpse, and bowed three times: "We're short on clothes and food, left with no choice—we're borrowing a few burial items for some petty cash. Please don't blame us. Anyway, you've long since ascended to heaven or descended to earth—go where you must. Dust to dust, earth to earth. Wealth and jewels are external; you can't take them in life or bring them in death. What use are they to you now? We thieves have our own code: after taking, we'll use most of it to build bridges and roads, improve people's lives, learn from Lei Feng's example, love and hate clearly, never forget our roots, stand firm..."

I hadn't finished my speech when Pangzi couldn't wait any longer—he shoved his hand into the coffin and started rummaging. I quickly warned him: "You bastard, go easy—don't damage the corpse."

Pangzi wouldn't listen. Since entering the burial chamber, he'd found nothing valuable except a few broken jars and the funerary remains of people and animals. After all this effort, all he wanted to see was what treasures lay in the tomb owner's coffin.

Seeing persuasion was useless, I stopped wasting words and joined him in examining the coffin's contents. Beside the corpse lay some pottery. I didn't know much about antiques, especially porcelain—I'd only seen a few pieces of Northern Song blue-and-white ware, and knew nothing of their value, craftsmanship, or history. I only knew gold has a price, jade is priceless. My sole focus was finding a few ancient jade pieces, so I tossed the pottery aside. Miraculously, in the corpse's hands, we found two jade bi discs—green, carved into shapes resembling elephant butterflies, yet not quite butterflies, more like moths.

We stared at the jade bi for a long time but couldn't identify them. I only knew they might be jadeite, pre-Northern Song, and thus valuable—otherwise why would the tomb owner clutch them at death? They're probably worth tens of thousands—no small sum back then, when few in the nation were ten-thousand-yuan households. We'd need Da Jin Ya, the expert, to appraise them, then contact a Hong Kong merchant or Taiwan compatriot to sell them.

Pangzi wasn't satisfied—he wanted to pry open the corpse's mouth to check for gold teeth. I said, "That's enough—don't go too far. Leave something for the dead." We then picked out a few nice-looking pottery pieces from the coffin and returned the plain ones to their original spots.

After taking the items, we lifted the coffin lid and replaced it. Though we hadn't returned as richly laden as hoped, we weren't empty-handed either. I told them: "That's about enough—let's hurry out, fix the tomb wall, and head home." I turned to leave, then noticed the corner candle had inexplicably gone out.

Pangzi and Yingzi saw it too. Though masked, sweat beaded on their foreheads. I was drenched in cold sweat too. I regretted having exaggerated the ghost-light phenomena during our tomb-robbing talk—made it sound too terrifying.

I glanced at the coffin behind us—lid replaced and nailed down, utterly still. Could ghosts really exist in this world?

Yingzi, standing beside me, fears corpses and ghosts most. She instinctively reached to pull off her mask, but I grabbed her hand: "Don't take off the mask—what are you trying to do?"

Yingzi wanted to whistle to call the hunting dogs. I patted her shoulder: "Don't worry—it's not time yet. Besides, dogs can't bite ghosts anyway."

Pangzi walked over to examine the candle on the ground, turned to me, and asked: "Lao Hu, how much did you pay for each of these candles?"

I bought them in Beijing and brought them along. I didn't pay much attention to the price at the time—maybe two fen per candle.

Pangzi complained: "You couldn't get five-fen ones? For something this important, how could you buy cheap junk?"

I scratched my head: "Next time I'll buy imported—American, Japanese, German, whichever's most expensive. But the candle's already out—stop being a Zhuge Liang after the fact. Shouldn't we just put everything back exactly as we found it?"

We'd moved heaven and earth to get these few items, and now we have to put them all back? I and Pangzi both feel reluctant—it's like serving tangyuan that aren't tangyuan—just a plain white ball (playing)?

Pangzi's shameless: he thinks even if a ghost shows up, he'll beat it senseless with a shovel till it's looking for its teeth. These items are Pang Ye's today—he's taking them all. To put them back? Only if a ghost comes out and beats Pang Ye flat—otherwise, no way.

Yingzi thinks it's better to return everything. None of us know exorcism spells—if we really stir up ghosts, the three of us are as good as dead—no one gets out alive.

Before I could speak, they'd already started arguing. In the end, they accepted my compromise: relight the candle, randomly return a few pottery pieces, see if it goes out again. If it does, return another. If it still won't stay lit, we only take the two jade bi and leave all the pottery. Maybe the candle blew out from mountain wind sneaking in—if we don't take something out, we can't face our own hardship, and we'd lose face too.

Pangzi slapped his thigh: "Done, I agree—let's do it. I'll return a small pottery piece first. Lao Hu, you relight the candle. If it goes out again, we'll just pretend we didn't see it."

Negotiating with the tomb owner like this—I might be the first to invent it. If the underground Ming gold-seekers knew, they'd rise from their graves furious, ready to strangle me—truly shameful before our ancestral master. But now it's reform and opening-up—we should follow the tide of history, not cling to dead traditions. The economy must be energized, and so must thought—without lively thought, how can the economy thrive?

While making excuses for myself, I struck a match and lit the corner candle. By then, Pangzi had already placed a three-colored water-patterned porcelain vase on the coffin's edge—too lazy to move the lid, he just set it on the plank. He came back and said: "This time it's fine—the candle didn't go out, right? Shouldn't we now perform the sixth act of Sha Jia Bang?"

I suddenly noticed something odd—nervous, I didn't catch his words at first, then asked blankly: "What the hell's the sixth act?"

Pangzi knocked me on the head: "What are you thinking about? Sha Jia Bang, sixth act—retreat!"

I had no mind for his nonsense, gave him a silent signal to shut up, pointed at the ground candle, and whispered: "This candle flame… why the hell is it green?"

The flame emitted a sickly bluish-green light, casting a green pallor on our faces. Pangzi and Yingzi leaned in, saw it, and exchanged stunned glances—speechless. The candle's oily green flame flickered twice, then, with no apparent cause, went out with a soft "poof."

I knew it was bad—just my luck to hit a major zongzi on my first tomb raid. I grabbed Pangzi and Yingzi each by the arm, hauled them up, and bolted for the robber's hole—get out first, worry later. I don't want to stay here and become sacrificial offerings for the Jin state's barbarian dogs.

Just as we reached the mouth, a fierce gust blasted from behind—if we didn't dodge, we'd be hit squarely. We three ducked low and hit the ground—first came a "whoosh" as Pangzi's water-patterned vase, left on the coffin lid, flew over our heads, struck the edge of the robber's hole, and shattered into countless dust. Then came a loud "bang"—the coffin lid, recently re-nailed, shot forward and slammed into the tomb wall where the robber's hole was.

The tomb wall was built with Northern Song imperial secret-rammed earth, hard as stone—but the coffin lid was also extremely heavy. Hurled by unimaginable force, it flew level and embedded itself into the wall. The exit was sealed. Breaking through the lid with an entrenching tool would take serious effort—not a moment's work.

To slam the coffin lid into the wall like that—what kind of force is that? If it had been a second slower and hit our heads, would we even be alive? Though Pangzi is bold, even he was now trembling with fear: "Lao Hu, hurry and negotiate with it—leave a few more items, we don't want to start a fight—bad for everyone… after all, harmony is most important."

First mission and already a failure—I felt no anger, only my old flaw resurfacing: impulsiveness. I turned, shielded Yingzi behind me, one hand feeling for the black donkey hoof in my pocket, the other gripping the entrenching tool, and told Pangzi: "Screw negotiation—door's sealed, they clearly want us to stay as burial companions. Today I've decided on that ancient jade—Pang Ye, I'm taking it. Fuck it—let's see who's tougher. Grab your weapons! Let's fight this dog-day offspring of a donkey and a dog to the death."

At that moment, the coffin, now lidless, stood upright in the main chamber. On the corpse's once dark purplish desiccated skin, a thick layer of red hair had somehow grown...

Seeing this, I sucked in a cold breath. The fury I'd felt moments ago, the urge to charge, drained by half. I'd heard before that zombies grow white or black hair—called white fiends or black fiends—and legends spoke of poisonous corpse demons with green hair. But red hair? What is this?

I was too careless—thought this small tomb, just avoid the surface traps, and we'd be fine. Never imagined we'd meet a red-haired zongzi inside. Our hunting rifles weren't brought in, the robber's hole we dug is now completely blocked—no way to call in the big dogs. Hunting dogs and rifles are our Great Wall-like defense in the forest—now all we have is a German entrenching tool and a black donkey hoof to fight it with.

But the black donkey hoof only works if shoved into the zongzi's mouth—and I've only heard of it; I can't guarantee it's effective.

The corpse's face was now covered in red hair too—features unrecognizable, like a furious red ape. It swung its arms and leapt from the coffin—over two meters in a single bound, silent and swift as wind. In two or three jumps it was before us, lashing out with ten steel-like claws.

I never expected the zongzi to move so fast—we were at a critical moment, no time to think. In the cramped chamber, no room to maneuver—only forward, attack as defense. Pangzi and I shared the same thought: whatever it is, smash it flat first. We bellowed, raised our entrenching tools, and brought them down in a barrage on the red-haired corpse's head and face.

The corpse moved with terrifying speed—arms sweeping sideways. We felt our tools struck by a massive impact, our tiger jaws went numb, we could no longer hold on—the entrenching tools flew up like leaves in a hurricane, clanged twice as they struck the tomb's glazed tile ceiling. Though dark, the sound told us: such a blow could collapse the Heavenly Treasure Dragon Fire Glazed Tile Roof at any moment.

That Western Regions fire-dragon oil is no joke—once poured, it would burn jade and stone alike in the tomb. This tomb is doomed. To escape, we must end the fight quickly—but fighting bare-handed? Easier said than done.

We lost our weapons—our hands still hold the black donkey hoof, the bane of zombies—but we dare not use it recklessly. This zongzi is too fierce—we'd likely be torn apart before we could get the hoof in its mouth. Now our only option is to dodge its lunges and flee toward the rear chamber where armor, horse bones, and supplies are stored.

The tomb chamber had no light—only our flashlights. As we ran, we could barely see our feet. A few steps from the rear chamber door, Pangzi accidentally kicked a wall-side jar, cried "aiyo," and fell flat.

The red-haired corpse lunged after him like a shadow, emitting a cry like a night owl's wail, then lunged at Pangzi. That piercing, eerie wail echoed in the narrow chamber—indescribably terrifying, shrilling, making hearts churn and skin crawl with gooseflesh.

I've sworn more than once never to let a comrade die before me. Seeing Pangzi's life hanging by a breath, I threw caution aside—I kicked forward, squarely into the corpse's chest. The kick felt like hitting steel—pain shot through me, I sucked in cold air, my leg bone felt like it might snap but didn't.

The corpse staggered from the blow, then dropped Pangzi and lashed out with vicious claws at my head. I hurled my flashlight at its face, did a forward roll under its armpit, evading the claws. Now I'm in a dead corner—the wall and the corpse behind me form a triangle pinning me in. If it turns and lunges again, I won't stand a chance.

I've risked my life countless times—when cornered, calm is key. This red-haired zongzi has form and substance—just brute strength, immune to blades and spears, not a ghost—I fear it not. Without hesitation, I leapt onto its back, burying my nose in its stench—thank god for the mask, or I'd have passed out from the stench before even fighting.

With no flashlight, pitch black—I couldn't see a thing. The corpse's limbs were stiff, couldn't reach back to grab me—just kept thrashing, trying to shake me off.

I locked one arm around its neck, the other shoved the black donkey hoof toward its mouth, smearing it randomly on its face for ages—still couldn't find the mouth. Instead, I got thrown about, head spinning, eyes flashing gold—bad omen. Two more shakes and I'd be flung off.

Suddenly, in the dark, a flash of light before my eyes—I thought my vision was blurred, blinked and looked again—ah, it was Pangzi and Yingzi, each holding a flashlight in their teeth, charging forward with a large wolf-tooth club taken from the rear chamber. They meant to meet force with force—I hastily jumped down from the corpse's back.

That wolf-tooth club weighs dozens of jin—a super-heavy infantry weapon in the cold weapon era. When we first entered the tomb, we saw it in the rear chamber among other weapons, armor, and horse bones—likely used by the tomb owner in battle during life.

These weapons have grown verdigris from age and air exposure—but the wolf-tooth club doesn't rely on a sharp blade to wound—it's pure blunt force, using its weight to crush. Pangzi and Yingzi, on left and right, each used two hands to lift the club, swung it like a temple bell striker, and smashed it into the corpse's chest. The dozens-of-jin club, plus their run-up, delivered a real wallop—thud! —it knocked the corpse flat on its back.

The two strained themselves too much, panting heavily—I could practically hear their violent heartbeats.

I praised them: "Awesome—didn't expect you two to have this much strength. When we get back, I'll log a merit for each of you."

Hardly were the words out when the corpse's body sprang up like it had a spring inside—I cursed: "Fuck, truly unsteamable, unboilable! Pangzi—hit it again, hard, this time aim for the head!"

Pangzi flew into a rage too—this time he didn't need Yingzi's help, alone he summoned strength, lifted the wolf-tooth club, and slammed it into the corpse—only this time it missed. The corpse lunged forward, and instead the club flew backward, smashing into the rear chamber, while Pangzi was thrown onto his buttocks, his hands and tiger jaws split open, blood pouring out, howling in pain.

My mind flashed—the entrenching tool is still stuck in the ceiling. If we want to pry open the tomb door blocked by the coffin lid, we could use the wolf-tooth club to smash it. First, go retrieve the club from the rear chamber, lure the corpse away, break through the lid, and charge out—outside there's space, we have hunting rifles and dogs—we can do anything. How can we fight effectively cooped up in this narrow tomb?

I hauled Pangzi up from the ground, and the three of us fled into the tomb's rear chamber. The rear chamber is a side chamber, lower than the main one by a section. I descended, shone my flashlight around, and saw the wolf-tooth club had been flung by the corpse's immense force, blasting a large hole in the rear chamber wall—how could this be a pit and not a cave? Could there be another chamber beyond? I'd heard some ancient tombs have hidden chambers—could this be one? This time, I really missed the mark.

The hole in the tomb wall made by the spiked club was pitch black; shining a flashlight into it revealed no bottom, suggesting an extremely large space—a long passage.

As I marveled, the red-haired corpse fiend swooped into the rear chamber with a gust of yin wind. We three dared not delay, swinging the spiked club backward to knock it out, then rushing to smash the coffin lid. But the fiend's strength far exceeded imagination—raising its arms, it exerted over a thousand jin of force. Though we strained with all our might, the club was flung from our hands, spun once in midair, and struck the tomb wall behind us again.

This time the breach in the wall grew larger. With no way forward, we retreated into the secret chamber behind the tomb wall, raised the spiked club, and prepared to continue the fight.

The red-haired corpse fiend did not pursue, merely circling in the rear chamber. I exhaled, shone the flashlight on Pangzi and Yingzi's faces—Pangzi's hand was split open, but they were otherwise unharmed. Recalling the fierce struggle in the tomb chamber, though only a few minutes, it felt like we had circled the gates of hell twice.

Suddenly remembering something, I grabbed Pangzi's hand: "Why aren't you wearing gloves! When did you take them off?"

Pangzi lowered his head to look at his hand: "When opening the coffin, I sweated profusely, so I took off the gloves."

I shouted angrily: "You damn undisciplined fool! I've told you countless times—touching ancient corpses in tombs requires gloves! It's probably because you bare-handedly fondled everything that provoked the red-haired zongzi to transform."

Pangzi stubbornly refused to admit fault: "You're just spouting nonsense—those ancient corpses aren't landmines that explode when touched! Don't frame the loyal and good."

Yingzi interjected: "You two stop bickering—look, there's still writing on this wall! What does it say?"

Following Yingzi's flashlight beam, we saw a red marker on the wall bearing the large characters: "Underground Storage Facility of the Man-Mongol Black Wind Mouth Fortress."

Pangzi and I exchanged a glance: "A secret fortress of the Kwantung Army?" Unexpectedly, the underground passage of the Japanese fortress and the tomb's rear chamber were separated by only a wall. Shift half a meter inward, and the tomb would have been excavated long ago. Had the spiked club not struck the tomb wall due to the corpse fiend's impact, this deeply buried military fortress might never have been discovered.

Before we could examine further, the wall separating the tomb's rear chamber from the fortress collapsed with a roar, and the red-haired corpse fiend leapt out from the broken wall inside the tomb chamber.

Pangzi cursed: "Damn, this sticky dog-skin plaster!" After speaking, he grabbed the spiked club and prepared to confront it.

I hurriedly stopped him: "Don't engage it head-on—first find a way out, then figure something out." The three of us grabbed at nothing and ran inward. The fortress passage was extremely wide, its ground cemented, suitable for armored vehicles. But the passage was long and open, with no cover, and the red-haired corpse fiend came extremely fast—in an instant it leapt behind us.

I tried to throw the black donkey hoof to hinder it, fumbled on my body, and suddenly felt a handful of glutinous rice in my pocket. I recalled that ancient grave-robbing officials always carried glutinous rice when entering tombs; if infected by corpse qi, it could be used to draw out poison. I didn't know if it worked on zombies, but I'd try today—though that red-haired creature hardly looked like a zombie to me.

Feeling yin wind gusting from behind and a foul stench assaulting my nose, I grabbed a handful of glutinous rice from my pocket and flung it backward at the red-haired corpse fiend. The handful scattered like heavenly maidens scattering flowers, covering the fiend's face completely. It seemed unfazed, paused briefly, then leapt straight toward us.

By now we had reached the end of the fortress passage—the warehouse's large iron door was half-open before us. Likely the Kwantung Army retreated in great haste, leaving the door unlocked. But after thirty years of disuse, the bearings were nearly rusted shut. We three rushed into the warehouse, gritted our teeth, glared, and exerted every ounce of strength—even the strength to suckle—finally slamming the heavy iron door shut just before the fiend could enter.

Even if the fiend truly had a copper head and iron arms, it could not get in, and even its battering on the door was inaudible inside. Such military facility warehouse doors are designed to withstand blast shockwaves, with two layers of quilts added between iron and steel plates to absorb impact. Back then, the Japanese devils, after being bombed into fright by the US Air Force, built even underground fortresses to resist large-scale aerial bombs. No matter how fierce the fiend, it lacks the power of US high-explosive bombs—here we are temporarily safe. Still, how to get out remains a headache.

I sat on the ground, gasping a few breaths, and shone the flashlight around. This warehouse is truly substantial, with supplies piled like mountains. Such a vast space, yet no trace visible from outside. Based on my earlier running direction and distance, I suddenly realized: the entire hill west of Renren Gou had been hollowed out to build this underground fortress. The more I thought, the more certain I became—Japan's exploitation of Manchuria could be said to have exhausted national strength, maintaining the war effort's heavy industrial base almost entirely in Manchuria, especially after the Japanese homeland suffered US air raids, making Manchuria the strategic rear. To consolidate defense, particularly against the northern Soviet Union, the Kwantung Army built countless underground fortresses in Manchuria—permanent fortifications. Though our location is in Inner Mongolia, it was then a Japanese-occupied zone. The Japanese high command believed guarding Manchuria but not Inner Mongolia was like guarding the river but not the beach—establishing Manchuria's outer defenses along the Sino-Mongolian border was entirely natural.

Black Wind Mouth is a contested military site—if the Soviet army attacked from the grasslands, this would be a necessary passage. Yet the Soviets ultimately chose to advance from the Manchurian side, rendering this painstakingly built underground fortress strategically meaningless. Presumably, the garrison, upon hearing the Emperor's surrender broadcast over the radio, learned of unconditional surrender, morale collapsed—some committed suicide, others fled.

Constructing such a large underground facility required massive manpower—I wonder how much sweat and blood Chinese laborers poured in. Possibly to guard military secrets, after completion, the laborers who built the fortress were all executed. The supplies in the warehouse, sealed for over thirty years, are partially preserved—perhaps even large power generation equipment remains. The Japanese left things behind; if we can find a way back, let the villagers organize horse teams to haul the spoils.

Pangzi stood up, rubbed his sore buttocks from the hard fall in the tomb chamber, tore two strips from his clothing, and had Yingzi bandage his hand wound. Pangzi ached all over, cursing loudly at the zombies outside.

I said that might not be a zombie—black donkey hoof and glutinous rice had no effect on it. Besides, we've heard plenty about zombies: they're most common in Shaanxi, where pre-Ming custom was to expose the corpse to sun for sixteen days after death until fully rotted, then bury it—to prevent transformation into zombies. When I served in Lanzhou, I personally saw black-haired zombies dug from the earth; I've also heard of white-haired ones. Moreover, tombs may contain poisonous insects, and corpses buried with them might turn green—but this red-haired kind? I've never heard of such.

Yingzi finished bandaging Pangzi's hands and interjected: "That thing isn't a zombie at all—I thought you knew—it's a corpse fiend."

"Corpse fiend"? Pangzi and I had never heard the term—let Yingzi explain in detail: what is a corpse fiend?

Yingzi once heard her clan's elders say that long ago, the Manchus were not yet called Manchus but Jurchens, and their tribe practiced a kind of sorcery: during burial, they placed a burned-to-ash talisman in the deceased's mouth, and the deceased held their most cherished item in hand. If grave robbers came to steal, the corpse would be possessed by a fiend, grow hard hair all over, become invulnerable to blades and spears, and only cease when the robber was strangled to death. Depending on the fiend invited, the corpse's hair color varied. Previously just a tale, now witnessed firsthand—I finally know such terrifying things truly exist in the world.

Pangzi produced the two jade bi he had pried from the ancient corpse's hand: "I won't return it—if you want it back, bring twenty thousand yuan; even without grain coupons, it's fine. Ah… Old Hu, look at this jade—what's going on?"

I took it and saw: originally green jade bi, now turned pale yellow. I can't explain how this happened, but only now do I feel my experience and knowledge are truly limited. Earlier I had some self-importance, but now I see I must keep learning.

Still, we've already taken this thing—fear is useless. I stood up and called to the two of them: "Let's go inside to see—any guns or ammo? Best if we find a tank, drive out and pound that corpse fiend into minced meat."