Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Ancestral Land of the Wu Family

In the pitch-black night, a group of unidentified people slipped into the ancestral tomb of the Wu family. Who were they? What were they searching for? What secret lay hidden beneath the Wu family’s tomb?

Zhang Qinglin stood up and shook the soil from his head. He lifted his flashlight and shone it ahead. Before them stretched a long, arched tunnel, constructed from red bricks and tiles. These bricks were unlike ordinary ones—rarer, somehow. Just as Zhang Qinglin was about to step closer for a better look, Cheng Che, who was in the lead, called out, “Come here, quickly! Listen—there’s something ahead…”

The three of them hurried to the end of the tunnel, where heavy stone doors stood closed on either side. Cheng Che and Old Seven pressed against the doors, feeling for any hidden mechanism. Zhang Qinglin examined the stone walls, but when the three exchanged glances, they could only shake their heads—nothing had been found.

Suddenly, a piercing sound rang out from behind the stone doors. The ground trembled twice, and both doors began to rise, slowly and ominously.

“What’s going on? Was one of this family’s ancestors some kind of engineer?” Old Seven grumbled, scratching his head and eyeing the twin passageways now revealed.

“What are you two standing there for? Let’s go!” Cheng Che had already stepped into the right-hand corridor and called back to them.

Zhang Qinglin followed behind Old Seven, quickly entering the right corridor. They encountered no traps or mechanisms along the way. But just a few steps ahead, a dark shadow flashed past. Zhang Qinglin raised his flashlight—two or three people lay sprawled ahead. Cheng Che was the first to rush over, with Zhang Qinglin and Old Seven close behind.

Zhang Qinglin peered at the figures on the ground. He couldn’t be sure if these were the ones who’d stood beside Wanqing earlier—these faces were unfamiliar. Old Seven leaned in and gave them a cursory examination; their injuries weren’t serious, just unconscious. Zhang Qinglin swept his light around and realized Cheng Che was no longer by his side; somehow, he’d already reached the bend up ahead.

“Old Zhang, it’s Wanqing’s things—over here, quickly…” Cheng Che’s voice was tense as he clutched a backpack. He called out to them and disappeared into a black opening.

Zhang Qinglin glanced around uneasily. Something was wrong—this wasn’t an ordinary ancestral tomb. Who would build a tomb like this, resembling a labyrinthine crypt? What kind of place was this, really?

Before Zhang Qinglin could ponder further, Old Seven called out to him, and together they dashed toward the spot where Cheng Che had vanished.

The path ahead grew harder and harder to traverse. Zhang Qinglin and Old Seven kept to the rear, following Cheng Che’s lead, until eventually even his shadow disappeared from sight.

Old Seven wiped his brow. “How’s he so fast? Old Zhang, what’s wrong with your friend? He doesn’t even wait for us.”

“Cheng Che! Cheng Che!” Zhang Qinglin called, but there was no reply from ahead. He came to a stop.

He knew Cheng Che would never ignore his calls—especially not in a pitch-dark tunnel like this, not alone. Cheng Che was afraid of ghosts.

“Old Seven, something’s wrong. That might not be Cheng Che up ahead.” Zhang Qinglin suddenly spun around.

The flashlight beam swept across Old Seven’s face, casting it in a sickly greenish hue, making his features appear even more unnatural in the weak light. His eyes glared with a ferocity that sent chills down Zhang Qinglin’s spine.

For a moment, he froze in terror. When he looked again, Old Seven was standing with his back to him, flashlight still at his waist, his body swaying strangely.

“If that’s not Cheng Che, who could it be? Old Seven… Old Seven… Let’s catch up…” Zhang Qinglin’s words trailed off.

Old Seven slowly turned around and raised his head. In that instant, Zhang Qinglin recoiled, retreating a few paces in shock.

Old Seven’s appearance was terrifying—his cheeks were sallow and wrinkled like ancient leather, his hollow eyes staring straight ahead. Suddenly, the flashlight slipped from his waist and clattered to the ground. In that instant, he raised his withered, skeletal hands and reached out toward Zhang Qinglin, the dry fingers landing on his shoulders.

Panic-stricken, Zhang Qinglin wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t obey. With a thud, he was forced down to the ground, pinned and unable to move.

That ghastly face drew closer, scrutinizing him up and down. Then, with a sudden twist, Old Seven lifted him by his desiccated hands and began to drag him away.

Zhang Qinglin’s body felt numb and aching, leaving him powerless to resist. Only his eyes moved, watching the stone steps above his head pass by, row after row.

He had no idea how much time had passed. Once again, darkness closed in, and all sensation faded. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing.

“Hey, Old Zhang, wake up! Wake up!” The harsh shout echoed in his ears, followed by a confused cacophony of voices. Only when the words repeated did he recognize Cheng Che’s voice.

Zhang Qinglin’s eyelids were tinged red by the glow of fire. Someone was roughly pulling him up by the arm. Slowly, he managed to raise his heavy eyelids. In front of him, a great fire blazed, and three or four people, their faces already unrecognizable, writhed amid the flames, screaming for help, wailing in agony.

“Run!” Cheng Che shouted, dragging Zhang Qinglin with him.

Coming to his senses, Zhang Qinglin glanced at the burning bodies rolling on the ground—now little more than human fireballs. With a sense of resignation, he followed Cheng Che toward a nearby opening. As they escaped, he glimpsed Wanqing and the bald man hurrying toward the same exit.

Why was there such a fire?

Zhang Qinglin knew all too well that those bizarre experiences were the result of his own illness—an affliction he’d had since childhood. To others, it appeared as a high fever or a coma, but for him, it meant being plunged into danger and terror, experiencing things no one else could imagine.

The two proceeded along the underground tunnel until the acrid smell of smoke faded away and they finally stopped to catch their breath.

Cheng Che explained that after entering the tomb, he’d noticed Zhang Qinglin’s odd behavior—unsteady on his feet, acting strangely. Cheng Che told him that Zhang had passed out as soon as they entered the pitch-black tunnel.

Later, he and Old Seven had seen several people trailing Da Zhuang, so they sent Old Seven to follow them. When Old Seven failed to return after a long while, they grew worried and turned into a side passage, supporting Zhang Qinglin. There, someone crashed into them, knocking both men to the ground before fleeing in panic.

Old Seven immediately shouted, “Da Zhuang, stop!”

When Cheng Che got up and saw Old Seven, he realized it was Da Zhuang who had bumped into him. Old Seven didn’t say much—just warned him to be careful, then chased after Da Zhuang. He also told Cheng Che to leave at once and wait for him at their previous meeting place.

As soon as Old Seven left, several people caught up from behind and seized both Cheng Che and Zhang Qinglin, dragging them into the tunnel.

Cheng Che didn’t know where the fire had come from. Everything that happened afterward unfolded just as Zhang Qinglin remembered.