Chapter 120: The Road Back

The people had left, but the machine remained. It was an excavator; back then, the Lanxiang school hadn't yet become famous, and I had no idea which excavator training program was truly the best. I knew how to drive, though the labels on this particular machine were all in foreign languages—it was an import. Fortunately, I wasn't too slow-witted, and after tinkering with it for a while, I managed to get it moving. My technique wasn't much to speak of, but it was certainly better than manual labor. After a few scoops, the shape of the stone-carved "A-Ren" (Demon Man) began to emerge clearly.

It looked somewhat like the Bull Demon King from *Journey to the West*—a ring through its broad nostrils, a blue face with fangs, yet its eyes were tiny. It resembled a cross between a bull and a wild boar. In the minds of the ancients, this was what a devil looked like. The stone structure covered nearly twenty square meters. At first glance, it appeared to be a single piece, but upon closer inspection, one could see numerous white lines—evidence of where it had been cut and later bonded together. Seeing this, Cha Wenbin felt a bit more at ease; at least it wasn't as mystical as he had feared.

The head of the A-Ren was oriented along the east-west axis. When I set a compass on it, it aligned perfectly with the cardinal north-south directions. In the study of geomancy, such an orientation is rarely seen for either yin dwellings (graves) or yang dwellings (homes). Usually, only temples, Taoist shrines, or imperial palaces utilize this north-south alignment, as this orientation is "characterless" within the Eight Trigrams of Feng Shui—in layman's terms, it has no door god.

Temples and shrines are dedicated to deities and naturally require no one to guard the gate. Imperial palaces are the residences of the Son of Heaven, where the dragon's aura reigns supreme and supersedes the need for such protections. However, if one sees a residence built with this orientation, the owner is either oblivious or a master of the craft, someone whose fate is as formidable as a dragon's, capable of bearing such an intense alignment. If a grave is built this way, it implies that the descendants will not be blessed—they will not prosper. Unless a grave is situated in a chaotic burial ground by pure coincidence, the fact that the Jiang ancestors were so meticulous suggests this was no oversight; it was clearly intentional.

Looking at the statue, Cha Wenbin judged that the entrance to the tomb lay within the open mouth of the demon figure. "East-west orientation, entering through the demon's maw," he remarked. "This man really dedicated himself to the demon A-Ren. Doesn't he fear that by doing this, he won't be able to reincarnate?"

"Don't worry about gods or ghosts," I said. "I'm about to smash it open. With the sun high and the world bright, even if there's a trap inside, it won't be able to pull any fancy tricks. In my opinion, we should do it now. What do you think?"

"We can only do it during the day; I'm not confident about the night. But we should check with Zhu Zihao first. After all, this is his ancestor."

Zhu Zihao, that unfilial grandson, waved his hands dismissively. "I'm from Hong Kong; I have nothing to do with this place. Do whatever you want, don't worry about me."

Cha Wenbin directed me, "The grave robber's hole was positioned quite accurately; they entered through the mouth. Xiao Yi, can you widen the opening?"

"No problem." I shifted gears, and the excavator’s iron claw descended with a loud thud. With a crunch, the stones shattered. I used the bucket to clear the debris, and the entrance was completely exposed.

I jumped down from the excavator. To my surprise, a flight of stone steps was revealed, leading deep underground, swallowed by darkness.

The passage was paved with large, rectangular stone slabs, about half a meter wide. I leaned in and sniffed; there was a musty odor mixed with the sharp scent of gunpowder. It seemed that group had used explosives to blast the entrance. There were footprints at the opening—the classic "liberation shoes" that many wore back then. The tread pattern was easy to recognize, but the prints only led inward, not out. Cha Wenbin and I exchanged a glance; we both understood what it meant. Whoever went in likely never came out alive.

"Going in, or...?" I asked.

"No," Cha Wenbin replied. "It's better if you find a way to smash open the crown of the tomb directly. We are moving this grave in broad daylight; there is no need to take unnecessary risks by creeping in. Smash the crown, let the light in, and minimize the danger as much as possible."

I started the excavator. The roar of the machine clashed once more with the solid granite. The ancient defense system met the unreasonable power of modern equipment; the gap between eras was on full display. The steel claws struck the carved demon head mercilessly. With every crack, old scars shattered. I don't know if the ancestors were truly manifesting, but I remember that the clear sky suddenly grew heavy with dark clouds. Lightning flashed like a thousand arrows fired at once, and the sky overhead turned pitch black, the rolling thunder sounding as if it were pressing down upon us.

The weather had turned in an instant, and a sense of foreboding filled our hearts. Through the cabin glass, I could see the tomb's crown had been smashed to pieces. I didn't hesitate and kept at it with the iron claw. With a thunderous boom—a bolt of lightning struck Dragon Head Mountain to the west, setting the summit ablaze—I finally breached the tomb's crown.

Cha Wenbin said, his voice laced with concern, "When the heavens show such omens, chaos is sure to follow."

I jumped out of the machine and said, "It won't get that chaotic. The coffin is exposed. We just need to go down, tie a rope around it, and I'll pull it right up."

Looking down through the hole in the crown, about five meters deep, half of a large, pitch-black coffin lid was visible amidst the scattered rubble. I could see little else. If I went down, fastened a rope to the excavator, and reversed, I could haul the coffin out in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette.

Cha Wenbin thought for a moment and said, "Give me the rope. I'll go down. You be quick."

He grabbed the rope and jumped into the collapsed pit. He moved back and forth for a moment, and before he could even loop the rope, he shouted from below, "Pull me up!"

"What's wrong?" I asked when he emerged.

He was panting and said, "Get the diesel from the machine, dump it down there, and set it on fire."

"What for?" I wondered. If we were going to burn it after all this effort, wouldn't it be a waste?

"The corpse is about to rise. A rock smashed through the coffin lid. I could hear movement inside when I went down. Look at the sky—this is what they call a 'Black Dragon Pressing the Crown.' It is always a sign that an evil entity is about to emerge. If we don't act now, it will be too late!"

I unscrewed the cap, inserted a rubber tube into the fuel tank, and took a sharp suck. The taste of diesel made me gag, but the fuel began to pour into the pit. After I had drained about half the tank, the lightning above grew even more intense. I jumped into the machine and backed it away. "That's enough! Let's get out of here!"

I tossed a lit match toward the tomb. There was a roar, followed by flames shooting into the sky. At that moment, the heavens, as if holding back for too long, finally unleashed a torrential downpour. The raindrops were as heavy as weights. We ran toward our vehicle as fast as we could. Watching the flames leap high into the air, I thought to myself: it’s all destroyed now.

"Going back?" I asked Cha Wenbin, who was staring out the window, his face filled with an indescribable sense of loss.

"Yes," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we go home."

"Home?" I paused. "Which home?"

"Hong Village."

"We're giving up?" I asked.

"Giving up."

Rain drummed against the glass, and the wipers were working at full capacity. I still couldn't see the road ahead, but since we were in the Gobi Desert, it didn't really matter where I drove. What is true off-roading? Many people never experience it in their lives. You have to go to the Gobi—across the endless sands, amidst the howling wind and rain—that is what it means to be wild!

Back in the village, we had dinner. Zhu Zihao and I played cards to kill the boredom. Cha Wenbin sat on the edge of the bed, carefully wiping his general’s sword. I knew him; he was the type who wouldn't stop until his goal was achieved. How could he just walk away?

"If it's gone, it's gone. What does it matter if we find it? If it wants to be found, it will come looking for us, won't it?" His words sounded self-deprecating, as if he had suddenly come to a realization. He then hugged the sword and fell asleep.

It was a restless night. It rarely rained this hard here. The roof tiles sounded as if they were being bombarded by gravel—*ping-pang, ping-pang*—non-stop. I got up, wanting a smoke, but found I was out. I had to scavenge some cigarette butts from the ashtray, extract the tobacco, and roll it in paper. It was a trick the Fat One and I used to use when we first arrived in Shenzhen; times were really tough back then.

This method of smoking was hard to master and easy to choke on. After two puffs, I gave up, tossed it into the ashtray, and muttered, "Brother, if you're still out there, the rest is for you." The half-rolled cigarette was still smoldering. I crawled back under the covers, wondering if the weather would even allow us to leave tomorrow.

Zhu Zihao was snoring again. The guy not only had authentic Hong Kong feet but also a genuine, porcine snore that could shake the ceiling down. Between his snoring and the rain against the window, it sounded like a frantic drum performance. I couldn't sleep. I got up, intending to grab a slipper and throw it at Zhu Zihao, but just as I stood up, I saw the cigarette butt I had thrown into the ashtray suddenly "glow."