Chapter 223

Shirley Yang and I stood by the "human-shaped execution pit" observing the ritual scenes depicted all around; the more we looked, the more horrifying it became. Although the ancient carvings had simple compositions, their psychological impact was no less than witnessing it firsthand—like seeing living people flayed alive before our eyes, each stroke in the murals seeming to drip with fresh blood.

But even more cruel and merciless than the human-sacrifice murals was the reality we had to face: ironclad rules with no room for flexibility. To hold the Ghost Cave ritual, at least one person must serve as a sacrifice. Without a sacrificial soul, it's like having no air—candles cannot burn.

In the murals, the crude, simple human figures clearly distinguished "sacrificial victim" from "priest." The entire "Serpent Bone" sacrifice ritual was carried out by two priests. They wore strange garments and masked headdresses, first binding a slave to the wall, then using a sharp tool to peel the slave's skin starting from the head. While the slave was not yet fully dead, they placed him in the execution stone trough on the ground to kill him. Afterwards, one "priest" carried the dead sacrificial victim to the altar with two pools—this was the main site for the Serpent Bone sacrifice. Regardless of the ritual method, the deceased and the "Phoenix Gallbladder" had to be simultaneously submerged into the two corresponding pools, apparently to maintain some kind of power balance.

The murder ritual scene was too brutal; after watching it twice, I felt physically ill, as if I could smell a strong stench of blood in my nose, feeling both nauseous and terrified. I asked Shirley Yang if there was no other way. If we had to kill each other among comrades just to survive, morally or conscientiously, it was utterly unacceptable. Comrades, frankly, are brothers who eat from the same pot—who could bring themselves to strike a black hand at another? Pointing a gun at one's comrade, even if one luckily survives, would inevitably lead to an inescapable fate of eternal damnation. One might escape the Ghost Cave's curse, but never the curse of one's own conscience.

Shirley Yang was clearly also under great psychological strain. I comforted her, saying: "It's not a dead end yet; let's think of another solution—there must be a way." Though I said this, I actually had no confidence in my heart. I just didn't want to face this cruel problem temporarily; even delaying it by a moment was good.

The stone trough and wall used for the skinning-and-killing ritual were too painful to look at for long. We returned to the hall with the two pools, where we saw Ah Xiang sitting beside Uncle Ming, gently pressing her injured hand and softly sobbing. Uncle Ming had vacant eyes, head bowed, leaning against the wall, while Pangzi squatted on the ground, examining a strange crystal bowl. Seeing Shirley Yang and me return, he called us over to look together.

I had already seen this transparent crystal bowl when I entered, but it hadn't drawn my attention. Now, seeing something odd, I approached and remarked: "This looks somewhat like a timing device."

The bowl's body resembled a small water vat, connected to the Jade Mountain's body, yet seamless—no visible interface. Sometime unknown, a thin stream of dark blue crystal sand began leaking from above, already forming a full layer at the bottom. I followed the flow of the "crystal sand" upward to where it met the mountain, and there, at the interface, was a black demonic mural with blurred, unrecognizable features. Yet I felt it strongly resembled the "Great Black Heaven Thunder-Strike Mountain" in the tunnel. Is this crystal bowl continuously receiving sand an ancient timer? Why is it inexplicably placed here, and what is its purpose? A troubling thought arose in my mind—vague and hazy like that black shadow—but though my thoughts were chaotic, I still sensed this time-measuring object was not benevolent.

Pangzi said to us: "From the moment I entered, I noticed this thing started flowing crystal sand. Judging by my antiquarian appreciation and aesthetic taste, this object is quite ingeniously crafted and could fetch a good price at Panjiayuan. Why don't we… take it back as a commemorative collectible?"

I was deeply doubtful, so I shook my head at Pangzi, then nodded—noncommittal. Shirley Yang then suddenly said: "Perhaps we unintentionally triggered some mechanism upon entering the altar, causing this crystal bowl to begin its countdown. If we haven't completed the ritual before the sand fills up, then…" She shifted her gaze toward that black-shadow-like demonic mural.

I suddenly realized: yes, this underground altar is the sacred core of the E Luo Hai people—naturally, one cannot come and go freely. If a certain time passes without the ritual being held, the "Great Black Heaven Thunder-Strike Mountain" in the tunnel will be released from the white tunnel into the altar. We still don't know what that black-shadow-like thing actually is; it seems to be some evil substance existing within crystal stone, the altar's "watcher." So how much time do we have left?

Judging by the sand inflow rate and the size of the giant crystal bowl, we have no more than two and a half to three hours. We must complete that cruel skinning "killing ritual" within this time.

Faced with this relentlessly ticking death countdown, our heartbeats began to quicken, as if what flowed out wasn't "crystal sand" but souls constantly surging from their shells. Shirley Yang said time was still ample, but staring at the flowing sand in the altar inside Jade Mountain only added pressure to our hearts. Let's first retreat to the stone pillar beam outside, sit down, and discuss how to handle this.

Pangzi and I felt the same, so we brought Ah Xiang and Uncle Ming along. Everyone temporarily left that evil altar cave, sat beneath the stone statues near the beam, each lost in thought, sinking into long silence.

Finally, I spoke first. Along the way, I had continuously encountered information about "Ghost Cave," "Serpent Bone," "imaginary number space," and various religious legends I'd never heard of, gradually forming a rough concept of the "Bottomless Ghost Cave." I explained my concept to Shirley Yang in full.

The Jueji Ghost Cave tribe calls the bottomless pit burying serpent bones a "Ghost Cave," while the "E Luo Hai people" do not use this term—they directly call it "Serpent Bone." These are corpses from the imaginary number space that should not exist in our mortal world. The abyss-like caverns are memories in those bones' minds. The E Luo Hai people believe the world is a cycle of life, death, and rebirth. After this world's destruction, another will be born, the cycle continuing endlessly—all worlds are one, and the "Serpent Bone" will be resurrected in that world. They believe that by continually sacrificing lives to worship it, they hope the E Luo Hai people can also survive in another world.

If we interpret the Ghost Cave legend from another angle, we find these tales strikingly similar to ancient Chinese feng shui secrets. The essence of feng shui is not "dragon, sand, hole, water direction"—at its root, it is the pursuit of "harmony between heaven and humanity." What is "heaven-human unity"? "Heaven" means heaven and earth, the world; "human" means humanity, including all living beings and life. In the idea of heaven-human unity, they are not independent existences but a single whole, an entirety—as Shirley Yang put it, like the later "cosmic holographic principle."

In the heaven-human unity theory, yin and yang qi are proposed—though divided into two poles, since they are one entity, there must also be a merging point. This region is the "Dragon Elixir" of the Ancestral Dragon Vein—the "Dragon Elixir" buried deep underground in Kunlun Mountain, the total gathering place of vital energy. Looking up, one can see the crystal veins above—some turned completely black, others glowing with crystalline brilliance. When one dragon vein's lifespan ends, another new one begins—this is the so-called "life-death shedding and replacement." Worldwide, probably only beneath the dragon peak of Kalamail does such a rare geological phenomenon exist. Here is where "yin" and "yang" blend and mix—thus the E Luo Hai people built their altar at this crucial junction of the yin-yang crossover. Though ancient people were primitive and ignorant, perhaps their understanding of all things in nature was far deeper than that of modern people.

The Ghost Cave's curse—whether contracted through eye infection or born from a evil god's resentment—can be most directly and effectively eliminated by placing a cursed sacrificial corpse together with the "Phoenix Gallbladder" in opposite positions into the two pools within the Dragon Elixir, severing their connection. The altar's murals record that this passage has been sealed more than once. Closing the passage means the Ghost Cave and the Shadow E Luo Hai City, including our own marks, though they won't disappear, will become real-world entities and thus harmless—until a new sacrificial ritual is held. However, this altar must not be destroyed, or it would greatly affect the mountain and river landscape, with consequences impossible to estimate.

I glanced at the time—unnoticed, I had already discussed with Shirley Yang for an hour, considered many possibilities, but the final result remained unchanged from the earlier conclusion: without a sacrificial victim, everyone will die in the altar.

Pangzi listened on the sidelines for a long time, unable to interject. Though he didn't fully understand the situation, he at least grasped the general idea and said: "Isn't finding a sacrifice simple? It's right here—'the petty man fears no villain, the true man fears no poison'…" He glanced at Uncle Ming, his meaning already clear without words: if someone must die, no one is more suitable than the old harbor farmer. After all, it's his own fault—we told him eight hundred sixty times not to follow us, yet he insisted on coming. Now his brain is also addled, and he's much older than us. The Ghost Cave's curse kills the eldest first, so he's practically as good as dead already—we needn't bother with revolutionary humanitarianism. As Old Hu said, it's 'sacrificing oneself to enter hell to save the world,' achieving fruition—praiseworthy and congratulatory.

Upon hearing this, Ah Xiang turned pale with fright, so much so she couldn't even cry. She clung tightly to Shirley Yang, pleading: "Sister Yang, please don't kill my foster father—this world has only my foster father to care for me; I have no other relatives left."

Shirley Yang advised her not to worry, then told me: "We can't do this—you know I'm religious. I'd rather die myself than commit an inhuman act. Though Uncle Ming may not survive until tomorrow, if we kill him, how could we face our own conscience? The teachings tell us…"

I said to Shirley Yang: "Your priest keeps spouting pointless nonsense—I don't want to listen to him. But you're right: we've done things morally indefensible just to survive. Take the Grave Robbing School Captain's rules—you count them, we've broken every one we could. Morality is like a windowpane of paper—we've already poked a hole through it. But poking in one finger versus dragging the whole body through the window—there's still a difference. I still can't bring myself to do such vicious, heartless deeds—I can't lay a hand on it."

Seeing me say this, Shirley Yang felt relieved and said: "If someone must die, then I…"

I knew Shirley Yang always felt guilty for involving many people in the desert Ghost Cave incident. She's willful—perhaps she plans to die in the altar so we can live. Before she could finish, I interrupted her, and everyone looked at me, thinking I'd come up with an idea. My mind was in turmoil; gazing at Uncle Ming's vacant expression, a hint of murderous intent surfaced, but reason forcibly restrained me. Conflicting thoughts tangled in my head—my brain felt like a boiling pot, my head aching as if it would split. I glanced at my watch—the death countdown ticked down relentlessly. Seeing Pangzi tossing and catching the "Phoenix Gallbladder" like a toy, I snatched it away: "Careful—don't drop it into the beam's depths below; the water's deep down there. If this bead is lost, none of us will survive. Is this a toy?"

Pangzi complained: "Why have you suddenly gone soft today? Actually, I see Uncle Ming still alive as merely suffering—mentally dull and listless, I can't bear to look at him. Let's seize this chance to send him off early to achieve fruition, Ah Xiang—don't be reluctant about your foster father; not letting him die is dragging him down, delaying him. After this village, there's no more shop—if he dies tomorrow, it won't count as dying to save the world, so he won't achieve fruition, and who knows what he'll be reborn as in the next life. Moreover… moreover, there's one more crucial reason—don't forget, Uncle Ming already has a concussion, he's clueless—so rather than…"

Pangzi's theory left Ah Xiang speechless, about to resume crying, when the previously unresponsive Uncle Ming, sitting silently, softly groaned: "Ah… it really hurts—is this old life of mine still alive?"

Ah Xiang saw Uncle Ming's consciousness return—she was overjoyed. Uncle Ming appeared extremely weak, his eyes unfocused, saying he had just fallen beneath the cloud layer's bottom onto a crystal stone, his climbing helmet had come off, and he'd slammed his head into something hard, after which he knew nothing. He then asked where this place was.

Ah Xiang recounted what had just happened; Uncle Ming stroked her head, sighed deeply: "Ah, this poor child—Old Hu, where are you? I… I have something to say to him."

Uncle Ming asked Shirley Yang and Pangzi to step aside for a moment—they knew he likely wanted to speak about Ah Xiang's marriage—so they retreated a few steps. Uncle Ming, tears streaming, told me: "Actually, ever since I heard the name 'Thunder-Strike Mountain,' I'd already prepared myself mentally. This time I seem to have injured my internal organs—it's heaven's will. Everything is heaven's will. Since no one must die, then no one can leave alive… I've resigned myself to that… but Ah Xiang, this child—I can't rest easy about her. You must promise me you'll look after her properly." He strained to grab Ah Xiang's hand, wanting me to hold it.

Seeing Uncle Ming was at death's door, his words were kind—like a bird about to die, its cry is mournful. My heart suddenly welled with sorrow, so I took Ah Xiang's hand and promised: "Rest easy about these matters—I may not marry her, but I will treat her like my own younger sister and care for her forever. I eat dry food—I'll never give her thin porridge."

Uncle Ming's eyes showed a relieved expression. He tried to grasp my other hand—at the moment of life and death parting, I too felt moved. Just as I reached out to clasp his hand, in my dazed state I saw a faint, hard-to-discern strange light in his eyes. I suddenly recalled the other hand holding the "Phoenix Gallbladder"—my mind flashed like lightning: "Damn it, this act is convincing enough, but trying to fool Old Hu? Still lacking the final touch!"

But I was still a bit slow to react—just under a second later, Uncle Ming snatched the "Phoenix Gallbladder," rolled sideways from the ground. I still held Ah Xiang's hand with one hand—I quickly shook her off, lunged to grab Uncle Ming's legs to pull him down, but we're not far from the beam's edge—below is a crystal stone labyrinth like a hall of mirrors, with water in places. That "Phoenix Gallbladder," vital to everyone's life or death, might fall during the struggle. I dared not use force—afraid to hit the wrong target—and ended up not grabbing him.

Uncle Ming leapt up like an old monkey, pushed off from the stone basin before the stone statue, shuffled twice, and climbed onto the statue's head. Raising the "Phoenix Gallbladder," he shouted: "Anyone who moves—I'll throw this bead down, better dead together! Hu Zai, Pang Zai, you two wretched losers—trying to be clever, wanting Lei Xianming to die in your place? Pure fantasy! I've seen every scene—still, I always survive to the end. No bastard even thinks of killing me!"