Chapter Twenty-Seven: Rainy Night

The name Long Wick and Qian Qihan brought to mind a master of Daoist arts from the Tang Dynasty, Ming Qianqi. He was said to be perhaps the longest-lived person of that era, and even the first in the world to classify geomancy. He wrote a renowned work titled “Eternal Han of the Heavens.” That book recounted some legendary tales about Ming Qianqi, intertwining elements from both Buddhism and Daoism. Although the two traditions were not the same, they always complemented each other. The text primarily explored the five elements, the eight trigrams, astronomy, and topography. Strangely, though the book was considered Buddhist, it defied categorization, and it could not simply be placed among Daoist texts either.

Zhang Qinglin remembered clearly that the last page of that book held clues to another work by Ming Qianqi, which was later discovered: “Long Lamp Qianqi.” This volume contained many records of ancient tombs, mountain ranges, and burial maps.

Later, when he wished to read “Eternal Han of the Heavens” again among Uncle Jiang’s collection, he could not find it no matter how hard he searched. Now, hearing those words again, Zhang Qinglin felt a surge of emotion—how did Wanqing know about Ming Qianqi? Had she also read that book?

As he looked up, they had entered the city district of Wuzhou. Watching the lively streets, he thought of the bustling Second Ring Road in Beijing.

Wanqing turned a corner, paused for a few minutes to buy some bottles of water at a store, and then drove straight toward Siyue County.

Having slept poorly the night before and never letting his guard down, fatigue struck again as they reached Wuzhou. Zhang Qinglin fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, rubbing his aching forehead, night had already fallen. Rain beat down outside. Both Cheng Che and Old Seven were also asleep. Zhang Qinglin roused them.

Earlier in the day, the sky had been clear for thousands of miles. Now, thick clouds gathered and rain shrouded the world in mist. Peering out the window, he saw the rain falling heavily, and the fog was dense.

He glanced around the car, sensing something amiss—someone was missing.

Wanqing was gone.

Zhang Qinglin leaned forward to ask Cheng Che, who said he didn’t know.

Suddenly, a beam of light moved in front of the car, accompanied by several shifting shadows. Realizing something was wrong, the three of them got out. Once they surveyed their surroundings, they discovered they were not in the county seat of Siyue, but at the foot of a desolate mountain.

Zhang Qinglin, as if awakening from a dream, opened the car door, grabbed his bag, and strode toward the distant light.

As he walked further, Cheng Che shouted after him, hands on his hips, patting Old Seven’s shoulder in exasperation before they both hurried to catch up.

The rain gradually lessened as they followed the flashlight’s beam into the hills. The fog began to lift, revealing several figures standing in a clearing, with Wanqing holding the flashlight.

“Da Zhuang!”

Zhang Qinglin saw that after a brief exchange, someone pushed Da Zhuang forward.

Cheng Che and Old Seven caught up, and Cheng Che exclaimed, “Wanqing? Hey, why is Da Zhuang over there?”

Zhang Qinglin grabbed Cheng Che’s arm. “Get down… I think something’s wrong with Wanqing. Let’s see what they’re up to first…”

“See? They’re together. I’ve long suspected that woman, and she seems to have quite the background…” Old Seven whispered, eyes glued to the group in the clearing.

“If you suspected something, Old Seven, why didn’t you tell us? Now Da Zhuang’s been captured—what do we do?” Cheng Che frowned and snapped at him gruffly.

Zhang Qinglin kept his gaze fixed on Wanqing and the others. “Quiet. Let’s follow them.”

A leader emerged from the group, leading them away from the clearing.

After a heavy rain, the midnight air felt bleak.

Many years ago, in a village east of Siyue County, there lived a family named Wu, whose ancestors had been tomb robbers. Only at the end of the Qing Dynasty and the dawn of the Republic did they change their trade. Being a tomb raider was indeed a perilous profession—not only did one need to disable traps and dangers within the tomb, but one also had to read mountains and geomancy. Most important of all, one needed great courage.

Zhang Qinglin watched as the group crossed through a grove and stopped at its edge. From a distance, he saw a mound rising from the earth, with a sign standing before it.

As they drew near, the flashlight’s glow revealed the inscription: a tombstone bearing the Wu family name.

Wanqing stood aside, watching as the others began to dig up the grave. Da Zhuang, wild with rage, shook his head and roared at them, struggling against the two men who held him.

In moments, they reached the coffin lid, tossed aside their tools, and wrenched it open, rummaging inside. Zhang Qinglin saw them shake their heads—they had not found what they sought. The man beside Wanqing, chin raised, flicked his cigarette to the ground, seized Da Zhuang with a vicious grip, and snarled, “Where did Old Sixth Wu hide the painting?”

The “Old Sixth Wu” he referred to was Da Zhuang’s second uncle, still a tomb raider to this day. Zhang Qinglin had heard from Da Zhuang’s grandmother that the uncle hadn’t been home for months. Now, who knew whom he had crossed—these people were searching for him everywhere.

Suddenly, a scream rang out. Someone standing atop the coffin had fallen inside, causing a panic among the others. The two holding Da Zhuang faltered; Da Zhuang seized the chance to break free and leaped into the coffin after them.

Wanqing’s companion ordered two men to stand guard above, while the rest followed into the tomb.

Cheng Che watched Wanqing descend and straightened, ready to rush forward.

Zhang Qinglin pulled him back. Old Seven gestured: Don’t go straight in, don’t let them notice—let’s circle around.

He pointed at the man on the right—he’d handle him, the rest would be left to the others. With their plan set, the three crept forward in the darkness.

Old Seven found a wooden stick and struck the guard from behind, knocking him out. At the same time, Zhang Qinglin grabbed the man before him, and Cheng Che landed a punch that sent the other sprawling.

Cheng Che bent to pick up the flashlight from the ground, then joined Old Seven behind the Wu family tombstone.

The group had already thrown the coffin lid aside. Cheng Che shone the flashlight in—the bottom of the coffin had been broken open, revealing a deep, black hole.

“I think… maybe we shouldn’t get involved. Let’s just go,” Old Seven said, peering down, then standing up.

“No, Da Zhuang and Wanqing are both down there. We have to save them,” Cheng Che insisted.

Old Seven pointed below. “What’s this got to do with me? If you want to go down, go ahead. This is someone’s ancestral grave—we can’t be like those people, desecrating the dead. I’m grateful you saved me, but here we part ways.” With that, Old Seven turned to leave.

“Old Seven, you’re wrong. The one who saved you wasn’t us, it was Wanqing. We don’t know why she did what she did, but she meant us no harm. If she’s not with those people, she’s in danger now. If something happens to her, will you be able to live with yourself?” Zhang Qinglin said.

“Yeah, Old Seven. Besides, they’re the ones digging up the grave, not us. Come on, let’s pay our respects, then go down,” Cheng Che said, standing up and bowing before the tombstone.

Zhang Qinglin gripped Old Seven’s arm and nodded. The three of them bowed deeply three times before the grave, then jumped into the bottom of the coffin.