Chapter Fifty-Three: The Nether Dragon

In the early autumn, the forests of the Northeast are exceptionally beautiful. It was also at this time two years ago that the four of us, each burdened with our own complicated feelings, were sent here. Back then, my only goal was to leave as soon as possible. Two years later, I no longer had the heart to appreciate the beauty of these woods; this time, our purpose here was simply to survive.

A little over ten days ago, the wife of the village carpenter, Tan, gave birth to a stillborn child and buried it behind the mountain. We couldn’t speak of this matter—such things are taken seriously in the countryside, and if pressed, who could offer any explanation? We hadn't even told Yuan Xiaobai herself, worried she wouldn’t be able to accept it.

Fatty lay on the bed, chewing a stalk of rice and said, “Boss Cha, do you think it’s really like they say? If so, wouldn’t Xiaobai have harmed that infant?”

Cha Wenbin was dismissive. “You can’t call it harm. It’s all fate: one life wasn’t meant to end, another was destined to bloom briefly and wither away. It’s about whose fate is stronger. Otherwise, why would all this happen just as we arrived? What you can’t escape is inevitable, and what is meant to come, no one can stop.”

“Then what did your father mean by what he said on his deathbed?” Fatty persisted.

Cha Wenbin shook his head. “I don’t know. Logically, her three souls and seven spirits should be whole, but my master insisted something was missing. I don’t think he’d make up such things.”

Suddenly, I remembered something. “Right, years ago, we took a painting from here. The woman in the painting looks a lot like her.”

Cha Wenbin sat up with a start. “Where’s that painting?”

“It’s at my old home, hidden at the bottom of my mom’s trunk.”

He said, “Now that you mention it, I do recall something. Tomorrow, we should go to West Mountain. We’ll start where it all began. There’s no such thing as coincidence—if that painting exists, it must mean she’s connected to this place somehow.”

Fatty interjected, “How? She’s not from here, you can hear her southern accent from a mile away.”

“That’s now, but it doesn’t mean she wasn’t before,” Cha Wenbin replied after a pause. “Maybe in a previous life, or even earlier.”

I reminded everyone, “It’s late. We should get some sleep. Instead of theorizing, we ought to focus on what to do about that child tomorrow. If anyone finds out it was us, we can forget about making it out alive.”

Two in the morning—that was the time we agreed to act. Country folk get up early, usually by half past four to cook and out in the fields by five, so we had two hours, enough for what we needed to do.

The western slope had once been used by the educated youth to plant corn. Wild boars often made a mess there at night; Fatty and I had watched over the shed at night. There used to be old graves there, some cleared during land reform, but many remained hidden in the woods. In summer, you’d often see phosphorescent lights darting about. In truth, only the village head dared send us outsiders to stay there; the locals avoided it at night. Who would be willing to sleep by a graveyard at midnight?

The shed still stood, though no one had stayed there for years, its roof leaking and the air inside thick with mildew. Scattered around were remnants of burnt paper money, evidence of a funeral procession passing by not long before.

In funeral customs, there is one rule observed everywhere, north and south: the old should not send off the young. For infants, the matter is even more taboo. Before the 1970s, high infant mortality meant babies were often buried on the spot, so Cha Wenbin judged that the paper money was definitely not for the stillborn child.

“I forgot to ask Grandpa Miao if anyone else in the village has died recently,” he said.

Fatty added, “A child’s grave can’t be the same as an adult’s, right? If we dig up the wrong one, that would be ridiculous.”

“We won’t,” Cha Wenbin said, then after a moment, added, “At least, we shouldn’t.”

Grandpa Miao had said the child was buried behind the shed, by the old poplar tree. He’d seen a few men from the village bury the child himself, using a black chest that had been part of the mother’s dowry. The old poplar was easy to recognize—a few years ago, lightning had struck it, charring half but leaving the other half alive. One side bore leaves, the other was just dead branches. Both Fatty and I had seen it before.

“These people are really irresponsible,” Cha Wenbin muttered as we walked. “That tree, half dead and half alive, is called a Yin-Yang Tree. In the past, some people would pay handsomely for it. For some, it’s a treasure; for others, it’s a curse.”

Fatty’s eyes lit up. “Really? Is it worth anything?”

“It has to be half-dead for a full sixty years to be worth anything. My master said that in his day, a Yin-Yang Tree big enough to make a coffin could be traded for a whole street in the capital. The tree had to be large, the coffin made from a single piece, not joined. Second, the tree had to be old enough—less than sixty years, it was worthless. Third, the type mattered: snow cypress was the most expensive, camphor next, and this kind of poplar could only be used for a prince at best. Coffins made from these trees, straddling the boundary between yin and yang, belonging neither to the living nor the dead, allowed the one resting inside to remain a ghost forever, never needing to reincarnate.”

I couldn’t understand. “Why would anyone want that? Is it better to be a ghost than a person?”

Cha Wenbin replied, “Because some people can’t let go of what they had in life. But burying a child here is a problem. The child’s spirit is too weak, just recently formed, and by burying it at the tree’s roots, it may get entangled in the tree’s aura, unable to disperse or escape. If that happens, it’ll latch onto Xiaobai, and in time, the child will absorb the Yin-Yang Tree’s energy and become a great calamity.”

“We’re here, that’s the tree,” Fatty said, pointing, then suddenly shouted, “Oh my god, look, there’s someone hanging from the tree!”

My heart skipped a beat. “There really is someone…”

“Don’t panic…” Cha Wenbin shone his headlamp up and said, “Looks like it’s just clothes. Take a closer look.”

On closer inspection, it really was just an empty garment hanging there, with no feet, swaying in the night.

“Damn it, which heartless soul did this? This is just plain malicious!” Fatty, growing angry, kicked the trunk hard, making the tree shudder. The garment swayed and then drifted down to the ground.

It was indeed clothing—a burial robe! Made of purple-black satin, lined with fine silk, embroidered with the golden character for longevity, and on the back, a strange creature, half dragon, half serpent, entangled in itself.

Cha Wenbin looked at it and felt a chill run down his spine. Ma Sufeng had once warned him: if you ever see someone wearing a robe embroidered with the Underworld Dragon, walk away immediately. Never admit to being a Taoist disciple, and certainly don’t say you know him.

The “Underworld Dragon” pattern was extremely rare—across all of China, fewer than ten people could identify its true nature. First, there were scant records of it; second, it was a taboo subject. The upright never spoke of it, let alone passed it down, for it was the only dragon believed to originate from the underworld.

Dragons appear not just in Chinese culture, but in ancient Greece, Babylon, and Egypt, often depicted as legless lizards with extraordinary powers. In China, dragon totems are everywhere, but the Underworld Dragon is almost never seen.

The Underworld Dragon is blind.

There’s a saying: to bring a dragon to life, you must dot its eyes. But the Underworld Dragon is the exception.

It is said that among the eighteen levels of hell in the netherworld, one is called the Scorching Abyss. This layer is not under the jurisdiction of the three Yama kings, for it has accumulated so much resentment and malice that even the lords of hell dare not enter. Within the Scorching Abyss lies a boundless lake, and in it dwells a ferocious beast called the Taowu—one of the four great fiends of ancient times. The Taowu is the very embodiment of violence and stubbornness, so fierce that even the gods could not subdue it and so imprisoned it there.

The deeper the sin, the lower the level of hell to which a soul is consigned. Resentment and malice are heavy and sink, so over time, the Scorching Abyss, as the lowest level, has accumulated endless negativity.

Auspicious energy creates dragons—why not resentment as well? They are opposite forces, and when each reaches its extreme, each gives rise to its own marvel.

The Underworld Dragon is born from the extremity of resentment, formed from the malice of the Scorching Abyss and the boundless waters of the lake. It is the most fierce and greedy creature in all three realms.

All spells and formations are but ways to borrow power by invoking symbols and incantations. Naturally, some sought the power of this dragon. Any place marked with the Underworld Dragon is never righteous and always the haunt of the most sinister practitioners. Ma Sufeng had repeatedly warned Cha Wenbin to memorize this pattern, though he never knew to whom it truly belonged.

Happy National Day! I’ve been resting my neck, so updates have been slow, but I’m feeling better now and will continue.