Chapter 224

The stone beam was carved from a single ancient fossilized tree, over thirty meters long and about five meters wide, solid and well-built, its lower end disappearing into the white clouds; one end connects to the platform before the white tunnel, the other leads straight to the cave mouth within Jade Mountain's altar. Many ancient white stone statues stand upon the beam, remarkably similar to the Heavenly Stem Diagram in the Xian King's Tomb.

Uncle Ming was seated on the shoulder of one of the stone statues, holding up the "Phoenix Gallbladder" to peer beyond the beam. Pangzi and I dared not move rashly—even if no one touched him, Uncle Ming has an old habit: when nervous, his hands tremble and he cannot hold anything steady—if it fell into the mirror maze below, we would not recover it quickly, and our time is nearly gone. Thus, Uncle Ming is like someone holding an unstable bomb, and should anything go wrong, all five of us would surely perish together.

Uncle Ming had his head wrapped in bandages, glaring, teeth clenched; excitement, anger, hatred and other emotions had driven him hysterical. This is the most dangerous moment—perhaps adding a little more pressure would snap the safety fuse in his mind, leaving him teetering on the cliff edge of a complete mental breakdown.

He bellowed hoarsely, threatening everyone to retreat, warning that anyone who disobeyed would see him hurl the "Phoenix Gallbladder" far down below. I had no choice but to step back a few paces, cursing his ancestors eight generations deep in my heart. This old harbor farmer's scheming is indeed deep—having fallen into the crystal layer below, though his skull was cracked and he bled considerably, they were merely superficial wounds; he had only briefly lost consciousness, and by the time we discussed the murder ritual, he was already lucid again—but upon hearing the situation was unfavorable, he feigned brain damage, then, upon learning the importance of this "Phoenix Gallbladder," he resorted to deceit to seize it. We were in a complex state of mind, unprepared, and thus fell for the harbor farmer's trick.

No matter what, we must first stabilize him. So I signaled Pangzi and Shirley Yang from behind, gesturing that they should not act rashly, and if they did act, they must strike true, taking no risk that might cause the "Phoenix Gallbladder" to slip. Then I said to Uncle Ming, who sat upon the stone statue: "Why must you do this, sir? We are all grasshoppers tied to the same rope—neither I can escape nor you fly away. I never intended to sacrifice anyone! Pangzi said that only under the premise that you would become a vegetable; since you are physically unharmed, I urge you to cease this torment, come down quickly, and we will discuss other options."

Uncle Ming let out a cold laugh, his facial muscles twisted from overexcitement, and cursed: "Bah! You clever little rascals, still trying to deceive your uncle even now! As for me, 'Little Zhuge' Lei Xianming—I severed chicken heads and burned yellow paper at thirteen, sailed out to challenge the South Seas at fourteen, and at fifteen personally slaughtered a living person; I've encountered road tigers on land and man-eating fish in water, weathered gunfire and sword rain, storms and tempests for half my life—how could you deceive me and cost me my life?"

I said to him: "Your words are completely backwards—what do you mean by us being clever? If it weren't for your own suspicion, your refusal to believe my advice, your insistence that even in death we must not part, we would not be in this dire predicament. Hence the saying, 'faithful advice grates on the ear'! Alas, it has also dragged in Aunt Xiang—what has she done to offend anyone? Arguing these points now is useless; we must stand together, or else we shall all die without a burial place."

Pangzi flared with rage, striking a pose of rolling up his sleeves and baring his arms, eyes wide, ready to slaughter a living person: "Old Hu, what nonsense are you spouting with him! Since he wants to threaten us, it shows he's unwilling to lose this old life—I don't believe that damned bastard would dare throw the pearl down! Let's go over now and give him a thorough thrashing—eight pieces, sacrifice what needs sacrificing, throw away what needs throwing!"

Pangzi's threat genuinely frightened Uncle Ming, for these past days he has come to know Pangzi's nature well—he belongs to the sort who yields to neither soft nor hard tactics, the most difficult to deal with; when he loses his temper, he will do anything; taking Pangzi's own words, when he's happy, he'd dare to grab a handful of the buttocks of the seven fairies in heaven. Uncle Ming grew nervous, his hand twitched slightly, and he hastily said: "No no… don't come over! Let's talk things out! Also, don't think I don't dare—Fatty, if you dare to force me, I'll show you something—better we all die here together!"

I know Uncle Ming fears Pangzi, but when a dog is cornered it jumps the wall, when a person is desperate they act without scruple. Uncle Ming certainly does not wish to die, even if he is destined not to live past tomorrow—living another moment now is still good, and this cannot be blamed on his selfishness and baseness; a person not acting for themselves invites heavenly wrath and earthly annihilation, even ants cling to life. One who dares sacrifice themselves for the many is a hero, but all are flesh-and-blood mortal bodies; ninety-nine percent of people lack such ideological awareness—and even among that one percent, many became heroes only out of necessity—no one has the right to demand another die for them, especially not in such a cruel manner.

Moreover, the human psyche is very subtle, and some of its changes defy explanation. For instance, if a person knows they have an incurable illness, no remedy, little time left, their inner anguish is easy to imagine; but if, at that moment, they suddenly learn that everyone in the world has contracted the same symptoms, they will certainly feel somewhat psychologically comforted, and the desolation of loneliness and helplessness will not be so strong. This is called "when the sky falls, we all bear it together."

Uncle Ming then continued: "We have all been afflicted by ghostly spells, but I know there is still a way to live—only we must kill one person to do it. I think… you… you should kill Aunt Xiang! I have painstakingly raised her for so many years; it is time for her to repay her kindness."

By now I had gauged Uncle Ming's bottom line—he knows better than anyone that there are only five of us here; if he killed me, Pangzi, or Shirley Yang, he could not hope to leave alive; relying on himself alone, he could never walk back from this underground space to Kalamir. Moreover, Uncle Ming would rather not die here; under these circumstances, only sacrificing his foster daughter Aunt Xiang would do. One step further: if we refuse this condition, then should Uncle Ming wish to die, he would drag all of us down with him as a cushion.

Since leaving the altar, I have not looked back at the timing crystal sand, but I estimate little remains. Having deduced Uncle Ming's bottom line, I now have a plan, knowing Old Harbor Farmer still does not wish to push things to the absolute extreme; thus, there is room for maneuver. Though we cannot retrieve the Dust-Chasing Pearl, we can gamble on luck, so I said to Uncle Ming: "Even a vicious tiger does not eat its own cub—if you kill Aunt Xiang to save your life, how are you any different from beasts! Though you may be willing, we will not commit such swine-and-dog-like acts. Instead, let us three men draw lots for life and death. Let fate decide."

Seeing this as his only chance to live, Uncle Ming said, gnashing his teeth: "My luck has always been decent. I am fate's favorite—I can match you in a contest, but if we draw life-and-death lots, all five must draw, no one may sit back and enjoy the fruits, or else we all die together."

Uncle Ming did not wait for our reply before stating his conditions: each person must swear a poison oath; life and death are by fate—whoever draws the death lot accepts their ill fortune and may not retract; furthermore, we must give him a pistol, lest someone regret and try to kill him.

I glanced at Shirley Yang, who nodded at me; I thought this pistol could be given to him, for he would not dare fire it casually. Otherwise, the consequences would be clear to him as well. So I removed all but one bullet from Shirley Yang's M1911, intending to hand it over and, in the process, pull him down from the stone statue—but Uncle Ming would not let me approach within half a step, ordering me to give the pistol to Aunt Xiang to pass to him.

Once Uncle Ming received the pistol, he immediately raised one hand holding the "Phoenix Gallbladder," urging us to swear the poison oath quickly, for time was short—should someone draw the death lot and there be no time to perform the ritual, everything would come to naught.

I thought, it's just an oath—this oath has "living set" and "dead set" variations; the "living set" speaks of heavenly thunderbolts, or dying in a way one wouldn't encounter in eight lifetimes, or playing with words—saying things grandly and passionately, swearing earnestly, but the content is vague, the meaning unclear, mere platitudes, saying it amounts to saying nothing; the "dead set" is a genuine poison oath, even involving one's entire family and clan—even those who do not believe in swearing oaths would not dare utter it lightly.

Yet I do not care, but having never sworn brotherhood or taken any oath, I am unfamiliar with such phrases; thus I raised one hand and said, preparing, always preparing…

Uncle Ming shouted: "No no, you're bluffing your way through—I'll go first, you all follow my words and say it yourselves." He then led the way in uttering a "dead set" poison oath; we, having no choice, merely mumbled along, repeating it once.

As for the instrument for drawing life and death, we made do with what was at hand: found a small sealed bag, took the five bullets just removed from the M1911, marked one bullet's tip with a red marker to represent the "death lot," then each took turns reaching into the bag to feel—whoever drew the marked bullet would die in place of the other four, with no room for complaint.

Uncle Ming still felt it improper, demanding everyone use the gloved hand to draw; I silently cursed the old harbor farmer's slipperiness, then added my own condition: Aunt Xiang and Shirley Yang must draw first, non-negotiable—there are only five lots total, the earlier one draws, the lower the chance of drawing the death lot, though this also depends on luck; each time a blank bullet is drawn, the death probability adds to the remaining bullets—this somewhat resembles using a sturdy revolver loaded with one bullet, spinning it and pointing it at one's head in turn, like Russian roulette, except the number of participants differs.

Uncle Ming gritted his teeth and agreed to this demand, for there is a chance the first drawer might hit the chamber early, time slipping away second by second—we cannot delay further; in this life-or-death situation, cheating is impossible, so I steeled myself to face Uncle Ming in this deadly gamble, to see whether the "Gold-Probing Captain's" fate is hard, or his "Corpse-Dragging Window-Climber's" fortune is great—thus Shirley Yang let Aunt Xiang draw first. Aunt Xiang, ever since hearing Uncle Ming say he could kill her, has remained in a state of mental daze; with Shirley Yang's help, she mechanically reached into the sealed bag, felt out a bullet, and without looking, tossed it to the ground—it was an unmarked bullet.

Uncle Ming saw this clearly from atop the stone statue, swallowed hard with a dry throat, the death probability rising to one in four; in the near-frozen atmosphere, Shirley Yang calmly drew the second bullet from the sealed bag—she seemed already mentally prepared, life and death outside her concern, she slowly opened the hand holding the bullet, an unmarked bullet resting on her gloved palm; Shirley Yang let out a soft sigh, yet felt no sense of relief.

I pressed against the sealed bag, exchanged a glance with Pangzi—only three of us remain, the sacrifice must come from among us; if Uncle Ming draws the death lot, then so be it—killing him would be justified; if I or Pangzi draws it, I would first trick the "Phoenix Gallbladder" into my hand, then act as circumstances dictate. Thinking this, I asked Uncle Ming whether he wished to draw first; Uncle Ming pondered long, asking himself if he had the courage to reach for this one-in-three chance, but if he did not draw and the next person also missed the death lot, the probability would rise to fifty percent; after a long while he shook his head at us, signaling Pangzi and me to draw first.

Pangzi cursed, reached in and took out a bullet—he had pinched it out, stared at the tip, and exclaimed: "Damn it, I didn't check the almanac before leaving, forgot to burn high incense at the temple—how did I end up drawing this, Fatty Grandpa!"

Seeing Pangzi draw the death lot, Uncle Ming did not gloat, his face suddenly flashing killing intent as he raised the pistol, aiming at Pangzi and cursing: "You damned fatty, you're worse than Hu Bazi—go die!" He pulled the trigger.

Pangzi was not holding a pistol, had just drawn the death lot, truly believing he would die, his mind in panic; the terrain on the stone beam is narrow, and he had not expected Uncle Ming to suddenly fire—since one must die only within the altar, what use is death here? But Uncle Ming's mental state is unstable, and he actually went ahead regardless— Pangzi could only scramble in panic behind the stone statue, where he discovered Uncle Ming's pistol made no sound.

Uncle Ming, seeing the pistol would not fire, froze instantly, then burst out cursing: "Hu Bazi, you short-lived jinx, you actually pulled off a trick—removed the primer from the bullet, damn it! Let's all die together!" He raised his hand and flung the "Phoenix Gallbladder" straight down into the cloud lake beneath the stone beam.

Though I had prepared in advance, I certainly did not expect Uncle Ming to fire at this moment; seeing the jam, I wanted to rush over to stop him, but after all, I was six or seven steps away; by the time I pulled Uncle Ming down from the stone statue, it was already too late.

Chaos reigned atop the stone beam; in the mêlée I saw Shirley Yang rush to the edge, preparing to jump down to find the "Phoenix Gallbladder," but she suddenly stopped: "No good, time's up." As she spoke, the light from the crystal veins overhead suddenly dimmed rapidly, darkness beginning to close in around us.