Chapter 229: Ghost Head

I felt a bit nauseous; Wu Laosi and the others clearly hadn't expected these clay pots to contain something like this, all of them wearing expressions of both disgust and shock.

The others saw the crowd gathering and gradually moved closer. A few of the Tibetan drivers had never seen anything like this before and were curious, so they came over to look.

I covered my nose and watched as Wu Laosi put on gloves, picked up the human head, and cleaned the dirt off it. This thing was extremely old, but the hair was still tough; the flesh had rotted away. Brushing off the dirt, you could see shriveled skin and hollow eye sockets. It was an ancient skull.

The bespectacled man beside him compared the head and the mouth of the pot: the skull was large, the pot's opening small—clearly the head couldn't have fit into the pot.

"What's the story?" I asked him.

"This is the bizarre tradition of the Queen Mother of the West's tribe. This was definitely a slave from some other Western Regions tribe. They probably put his head into this clay pot when he was two or three years old, and then let him grow to adulthood until not even food could be forced into the gap between his neck and the pot. By then, his head couldn't get out. Then they cut off his head, sealed the pot, and offered it to the Queen Mother of the West as a sacrifice. This is the tradition of human head offerings," Four Eyes said.

"Damn, that's too twisted. In our Journey to the West, the Queen Mother of the West is pretty kind, not this vicious," someone clicked his tongue.

"That Queen Mother of the West is the Sinicized version. In real ancient legends, the Queen Mother of the West was something like a vengeful spirit, not a person at all," someone else educated him. "Back in those days, you couldn't rule people with kindness. Rulers relied on these mystical, cruel, and bizarre rituals to project their supernatural power and maintain control."

So I asked Wu Laosi, why put the head in the pot? If you're going to cut it off, just cut it off—why go through all that trouble?

Wu Laosi said, "Many Western Regions tribes believed that after death, the soul flew out through the eyes or ears. Beheading someone inside a clay pot was to trap the soul inside the pot, so the sacrifice would have meaning. After the ritual, these heads were usually piled up to feed crows or thrown into the sea to feed fish. It was the same in the Central Plains—we called it a 'ghost head pit.' In Yixian County, Hebei, at the site of Yan's lower capital, there's a 'Human Head Mound' similar to this."

Listening, my neck began to feel very uncomfortable. Such things only happened in times of ignorance, but sometimes I really wondered who first invented this. When did ancient people start believing in such bloody stuff?

"But if they stuffed his head into a clay pot when he was small, how did he live normally?" someone asked.

"Live? Don't be naïve. The life of a sacrificial offering was quite privileged. Those chosen as offerings ate food meant for the gods—the best food in the whole tribe. They didn't have to do any work. Once they reached sexual maturity, the most beautiful girls were immediately sent to mate with them, so they could conceive the next generation of offerings. To make sure their necks grew thick enough quickly, they would restrict the offering's movement. Some ate too much and got strangled by the pot's rim before they even reached the right age," someone said. "Compared to other slaves who toiled themselves to death and might not even live to thirty, living comfortably for over a decade and then dying quickly might not be a bad choice."

That person rubbed his chin: "That doesn't sound bad. I don't care about food, but the most beautiful girls interest me. If I were an offering, I wouldn't eat anything, so my neck wouldn't grow thick, and then I could—"

Before he finished, the Tibetan drivers all laughed. I smacked him on the head and cursed, "What the hell is in your head?"

Everyone laughed for a while, then Wu Laosi started washing the skull with some solution. It was an archaeological procedure; there wasn't much point in crowding around. Some people clapped, telling everyone to get back to work and prepare to withdraw, fix the vehicles properly. Once we were ready, we'd set out.

Before the crowd could disperse, suddenly everyone heard a strange, chilling laugh, crystal clear, coming from within the crowd.

Instantly, I broke out in a cold sweat. Several people stopped and looked at each other. Seeing their expressions, I knew I hadn't misheard. My heart jumped. What the hell was going on? Who was laughing?

Before I could think further, that cold laugh sounded again. This time, prepared, we all turned toward the sound and realized it was coming from the pile of human heads stacked to one side.

Wu Laosi was so startled he dropped the head he was holding. My scalp went numb. How could this be? Just then, several people suddenly jumped up and screamed. Someone shouted, "Look! The heads are moving!" I hurried to look, and saw that on one of the skulls in the pile, the dirt was cracking open, the head shaking as if it were alive. I almost stopped breathing—how was that possible? Then, at the cracked spot, it burst open, and two small blood-red insects crawled out, each only the size of a fingernail, very familiar.

I saw them and my brain buzzed. I couldn't believe my eyes. I still didn't believe it. I looked again, and my soul nearly fled my body. They were ■ kings! My legs went weak. I almost crawled backward, scrambling away a few steps. Then I saw: two, three, four—and then a mass of red insects erupted from inside, exactly like the ones I'd seen in the Lu King's Palace. In seconds, they were crawling everywhere.

"Damn, what kind of bugs are these? I've never seen them," someone said in surprise. I saw a Tibetan driver walk over to get a closer look. I shouted, "Don't be an idiot! They're poisonous! Get back, don't touch them!"

The man turned to look at me, and just as he did, one of the ■ kings suddenly flew up and landed on his shoulder. I yelled, "No!" but it was too late. He reflexively grabbed at it, let out a cry of pain, and jerked his hand back. I saw a tide of red welts spreading across his hand instantly.

Everyone around screamed and backed away. He watched his hand rapidly turn red as if melting, terrified, and shouted, "Medic! Medic!" as he collapsed to the ground.

Someone went to help him, someone else ran toward the medic's tent. I knew that man was done for. Cursing under my breath, I rushed over to hold back the ones trying to help and yelled to the others, "Don't touch him! Touch him and you die! Don't just stand there—find a way to kill these bugs! If they all take flight, we're dead!"

That finally snapped them out of it. They started backing off and grabbing tools. A few drivers took off their shirts to swat at the bugs. But it was useless. The bugs scattered quickly. Only a few were killed; more kept crawling out. Soon, two more people screamed in pain.

In the chaos, Wu Laosi grabbed a nearby toolbox and smashed it into the head. The head was already brittle and shattered completely. I looked—good god—the inside of the skull was almost like a beehive, filled with gray eggs and bugs, utterly disgusting.

My back was soaked with cold sweat. I thought, what that glasses guy said was completely unreliable. This head couldn't have been just for sacrifice; it looked more like a culture medium for breeding bugs. Did these ■ kings lay eggs inside human brains? Damn, if these bugs got into a city, the traditional "four pests" would lose their status.

"Oh no, the other heads are moving too!" someone shouted. I didn't have time to worry. Everyone backed away quickly. Then I started hearing a buzzing sound, and red lights lifted into the air. A few of them zipped past my ear, making me duck my head.

In that instant, the first thought in my mind was: we're done for, a lot of people are going to die this time. No sooner had I thought it than another scream rang out. I turned and saw Wu Laosi on the ground, writhing in pain. I looked back at the clay pots—the whole sandy ground was speckled red. Countless ■ kings had already taken flight, and the air was filled with the sound of wings.

There was no way to deal with this. A single ■ king could potentially kill everyone here, let alone ten thousand. I thought, this isn't a sacrifice—it's a weapon. This thing was the atomic bomb of its time. If someone didn't like you, they'd toss one of these into your city, and the whole city might die out!

The only option now was to abandon the camp and run for our lives. I rushed into the tent. The people resting there had already heard the commotion and came out. When they saw me running over, they asked what was wrong. I couldn't explain, so I just yelled, "Don't ask, just run! Get to the vehicles!" A few Tibetan drivers carried the Caucasian out of the tent. Zhaxi had already picked up Dingzhu Zhuoma and was long gone.

Seeing people running out one after another calmed me a little. I went to call A Ning. She had already been startled awake and was just standing up. I rushed over, grabbed her, and started pulling her along. She struggled free and asked what was going on.

I shouted, "Just run! Why ask so many damn questions!" Before I could finish, a ■ king buzzed past my forehead and slammed into A Ning's shoulder, then flipped and stopped.

A Ning looked down, startled, and tried to swat it. I saw that, grabbed her hand, blew hard to send the ■ king flying, then pulled her and ran.

Poker-face and Black Blind were watching the vehicles outside. We had to get there first. We ran wildly, not caring about anything. After about three or four hundred meters, we saw a stone marker. My mind went blank—I suddenly realized I had no idea how to get out. Only Zhaxi understood these stone markers here.