Chapter Forty-Two: The Phantom of the Tomb

“How did you know I was a descendant of the Zhang family?” Zhang Qinglin asked as he walked slowly. Dazhuang remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead; those eyes of his were like the dawn, deep and mysterious as the night sky.

At that moment, Li Qingpeng, who was leading, came to a halt. His body tensed in alertness as his hand slid to the pistol at his waist. Not far ahead stood a burial chamber, its door distinct from the stone gates they had encountered before. Though the chamber seemed close at hand, it felt strangely distant. A few paces in front of Li Qingpeng, on either side, loomed two towering bronze beast-men. Their heads faced each other, but as Zhang Qinglin and the others drew nearer, those heads began to turn, ever so slowly.

Everyone fell silent at Li Qingpeng’s actions, bracing themselves for danger. Meanwhile, Boss Ma and his group were drawing near from the depths behind Zhang Qinglin and his companions.

Suddenly, the eyes of the bronze beast-men snapped open with a metallic click. From within their dark sockets glimmered a greenish light, and their bodies shuddered. Both bronze guardians raised their long spears, pointing them straight at Dazhuang, who was slowly advancing. Zhang Qinglin hurried to catch up, but was pulled back by Cheng Che.

Dazhuang gazed up at the stone door set between the two bronze beast-men. Reliefs upon it depicted a kneeling woman in an act of offering, her hands raised as if holding something aloft. Dazhuang seemed transfixed by whatever it was she carried.

“Dazhuang, get away from there!” Zhang Qinglin shouted.

But Dazhuang showed no reaction, continuing forward. The bronze beast-men swung their spears—

With a sharp crack, Li Qingpeng rolled to one side, raised his pistol, and fired at the bronze guardian. The beast-man jerked its head up and strode toward Li Qingpeng with heavy steps.

Baroque Lingda charged forward, landing a punch on the bronze beast-man, but it showed no sign of pain, thrusting its spear in response.

The situation had grown extremely tense. Zhang Qinglin wanted to pull Dazhuang back, but as soon as he moved, the bronze beast-man turned on him, its spear instantly barring his path. Dodging aside, Zhang Qinglin saw Dazhuang already reaching the stone door.

Li Qingpeng fired again at the bronze beast-man in front of Zhang Qinglin, drawing it away. Seizing the chance, Zhang Qinglin rushed to Dazhuang’s side and noticed that, at some point, Dazhuang had acquired a triangular stone. He fitted it into a slot at the center of the stone door.

Nothing happened. Dazhuang’s face remained impassive, as if he had expected this. He moved to the left of the door, drew a rectangular stone from a crevice, then did the same on the right. Standing together before the door, the stone portal slowly opened.

He dashed inside, calling back to Zhang Qinglin, “Hurry up!”

Zhang Qinglin wasted no more time, turning to shout, “Cheng Che, Peng-ge, get in here, now!”

Cheng Che had already darted into the chamber. As Li Qingpeng reached the doorway, Boss Ma and his men arrived, only to catch the attention of the bronze beast-men, who charged at them.

Once Li Qingpeng was inside, Dazhuang, standing by the inner door, flashed a strange, unsettling smile as the stone door began to close.

“What the hell are those things? They’re relentless!” Cheng Che exclaimed, still shaken, stabbing at his own legs for reassurance.

“Bronze guardians,” Li Qingpeng explained as he wiped his pistol, “the tomb’s protectors. They’re controlled by a kind of parasite. Didn’t you notice the green light in their eyes? Any disturbance, and they attack instantly…”

Cheng Che shook his head in disbelief, then glanced into the heart of the chamber. At some point, the oil lamps inside had been lit, and the breathtaking spectacle of the tomb came into view, leaving him speechless.

“This must be the main burial chamber, and that coffin in the center is likely the tomb owner,” Li Qingpeng observed.

They all made for the central stone coffin. Its surface was carved with scenes from the life of the tomb’s master. Dazhuang, however, kept his distance, standing nearby and watching the others intently.

Li Qingpeng and Baroque Lingda heaved the stone lid aside, only to find the coffin empty—no corpse within, just a wooden box. The box was jet-black, painted with strange designs, and as Zhang Qinglin noticed, its lock had already been opened. The surface was spotless, free of the dust of ages.

Li Qingpeng carefully lifted the box and set it on the coffin lid. “Someone’s already opened this. Why would they put it back exactly as it was?”

“Peng-ge, what’s in there? Is it empty too? I say we look around for anything valuable and just take it,” Cheng Che suggested, glancing about.

“Valuables? The best treasures are always the ones you can’t take. Only what’s in here is worth anything,” Li Qingpeng replied with disdain.

“Are you sure there’s actually something inside? The lock’s broken, it’s probably been emptied already—or worse, booby-trapped,” Zhang Qinglin cautioned as he saw Li Qingpeng’s hand lifting the latch.

As the lid was pried open, a puff of dust rose. Inside, neatly folded, was a piece of yellowed, creased silk with a skull drawn on its surface, surrounded by red stains that looked like blood.

At that moment, Dazhuang giggled foolishly as he walked, pointing at the box. “Blood… blood… eats people…” he muttered in a daze.

Everyone peered into the box. The silk within began to writhe at the eyes of the skull, and the blood-red stains started spreading outward. In the blink of an eye, the entire box was awash with crimson, and Li Qingpeng snapped his hand back in alarm.

Zhang Qinglin stared at the box. Suddenly, he sensed someone beside him—a figure with disheveled hair, whose blood-soaked hands landed on Zhang Qinglin’s shoulders. His body went numb, unable to move, as he felt the warm blood trickling down from his shoulder.

He turned his face slightly, glancing around. The others were sprawled on the ground; Dazhuang was nowhere to be seen.

The air in the tomb was damp and heavy with chill, a coldness that seeped into his bones. Zhang Qinglin rolled his eyes, surveying the unchanged surroundings—it wasn’t a dream, nor a hallucination. This was real.

To his left lay Cheng Che, twisted in a bizarre posture with hands clutching his chest, head thrown back so far the back of his skull nearly touched his shoulders. His eyes were tightly shut, unresponsive no matter how much Zhang Qinglin called.

To his right, Li Qingpeng was even more unnerving—half-sitting, half-lying, gun pointed at Zhang Qinglin, head lolling to one side, face frozen in terror as if he’d seen something unspeakable. It seemed he’d collapsed before he could even fire.

Baroque Lingda, nearby, had blood at his nose and mouth, and the ground beneath him was cracked, as if by the weight of his fallen weapons.

The black box still sat atop the coffin lid, but its contents had vanished. Red liquid continued to ooze from it, like fresh blood.

Drip… drip… the blood fell from the coffin lid, trickling across the floor to Zhang Qinglin’s right foot. He snapped back to himself, still feeling those bloody hands gripping his shoulders.

When they’d entered this chamber, it had been empty. So where did this figure come from? A chilling thought crossed his mind—could it really be a corpse reanimated?

He dared not dwell on it. Shifting his gaze to the right, the figure beside him suddenly raised its head—he never saw its face, just a blur of matted hair and tattered, blood-soaked clothing that sprayed blood everywhere. Zhang Qinglin squeezed his eyes shut, lest the blood blind him.

When he opened his eyes again, the oppressive tomb was gone. Before him stood a stone platform supporting a great cauldron with a blazing fire beneath. A wooden pole spanned the top, and on either side of the dais, two rows of people in ceremonial robes stood in perfect formation.

With a whoosh, everyone below the platform fell to their knees, bowls raised, performing triple kowtows and quintuple prostrations in what seemed a solemn ritual.

A moment later, three or five men appeared, bearing daggers and long knives. With blank expressions, they seized Zhang Qinglin, hoisting him onto the dais and laying him on a massive stone table that had appeared in front of the cauldron.

Flat on his back, Zhang Qinglin felt the icy chill of the stone beneath him. The people below knelt, placed their bowls between their knees, and began chanting in unison.

An old man with a long white beard approached, drawing mysterious symbols on Zhang Qinglin’s brow before turning and shouting to the crowd below the dais, “As the Son, you rule over this sacred land. Let this moment be engraved in bone, never to be forgotten. When the heavens fall, the carving begins. Let all bear witness and be cleansed.”

After his proclamation, a man stepped forward with a bowl, propped Zhang Qinglin up, and forced him to drink its contents. Whatever was in that bowl, it made him immediately lose consciousness.

When he awoke, he found himself hanging above the cauldron, and looking down, he was horrified to see that his body was gone below the neck—yet he was still alive, his head still moving.

He heard the sound of knives being sharpened behind him as dusk began to fall. A sudden gust turned his head around, revealing he’d been facing the rear of the platform.

Before the cauldron, the same stone table now bore a naked human body—surely his own, Zhang Qinglin thought in horror.

The blade master, sweating profusely, sharpened his knife to a razor edge for a swift, precise first cut. Once satisfied, he handed the gleaming blade to another man, who approached the stone table, raised the knife, and brought it down—not in a spray of blood, but to slice open the arteries at the wrists, draining the blood into large basins. The same was done to the other wrist.

Once exsanguinated, they chanted again. Zhang Qinglin watched, bewildered. Why were they doing this? He felt no pain, no heartbeat, his breath growing weaker—he felt utterly hollow.

They began to flay the skin, carving the flesh into pieces and tossing it into the boiling cauldron, making Zhang Qinglin dizzy with horror.

When all the flesh had been stripped away, only bones remained—glistening white, streaked with blood. The onlookers showed no reaction, merely watching as the butcher methodically worked over the corpse they had so cruelly destroyed.

But it was not over yet.

They placed the bones in a large vat, then took them out, cutting them into small pieces and carving symbols into each with fine knives.

“In such and such year, by fate’s decree, this is the eight hundred and sixteenth corpse: marking life, marking age, marking sickness, marking death…”

The words sounded familiar to Zhang Qinglin. He suddenly remembered—this was what Li Qingpeng had described when introducing the Devouring Death Record. So this was the Divine Punishment!

He watched as the people raised their bowls, now filled with blood, and began to drink and feast on the flesh.

At that moment, someone approached, standing before the cauldron and smiling with a sinister, terrifying grin. Looking closely, Zhang Qinglin realized with a start—it was Old Seven!

With a jolt, Zhang Qinglin sat up, gasping for breath as he stared blankly ahead.

“Old Zhang, are you all right? You scared me half to death just now!” Cheng Che asked anxiously, holding a canteen.

Zhang Qinglin looked around; they were in another burial chamber, the air still thick with a strange odor. Across from him, Li Qingpeng and Baroque Lingda were resting, while Dazhuang squatted nearby, doodling on the ground. Hearing Zhang Qinglin awake, Dazhuang immediately sprang up and hurried over.

Standing before Zhang Qinglin, he asked, “Are you okay? You still don’t look so good…”

Cheng Che stood and snapped, “It’s all your fault, Dazhuang—or should I call you Wu Cheng’an? If you hadn’t kept so much from us, none of this would’ve happened.”

Wu Cheng’an ignored Cheng Che and crouched down beside Zhang Qinglin. Everything that had happened was too sudden, even for him. If he had warned them in advance, perhaps none of this would have occurred, and so many lives might not have been lost.