Chapter Twenty-Nine: Entering the Cellar

Zhang Qinglin stared at Cheng Che in utter astonishment. After listening to the recounting of what had happened, his emotions grew even more tangled. Now, Old Seven and Da Zhuang were missing without a trace, and the two of them were trapped together in this endless underground tunnel.

Should they press onward, or try to retrace their steps? At first, they took a few steps back, but the thick smoke made them turn around and head the other way.

They had already crawled along this tunnel for over ten minutes, yet the end remained out of sight. Cheng Che muttered as he moved, “Damn it, which bastard dug this tunnel? I’m about to collapse. Hey… Old Zhang, wait up for me…”

“Cheng Che, look—there’s light ahead! Come on…” Zhang Qinglin said, his gaze fixed on a glimmer in the distance.

The two of them sped up, making directly for the light.

After another ten minutes or so, the tunnel narrowed the further they went. When they finally reached the source, what met their eyes was an iron window about half a meter wide, with bright light shining from inside.

Peering through the narrow slats, Zhang Qinglin saw an enormous space beyond. On both sides hung rows of ever-burning lamps, and below, a dozen or so massive cylindrical barrels were stacked together.

He tugged and shoved at the thick, heavy window. “It looks like a storeroom in there. We have to get this open. Come on, Cheng Che…”

The iron window was firmly embedded in the rock, completely unmoved no matter how Zhang Qinglin strained. Cheng Che came over, scrutinizing the edges of the window. There were latch locks all around; it would take activating some sort of mechanism to open it. Whoever designed this had gone to great lengths. The tunnel wall around them was utterly bare—clearly, the switch must be on the inside.

Cheng Che shook his head. “This won’t be easy…” Pressing his face against the cold iron bars, he reached into a gap on the left. After a moment, he said, “Old Zhang, over here—there’s a button. Try pressing it…”

“Where’s the button? Why don’t you just press it?”

“If I could, why would I call you? Come on, man, with your skinny arms and frail frame, you’re perfect for this. Hurry up…” Cheng Che said, retreating to give him space.

Zhang Qinglin shot him a glare, then squeezed over and slid nearly his entire arm inside, groping around until, with a sharp snap, the sound of chains unlocking echoed from within the tunnel wall.

The iron bars of the window slid into the stone. Cautiously, Zhang Qinglin poked his head through.

The window was set high above the ground, but fortunately, several large barrels were stacked below. The two of them climbed down carefully.

“What a dump. Let’s find the exit fast,” Cheng Che said, dusting off his clothes and glancing around.

Zhang Qinglin surveyed the surroundings. Besides the long barrels, there were piles of coarse pottery jars on the ground and a dozen or so large sealed vats in the corner—who knew what they were for.

The temperature in the chamber was low. After a while, Zhang Qinglin felt a chill seep through him. Frowning at the old wooden barrels, he muttered, “This place looks like a cellar, Cheng Che. Look at all these vats and jars…”

A pungent, musty aroma of aged liquor filled the air. Zhang Qinglin leaned over the rim of the lowest barrel, peering inside, and was immediately assaulted by the stench of rot and sharp fumes. His head spun and his eyes watered. “God—what a stink!”

“Old Zhang, come here—these are Xinyue’s things,” Cheng Che called out with a strained voice, clutching a pink jacket and a backpack.

Zhang Qinglin rushed over. Sure enough, it was Yueyue’s clothes and bag. He glanced at the corner.

A solitary iron bed sat there, a thick rope thrown atop it, with water and food beside it.

The two men froze. All of Jiang Xinyue’s belongings were here, but she herself was gone. Had something happened to her? Zhang Qinglin’s gaze darted to the cave wall; he was about to dash over when—

Suddenly, a muffled boom sounded overhead. The whole chamber trembled.

It was over in a moment, but the air was thick with the reek of liquor. Looking around, they saw the large vats had shattered, their contents flooding the floor. No wonder the scent was so strong—this was a sealed underground wine cellar.

Zhang Qinglin noticed something behind the vats. He exchanged a glance with Cheng Che and they hurried over, moving the shattered remains aside to reveal a bundle wrapped in coarse cloth.

Unwrapping it, they found a sandalwood box, ornately carved, with a peculiar lock hanging from it.

“Hey, Old Zhang, what a fine box—must be something valuable inside, to be locked up like this. Let me smash it open…” Cheng Che said, eyeing the box and picking up a shard of pottery.

“Cheng Che, don’t mess with it. The pattern on here looks familiar. Hold onto it, but don’t touch anything yet…”

“What do you mean, Old Zhang? I’ve never seen that pattern.” Cheng Che carried the box after Zhang Qinglin, who had moved to the bed.

“Remember that leather notebook we found while chasing Da Zhuang? It described this very box. I’m sure of it—this was dug up beneath Peikun Mountain…” Zhang Qinglin rummaged through his pack, pulling out the notebook and flipping to the page he remembered.

“There must be something good in the box—this trip wasn’t for nothing!”

Zhang Qinglin put down the notebook and stared at Cheng Che. “No, something’s wrong…”

“Wait, Cheng Che… The notebook described a bronze box, not a sandalwood one.” Zhang Qinglin looked again at what Cheng Che was holding.

Cheng Che stared in surprise for a moment, then said, “Old Zhang, who cares? Let’s just find the exit first.”

Cheng Che looked back at Zhang Qinglin, who was still flipping through the notebook, then muttered, “What a mess…”

He stopped short, feeling a tickle on the back of his hand. Glancing down, he saw a large, tailed scorpion perched there, its stinger poised to strike. Cheng Che yelped, flinging the box away.

“All that over a scorpion? Honestly…” Zhang Qinglin put away the notebook and shook his head at the frightened Cheng Che, glancing at the scorpion that had landed on the ground. His brow furrowed.

This was no ordinary scorpion—it was a Baletan deathstalker, its carapace striped red and black, pincers huge, tail swollen with writhing yellow-green venom.

Zhang Qinglin looked toward the box—now lying open on the ground, its contents exposed. Ignoring the swarm of scorpions suddenly pouring in, he dashed over, grabbed what was inside, and stood there stunned.

“Old Zhang, get back here if you want to live! These things are terrifying—where did they come from?” Cheng Che was about to follow when he saw a mass of deathstalkers crawling toward the box. His knees buckled, and he scrambled onto the iron bed.

Zhang Qinglin lowered his head, clutching two half-broken pipe stems in his hand, his emotions a tangle of excitement and sorrow. Hearing Cheng Che’s shout, he wiped the tears from his face and vaulted onto the bed.

They watched in horror as the scorpions gathered into a writhing mound.

How could so many scorpions appear in a place like this? Had someone raised them on purpose—for wine?

But Baletan deathstalkers were deadly poisonous; using them for wine was suicide…

The scorpions were now feasting on the spilled liquor, swarming toward the box. Perhaps there was something in the wine, or something inside the box they craved. In moments, the floor was a shifting, seething mass.

Countless Baletan deathstalkers, tails arched, began converging on the iron bed…

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