Chapter 512: Afterword: Part Two

Regarding the story of the novel: the earliest thing that happened was at Biaozi Ridge in Changsha.

In the early days after the founding of New China, a few grave robbers stole the most important object of this book from a Warring States ancient tomb—the Warring States Silk Scroll.

This is the story of Wu Xie's grandfather's generation, when Dog Gou Wu was young. At that time, there were no rankings in the underworld; the nine most famous people were Chenpi A'si, Dog Gou Wu, Heibei Laoliu, and so on. The last of them was Xie Ajiu, who was Xie Lianhuan's father.

Later there were also so-called Tenth Master and Eleventh Master, but their recognition was very limited; they were either self-proclaimed or titled by their underlings. When mentioned outside, no one knew them. Some say Chenpi A'si is now over ninety, and fifty years ago he was over forty. But Dog Gou Wu was still young then; if he was seventeen at the time, and became famous young, it would take another ten years, making him twenty-seven. How could he be ranked after Chenpi A'si, who was nearly fifty, and become Dog Gou Wu? Ranking like that, Xie Xiaojiu would still be wearing open-crotch pants at the time! This is somewhat unreasonable.

Anyone with a bit of common sense knows that the underworld ranking is not based on age, but on experience and seniority, and these rankings are given by others.

The fact that Wu Xie's grandfather, Dog Gou Wu, was ranked so high shows how formidable his skills and boldness were, making others unable to resist acknowledging him.

The second story also takes place at Biaozi Ridge. It's about when Wu Xie's Third Uncle robbed the Blood Corpse Tomb at night and intercepted the American, James. This happened twenty to thirty years after the first story. This event was entirely coincidental, and through it, Third Uncle learned about what happened when Wu Xie's grandfather first robbed the Blood Corpse Tomb. In this adventure, Third Uncle gained some experience and obtained a strange pill.

Although it was only an episode, this event can be considered the cause of what later happened at Xisha.

The third story takes place in the open sea near Xisha. This is the story of Wu Xie's Third Uncle diving into the angry sea.

Zhang Qiling's appearance created the biggest mystery in this story. There are two versions: one is Third Uncle's bluffing version, and the other is Third Uncle's honest version after going through a catastrophe.

The final truth is that both versions were lies Third Uncle told Wu Xie. Because in Third Uncle's heart, there is still a huge secret, and this secret is related to Wu Xie themselves.

The fourth story occurs in the Seven-Star Lu King's Palace in Shandong. This is the first story of this work, and also Wu Xie's first time going underground. After this experience, Wu Xie changed from a staunch atheist to a neurotic, driven into criminal activities by sheer curiosity. In this story, with Poker-face turning the tide, Wu Xie and the others finally escape.

Thus, the previous three stories had a chance to merge together through this story.

Clues like the Warring States Silk Scroll, the Xisha incident, and the mysterious pill converged, making the entire story extremely confusing.

The fifth story returns to Xisha. This time Wu Xie himself enters Wang Zanghai's underwater tomb, searching for Third Uncle who disappeared inside. By now, Third Uncle has already obtained the clue to the celestial palace from the underwater tomb and started the Cloud Summit Palace plan, while Wu Xie and the others, like fools, enter the ancient underwater tomb. This game of deception spanning a thousand years with Wang Zanghai ends with Fatty's straight thinking saving Wu Xie and the others once again.

In this story, the three forces in this work finally come together, and the mysteries begin to develop. Wu Xie and his group, seeking the truth; Third Uncle with his own plans; and the lingering overseas forces from previous stories—they confront each other face-to-face for the first time. Two main threads unfold: one follows the script Wang Zanghai wrote a thousand years ago, while the other is temporarily interrupted.

The sixth story is the Divine Tree of Qinling. This is the most criticized story—editors think it's the best and most literary, while readers think it's incomprehensible.

This story is not closely related to the main plot; it only introduces the huge bronze ancient monument under the mountain and also enhances the protagonist's abilities. In this story, Wu Xie independently leads his childhood friend with ulterior motives deep into the Qinling Mountains.

For Wu Xie, thinking back on this story sometimes feels like a long dream, full of unreality. The seventh story takes place in the Changbai Mountains, the eternal Cloud Summit Palace. This is the most difficult adventure and the most painful chapter for Wu Xie to write. All kinds of people, each with their own mysteries, embark on the road of death. Boundless white snow, painful trekking in narrow snowfields. There, Wu Xie and the others find the ultimate secret that Wang Zanghai tried to leave to later generations a thousand years ago. However, this secret comes to an abrupt halt in front of the huge bronze gate underground.

Zhang Qiling, who enters the underground giant gate, seems to be the one closest to this secret. Wang Zanghai's main thread stops here, and Tie Miansheng's main thread restarts.

The eighth story is the story of the Snake Swamp Ghost City. Two stories stitched together from clues run through the entire Snake Swamp Ghost City story. The first is the legend of Wang Zanghai. After organizing it, Wu Xie finds it to be excellent novel material. If written in Gu Long's style, it would surely be a remarkable book, and Wu Xie must write it in his lifetime. The second is the gradually forming story of Tie Miansheng. Now you can clearly see the origin of the story—the huge bronze divine relic in the mountain and the secret behind the Snake Swamp Ghost City.

In history, two people who surpassed their eras glimpsed this secret: one was Tie Miansheng from the Warring States period, and the other was Wang Zanghai from the early Ming Dynasty. From existing materials, Wu Xie and the others don't know if there was a direct connection between them, but it can be seen that Tie Miansheng probably had richer information, since his era was much closer to the mythological age. Judging by the presence of that kind of pill in both of their tombs, the two must have something in common. At the very least, both passed down their experiences in some form—the Warring States Silk Scroll and the Snake Brow Bronze Fish.

It is by following these two clues that Wu Xie and the others gradually unveil this mysterious veil. The stories about Wang Zanghai, Lu King's Palace, Golmud, and Cloud Summit Palace form another system closely related to the Zhang family's ancient tomb building, having to do with the Zhang family ancestors. As for stories like Chenpi A'si hanging upside down in the Mirror Palace to fight the Miao people, those are just padding.

About missing deadlines: As an author, the greatest external pain must be the contradiction between the pressure of the publishing schedule and the quality of my writing. Especially when you have become extremely familiar with rushing manuscripts, you know that this conflict is irreconcilable. However, if you face this kind of pain long enough, you will realize that it isn't something unbearable. What really hurts is that after enduring all this pain, you have to endure even more misunderstanding.

But I still continuously miss deadlines. I am a slow writer, especially in the later stages, when my writing speed gets slower and slower.

This is not because I don't write, but because the further you go in a long story, the more information piles up ahead, and the more considerations you need. After you've written five books, the earlier clues and puzzles become a mountain pressing down on you, making every step incredibly difficult.

In such a situation, often I can only choose a steady writing speed. However, due to my slow writing, I have received a lot of criticism. These criticisms have accumulated book by book, gradually drowning out the applause I used to hear, slowly becoming the mainstream.

I cannot lie and say that my heart has always been calm in the face of these words. Anyone, when facing so much criticism early on, would doubt their own worth. "So many people don't like me." You can imagine how disheartened I felt. "Running out of talent," "Irresponsible"—countless accusations flew everywhere.

I only write for those who like me. I wanted to say that, but I couldn't. Gradually, the anxiety from this information began to consume everything. That year, I don't know how, I slowly calmed my heart. I want to thank my friends. One of them, already famous and having gone through all this long ago, told me that writing is a kind of meditation. Writing is a process of gazing into the heart.

The things I was afraid of losing did not exist for me before. Therefore, what I lost was only what I shouldn't have obtained.

I did not lose everything I had before I started writing. It's like a child picking ten apples from an apple tree and finding three of them rotten. He shouldn't be upset about losing three apples; he should see that the other seven are intact.

Words have power. I gradually understood this truth by myself: emotion is something that cannot be quantified. Sadness is sadness, happiness is happiness. I write to find the original joy. If I give one hundred percent of my sadness over a small loss, that is not worth it.

However, although I have my own helplessness and persistence about missing deadlines, I still want to apologize here to all my readers. Five years of waiting may seem like a small cycle in life. I apologize for all the pain you have suffered during this wait. At the same time, I hope that during these five years of waiting, this series of novels has become a memory.

Five years is neither a short nor a long period in one's life. If a fat guy can make so many people agonize over five years of their precious lives, then this fat guy can be considered to have achieved his karma. So even if it's painful, while I apologize, I also secretly feel pleased.

Why do I like stories? Let me first talk about my life. Born on February 20, 1982, in a small town in Zhejiang, at midnight. At birth, neither the sky nor the earth nor the sea gave any response.

Sometimes when I think about it, I blame fate a little. Because even if there had been a thunderclap at my birth, I could have believed that I was different from others. Unfortunately, I can't go back. I can only muddle through this world as a truly ordinary person. My family background is quite complicated. My grandmother was from Taixing, Jiangsu, and she is a fellow townsman with my publisher. My grandmother was a boatwoman, meaning she had no property; all her possessions were a small wooden boat. My grandfather passed away when my father was five. My father has one older brother and one older sister.

I don't know exactly why my grandfather died, and neither did my father. We only vaguely knew that my grandmother was something like a child bride to my grandfather. My grandmother actually had many children, but none of them survived in those days, and my father was the youngest, so he was especially doted on. In the sixties, because of the famine, my grandmother's boat set out from Taixing for Shanghai. On the Huangpu River, her boat collided with a large vessel and sank. My grandmother, with her three children, stepped ashore, and at that moment they wept bitterly. The home where they had lived was gone; now, on dry land, looking out at the vast Shanghai waterfront, all she could feel was immense relief. Thanks to the Party and the people, my grandmother was resettled.

In my father's memory, there is a particularly peaceful and beautiful recollection of old Shanghai. I've thought it over: if my father hadn't come ashore back then, he might never have gone to school, and everything that followed might never have happened. For some unknown reason, my father later left Shanghai and moved to the area near Shanghai in Zhejiang Province. Then the "special era" began, and my father followed the railway troops into the Greater Khingan Mountains to support the border. He spent his most precious youth in the construction corps. My mother was also one of the young people who went from the south to the north to support the border back then.

My mother was very beautiful. She was only sixteen at the time, and together with three other southern girls, they were called the "Four Golden Flowers of the Greater Khingan." My father, who was the supply officer at the time, won her over with specially supplied white rice. As a couple back then, they must have been quite a dazzling pair. In the construction corps, people divided into factions by region—Ningbo, Wenzhou, Lishui each had their own small groups, and conflicts were constant. My father had been a good fighter since childhood; he had a reckless, no-holds-barred fighting style.

My mother said that at the time, there was almost no spot on my father's body without a scar. Because he could fight and was loyal, my father commanded respect among all the groups. Whenever a fight broke out, as soon as my father appeared, everyone would fall silent. Later, after returning to the south, my father once escorted a boatload of watermelons and encountered rioters trying to steal them. On the boat, he used a bamboo pole to knock dozens of rioters into the water. Though in the end he was outnumbered and had to abandon the watermelons and flee, just thinking about his heroic stance back then thrills me. Plus, my mother was stunningly delicate and beautiful; the two of them were quite envied in their time.

Speaking of my mother, her family is even more interesting. My maternal grandmother was the kiln master of a place in our hometown called the Land of a Thousand Kilns. The thousand kilns had a thousand kiln openings and were the core production area back then. My grandmother owned a large kiln locally, belonging to a very high-status class. My maternal grandfather had escaped from the Kuomintang's conscription. It wasn't until after the founding of New China that the two were introduced and became a couple.

The story of my maternal grandparents must also be full of countless tales. My grandfather was naturally superhumanly strong. At 1.86 meters tall, he was practically a giant in the society of the time. My grandmother said she agreed to marry him because she saw him lift something that would have taken three men to lift.

Of course, it seems there were many episodes in that marriage. When my grandfather passed away, I vaguely heard my grandmother sadly telling my mother about my grandfather's old romantic affairs in the mourning hall. I've seen photos of my parents from back then. My father was so handsome he was almost hard to look at, while my mother, even now, seems like a lotus emerging from the water. They were so beautiful and outstanding that every time I look in the mirror, I feel how unfair the world is. So many excellent genes, yet when they reached me, they manifested so pathetically.

My parents established their relationship in the Greater Khingan Mountains, then were transferred to the Daqing Oilfield, and later returned to the south. At the time, my father was the deputy manager of the supply and marketing system for non-staple foods, which meant he held considerable material power, so my family was relatively well-off. Then, on a completely unremarkable night, I was born. By this point, some people might find it interesting, while others might find it boring, thinking, "What's all this? Does it mean anything?" Actually, it's very meaningful.

I want to tell you all: my grandmother, my maternal grandparents, my father and mother—all of them were excellent storytellers. When I was born as the first child of two families, in that era without television, movies, the internet, or novels, how did I spend my childhood?

Through storytelling. I grew up surrounded by a circle of storytelling experts. Folk tales, war stories, fairy tales—my childhood was filled with them. Some of those stories are still very compelling to hear today, and I directly used many of them in *The Lost Tomb (Grave Robbers' Chronicles)*.

Back then, I had already determined that all my initial joy could only come from stories. That was also the most fundamental reason I later became obsessed with stories—because I could fully experience the pleasure that stories convey. After that, my life could be summed up in the word "boring." I failed in every aspect; in today's terms, I could be called "useless." Some say that when a person is born, heaven always gives them some special talent to help others. Yet for a long time, I truly felt I had no talent at all. Among my circle of friends, there was always this phenomenon: students with good grades generally weren't good at sports; if someone was good at sports, their grades were usually mediocre; those who were good at both grades and sports were generally ugly; classmates who were good at both, weren't ugly, and didn't have early love affairs later turned out to be gay. What am I trying to say? I'm trying to say that I had nothing to do with any of the above—that's the tragedy of this society.

No one ever cared about a child who was bad at both sports and grades, ugly, and often skipped class without discipline. Many times, waking from dreams in the middle of the night, I felt God was so unfair. Everyone around me had legendary lives—why was my life like this? My health wasn't great. Ever since I fainted during an exam in elementary school, every exam afterward the teacher would keep a close eye on me, arranging for me to sit in a well-ventilated, temperature-appropriate spot. That spot was always the fengshui treasure of the entire exam hall. When the teacher proctored, besides patrolling, they would always rest in that spot and often ask about my health, afraid I might die in the exam room—so cheating was out of the question. As for travel, sports—they were even less my destiny. I was born with a pair of fisherman's feet—long toes, with the big toe the longest, which was especially useful for lazy swimming, but completely useless when explosive power was needed. Plus, if the sun was a little too strong, I could easily fall down and foam at the mouth. When the gym teacher saw me, it was like seeing the principal's son—he was extremely protective. So most of my PE classes were spent in the shade, wearing a white shirt, holding a novel in hand. For me personally, that early life was quite comfortable—except for the time I was hit in the head by a banana kick from a handsome guy on the field and rolled down the stairs. I really liked those quiet, sweat-free days of reading. I think many people have had similar experiences, but maybe not as extreme as mine.

At that time, I spent almost all my time reading novels. After emptying the library, I turned to small private bookstores, starting from the first book on the shelf. Every book I borrowed cost money, and soon I ran out of funds. For someone with no special talents, earning pocket money was a pipe dream, so I began to loiter in the bookstore reading. But usually I'd read three books and borrow one, so the owner couldn't bring himself to kick me out—because in the beginning I was a big customer, and later though I borrowed less, I came frequently, so the total volume was still decent. I think my emotional intelligence was cultivated during this period. By the end of middle school, I had no more books to read, so I started writing some things myself. Though the quality wasn't high, after completing a round of formal novel reading, I suddenly had a strong urge—I wanted to write a novel myself. At the time, this idea had nothing to do with any dream; I had no intention of becoming a writer. I just thought how cool it would be to write a good story that everyone would scramble to read behind my back.

That year, I started writing seriously. From the initial scribbling, to analyzing the works of famous authors, summarizing, restructuring outlines, finding techniques for setting suspense, and discovering the basic rhythm of fiction—in just two months, I slowly noticed that the novels I wrote were starting to take shape. However, I still didn't dare to submit. The useless life I led made it hard for me to motivate myself to take that step. At that time, there were no computers; I used pen and paper, writing on manuscript paper. Slowly, I became addicted. I neglected my studies (not that I had achieved anything anyway—Uncle San's original words), and by the time I graduated from university, I had written over twenty million characters in total, most of them on various discarded exercise books. I was someone who changed exercise books very frequently, because the front of my book would have homework, and the back would often be my novel. This made it convenient for me to write during class. In two or three classes, I could fill up an entire notebook, and to do homework the next day, I'd just have to switch to a new notebook.

Honestly, looking back now, the level of some of the things I wrote still amazes me. Not only can they compare with my current work, but many pieces are even better than what I write now. Because back then, I focused on style and phrasing, whereas now I'm an old hand who knows that just getting the meaning across clearly is enough, and I often can't be bothered to polish the words. Throughout the writing process, one very obvious feature of mine is that I only write stories.

There was a huge variety of stories back then. I wrote martial arts, suspense, romance, and even started writing some genres that are popular now, like time-travel novels. But unlike other literature enthusiasts, I only wanted to write stories. The sentence I most hoped to hear was: "What happens next? Have you written what happens next?" Because that is the best evaluation of my story.

After the publication of "The Grave Robbers' Chronicles," many people have asked me a question: Do you think luck played a role in your success? I want to say, no success is ever without an element of luck. Some good luck is always nice, though what a person needs most isn't necessarily luck. Many times we also know that luck actually can't help you all that much—even if you win the lottery, if you lack the ability to manage the money, it will quickly turn into a big problem. What a person truly needs is the ability to seize opportunities.

The moment I decided to write "The Grave Robbers' Chronicles," I carried a carefree attitude, and that carefreeness attracted many readers. Among them, those two million characters must have played a part. So if I really have to say where my luck lies, I think my luck comes from me not being smart, not having good grades, not being good at sports—but heaven favors the ugly ones. Now, I accept everything calmly. It has nothing to do with luck, talent, or being number one. I've simply been led by the nose by the story all along.

What I want to say is, if someone really loves eating, and from childhood they've been deeply immersed in eating until they're thirty, they can still succeed. If someone really loves fighting, and from childhood they've loved fighting until they're thirty, they can also succeed.

If you like something, stick with it, and you'll always succeed eventually. I've said some pleasantries, the sort of things a postscript should probably contain. Now let me say what Grandma really wants to say. When you turn this page, be mentally prepared.

Wu Xie: Wu Xie is a hard person to describe. If I must say, I think: he is, in fact, an ordinary person. But that doesn't mean he isn't great. Precisely because he's ordinary, everything he's been through makes him all the more admirable. I think many friends, when they first saw him, must have disliked his weakness, his indecisiveness. However, as the story unfolded step by step, more and more people came to like him. He is a gentle, water-like boy. But don't forget, in the harsh winter, even the most formless water turns into solid ice. Wu Xie is exactly that kind of person. He is naive, with a bit of cleverness; he is cowardly, cherishing his own life; he is sensitive, afraid of hurting those around him. Among all the teams, he is the least suited to face danger. Yet I made him the protagonist of this story, to go through the most terrifying journey—that might be the most special thing about this story. When everyone else could retreat, he precisely could not; when everyone else could escape, he could not.

I really want to say sorry to him, for pushing this ordinary person into such a complicated mess of troubles. For a while, I could deeply feel the despair in his heart toward everything. At that time, I really wanted to know how someone like him, an ordinary person, would handle such overwhelming despair. I didn't expect him to pull through. In the development of the story, everyone saw how an ordinary person, in his struggle, became someone he never wanted to be. And what made everyone love him was that at every possible turning point in his life, he held onto his conscience. Even if he ended up wearing a vicious mask, in his heart he was still Wu Xie. He could have many small slynesses and petty moral failings, but when faced with the biggest choices, he was always the Wu Xie who wanted everyone to be okay.

"I hope that along this journey, everyone can live well, everyone can see their own endings. We may not be able to live long, but please let us live out the lives we deserve." Wu Xie prayed to the heavens during Panzi's final moments, even though he was in a pitch-black cave. He blamed everything on himself, unable to face the meaning of his own journey. This is Wu Xie: the "useless guy" in the team, the most incompetent leader of the Iron Triangle, who needs others' protection and help, who has endless curiosity and desires. But if even one person gets hurt, everything about himself becomes unimportant. He is an ordinary person who, no matter how much he hates you, still wants you to live. Because he doesn't understand killing, doesn't understand wealth beyond life; he only understands the value of the word "living."

Poker-face: This is a man as powerful as a god or Buddha. In the chapters where he appears, I could always write with particular ease, because as long as he's around, he can shield you from all disaster and pain. He has no words, doesn't get happy, doesn't grieve. He always stands there silently like a porcelain doll, gazing lightly at everything. Yet you know he cares about you. No one can ever give you that much sense of security like he does. Yet, for some reason, whenever I wrote this man's various actions, a deep sadness always rose in my heart.

As he himself said, he is a man without a past or future. The only connection he has to the world seems to hold little value. He doesn't know where he comes from, he doesn't know where he's going. He only knows that in this world, there is something he must do. "Can you imagine? One day, when you wake up in a cave, knowing nothing, looking around in confusion, a responsibility you must bear has already been placed on you. You have no right to enjoy the scenery along the way, no right to enjoy friends or lovers. All the beautiful things in your life, from the moment you become conscious, have lost their meaning to you."

Zhang Qiling silently carries his own destiny like this. What breaks my heart most is that he just carries it lightly, as if it's all natural, as if it's just a trivial matter. If you ask him, he only silently shakes his head and says to you: "It's okay." This is the man I wrote. He bears the most painful destiny in the world, a thousand times more painful than death itself, yet he neither gets angry nor shows off, neither escapes nor suffers. He is just there, telling everyone he protects: it's okay.

At the end of "The Grave Robbers' Chronicles, Volume 8," I let him fall asleep again, with a chance to wake him only ten years later. This may not be a very good ending—not for anyone. But for him, I really couldn't think of a better one.

Fatty: Fatty is a man with subtlety in his roughness. Overall, I think he is a subtle person, even more subtle than Wu Xie in many ways. Fatty's impression is always one of joking around and always getting into trouble. He has his own bad habits, but I still think he is the most normal of the three. That is to say, if you were choosing a husband, among these three, only Fatty would be qualified. If Wu Xie is the type to escape pain, and Xiao Ge is the type to ignore pain, then Fatty is the only one who can dissolve pain. Among these people, Fatty has undoubtedly endured the most pain. By "endure," I mean Fatty can actually feel how pain hurts him, unlike Xiao Ge, who lets endless pain pass through him and just nods in acknowledgment. A person who can understand pain, endure so much of it, dissolve it one by one, and truly be happy from the heart—such a person could almost be called a Buddha. Yes, Fatty is that Buddha who sees through everything.

To some extent, there is more buried in his laughter and talk. When he patted Tianzhen on the shoulder and said "Tianzhen Wu Xie," he had already seen through Wu Xie completely. He could silently nod with Xiao Ge and flank any danger, showing he fully understood the blankness in Xiao Ge's heart. But in the end, Fatty couldn't bear it anymore. After Yuncai died, could his strong heart still dissolve that intense grief? He found that he didn't want to dissolve it anymore. He didn't want this pain to become like his past pains, turning into that hollow emptiness. Fatty chose to let this pain stay with him forever.

I wrote Fatty sobbing uncontrollably as he held Yuncai's body, saying to Wu Xie: "I really liked her. I was never joking." My tears also couldn't stop flowing. I regretted not writing more about him and Yuncai earlier, giving them more memories. For Fatty, his love is simple: like is like, no need for so many reasons, no need for so much time together.

The Iron Triangle: I don't know what to call the bond between them. Friends? I think they've gone beyond friendship. They each had their own goals, but in the end, they all gave up those goals. Family? I don't think so either. They are distant, they guess at each other, yet this distance is a kind of silent protection. Everything seems to stem from the most basic feeling: I hope you are safe. Whether it's Wu Xie traveling a thousand miles to advise Poker-face, or Fatty risking danger for Wu Xie without caring about money, or Poker-face repeatedly saving the two of them at his own peril. "These are my friends. Please step aside. Tell your boss that if any harm comes to my friends, I will kill him. Even if he runs to the ends of the earth, I will find him. I have plenty of time anyway." Poker-face said these words calmly, with the bewildered Fatty and Wu Xie behind him.

"I tell you, even if he wants to destroy all my assets in the future, I won't even frown. This is my Wu family's property. I can decide who gets to squander it. I came here today not to ask for your agreement, but to inform you. If anyone dares to say one more useless word to Master Zhang, they will end up like this desk!" Wu Xie punched through the desk with his not-quite-strong fist. At that moment, his anger kept him from feeling the sharp pain of his knuckles breaking. "I, Fatty, will stay here. Only two people can make me leave: one is you, Tianzhen, and the other is Xiao Ge. You must live well and not let anything happen that requires me, Fatty, to handle. You know I'm getting old. Of course, dying together in a tomb with you two would be a beautiful thing. But if one day you feel there's a place you must go and it's fraught with danger, you must call me. Don't let me, Fatty, have any regrets in this life." This is the Iron Triangle.