Chapter Thirty-Six: Descending to the River for the Nation

In this world, there are many who pretend to see spirits and ghosts, but how many have truly witnessed one? No one knows. In truth, “ghosts” are nothing more than shadows cast by the human heart; without cause, there would be no effect. Anything that must inevitably happen is bound to be shaped by some intricate connection.

Wanqing stood frozen beside Zhang Qinglin, her face pale with terror. She had seen much in her life, but never had she encountered a scene like this—a person who had been dead for over a year, now standing alive before her eyes.

She glanced at Zhang Qinglin and said, “This is too unbelievable…”

Zhang Qinglin darted a look at her but said nothing. He stepped forward toward the old woman.

Suddenly, Dazhuang fell to his knees before the old woman with a thud, burying his head in his arms as he wept bitterly.

“My child, don’t be like this. I know you’ve suffered so much all these years. Get up now,” the old woman said, her body stooped, her head bowed. Her withered, wrinkled hands reached out to touch Dazhuang’s cheek.

Dazhuang raised his head, stood, and leaned against her shoulder. “Grandma, I won’t let you leave me again.”

The old woman saw Zhang Qinglin approaching and her eyes showed a strange calm. She nodded to him and said, “Young man… you’ve finally come back safe.”

Zhang Qinglin’s face flickered with surprise. Did she know they would return?

He quickly stepped forward. “Grandma? You—”

Before he could finish, the old woman straightened her back and said, “Yes, I heard everything you said in the house. Come with me.”

She gently took Dazhuang’s hand, turned, and led them all toward the patch of wild greens.

Zhang Qinglin followed close behind; Wanqing hesitated, but seeing Cheng Che and the others go, she joined them as well.

Passing through the field, they came to a wall overgrown with ivy. The old woman pushed open a door and stepped inside. Zhang Qinglin followed her through the darkened opening where not even moonlight penetrated, so black he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

Yet the old woman moved as if she could see perfectly in the dark, her steps light and steady. Zhang Qinglin dared not lag behind.

After a few steps, he realized this was not the neighboring house; both walls he touched were made of stone.

With a creak, the old woman opened another door.

Inside was a small stone chamber, brightly lit by a bulb that made the space seem open and clear. As he entered, Zhang Qinglin glanced up and behind, seeing it was a cramped space built between two houses’ walls. But why was it enclosed and not open to the sky?

In front of them, seated cross-legged, was a stone Buddha over a meter high, eyes half-closed, its compassionate face lifelike.

The old woman halted before the Buddha and bowed deeply, then slowly moved to its right side and pulled out a rectangular wooden box.

“Here, young man, this is what you’re looking for!” she said, her hands trembling as she handed the box to Zhang Qinglin.

He dusted off the box and was about to open it when the old woman stopped him. She looked up at Zhang Qinglin and told him firmly to only open the box after they had left this place.

Then, turning to Dazhuang, she pulled a string of vermilion prayer beads from her pocket and pressed them into his hand, telling him to keep them safe. Stroking his head with reluctant affection, she pleaded with Zhang Qinglin to take care of Dazhuang for her.

Wanqing, who had followed them in, felt an eerie chill in the air. Something felt off. She stood at the doorway, watching the old woman before the Buddha.

“Go! Quickly, go!” the old woman suddenly shouted.

Before anyone could react, flames burst up behind the statue, encircling it in an instant.

Zhang Qinglin grabbed Dazhuang’s arm; the old woman remained standing before the flames.

“Grandma… Grandma…” Dazhuang cried, reaching desperately for her, but the fire surged between them.

“Dazhuang, Grandma can’t stay with you any longer. You must live well…” Her voice faded into the roar of the fire.

The sudden inferno sent chills through everyone. Cheng Che instinctively grabbed Jiang Xinyue and dashed for the exit.

Following the way they came, they threw open the door and rushed out, but the fire had already leapt to the neighboring house.

Zhang Qinglin and Cheng Che hurried to douse the flames. They struggled through the night, and though the fire was finally subdued, nearly everything in the yard and house was reduced to ashes.

Zhang Qinglin collapsed to the ground, looking around at the blackened ruin as the dawn’s red light spilled in.

Jiang Xinyue clutched the wooden box, her face smeared with soot. Dazhuang sat on the ground, knees drawn to his chest, rocking and staring blankly ahead, lost in the suddenness of it all.

Cheng Che approached, his face grim, something half-burned in his hand. He pulled Zhang Qinglin aside, unfolded a charred piece of paper, and whispered, “Old Zhang, look at this. Isn’t it your uncle Jiang’s writing?”

Zhang Qinglin scanned the brief lines. The words “Sixth Company” caught his eye. Had Uncle Jiang returned to his hometown?

Just then, Wanqing entered and said, “Everything is arranged. Someone will come to handle the scene. For now, we’ll stay near the county. Let’s get in the car and talk on the way…”

After the fire, Wanqing had phoned Zhao Ruilong, who arranged temporary lodging for them to rest and recover.

They rode in silence toward the village on the south side of the county. Zhang Qinglin sat gripping the wooden box the old woman had given him.

At the compound Zhao Ruilong had prepared, they settled Dazhuang in to rest. He was still dazed, clutching the large picture frame salvaged from the flames.

Zhang Qinglin sat at the table and opened the box, discovering a scroll wrapped in golden silk.

Cheng Che stepped forward, and together they carefully unrolled it.

Wanqing entered, saw the scroll, and exclaimed, “The River Under Heaven Map!”

“The… River Under Heaven Map…” Cheng Che stared in astonishment.

On the scroll, green mountains and rivers were shrouded in mist, as if a scene from a celestial realm.

Wanqing approached, had Zhang Qinglin lay the scroll on the table, and poured a glass of pure water from top to bottom along the silk.

Moments later, the landscape’s ink began to fade, and a mountain map gradually emerged.

“It’s definitely the River Under Heaven,” Wanqing confirmed, looking up at the others.

Zhang Qinglin studied the scroll and said, “Judging by what we found earlier, the position here matches the western part of Fengcheng’s mountains on the Eight Steeds Map. This must be the eastern part. If the two maps form a whole, it’s just a complete mountain map, without any sign of the burial layout for the Emperor Gaozong’s tomb you mentioned.”

“If it’s just an ordinary map, why would so many people want it?” Wanqing replied. “It’s not merely a map. Look, the artist used masterful techniques—where the mountain ranges connect, he accentuated the lines to create different effects. Cheng Che, help me…”

She motioned for Cheng Che to lift the scroll and stretch it out.

Then she had Zhang Qinglin step back. “Now, look again. Isn’t it different from before?”

Standing a meter away, Zhang Qinglin peered at the River Under Heaven scroll. Sure enough, the lines seemed to shift—where the thick lines met, shapes appeared, forming a three-dimensional pattern that subtly rose from the paper.