Chapter 1: The Ancient Tomb Beneath the River!

That year, the Wei River basin was battered by a month of continuous heavy rain, causing the water level to rise relentlessly and unleashing a once-in-a-century flood.

Five days later, as the floodwaters finally receded, the villagers of Miaodi gathered a dozen or so able-bodied men to patrol the riverbank and assess the damage to the dikes.

“Dazhuang, look over there! What is that?” a man suddenly shouted from the group.

Following his gaze, they saw something partially buried in the silt—a structure that resembled an eave, as if a house had been swallowed by the mud, with only a corner exposed.

But Liu Dazhuang and the others knew well that no one had ever lived near this spot before, let alone built a house there.

“Let’s go check it out,” Dazhuang said decisively, leading the way as they waded through the muck.

Armed with entrenching tools, they began digging around the buried structure. Though they weren’t skilled at much else, their speed at excavation was impressive. After about half a day working through the mud, a palace-like building emerged before their eyes, spanning several hundred square meters and standing five or six meters tall.

The palace entrance was a large verdigris door, adorned with two strange paintings. One depicted a tiger-like creature with wings, baring its teeth in a fierce snarl, while the other was comparatively serene—a qilin, a mythical auspicious beast.

What these two images symbolized, no one knew—and no one cared to find out.

They pushed open the palace doors and boldly stepped inside...

...

This story is among the most authentic and widely circulated in my village, and the Liu Dazhuang mentioned was, in fact, my uncle.

Legend had it that the palace was actually a tomb—an enormous one, with the palace above ground merely the tip of the iceberg.

After Dazhuang and his men broke in, they uncovered many valuable items.

Foremost among them was a large brass chest. At that time, brass was worth a considerable sum; even selling it as scrap would yield a handsome profit.

As team leader and a towering figure, Uncle Dazhuang secured the lion’s share of the treasure.

Later, other villagers came to scavenge, but they arrived too late. The best items had already been taken by Dazhuang’s group, leaving only minor antiques for the rest of the village.

This event caused an uproar throughout the village. Except for my family, almost every household, young and old, joined the fray.

My grandfather, once a wandering Taoist priest, warned that these items were ill-omened. He forbade anyone from scavenging, threatening to break their legs and cast them out of the family if they disobeyed.

Though my family resented this strictness, my grandfather was the head of the household, and none dared defy his authority openly.

As villagers gradually sold the antiques and amassed wealth, building small villas, buying city apartments, or even splurging on trendy gadgets, my father, uncle, and aunt grew restless.

Tensions escalated into open disputes, eventually severing ties between them and my grandfather, who was viewed by them as rigid and outdated. Envious of others’ fortunes, they distanced themselves completely.

After the rift, my father left for the ancient capital to seek his fortunes. He wanted to take me with him, but my grandfather was adamant against it, leading to another bitter quarrel between them—this time over me.

I never understood the details, but it seemed my grandfather said something that made my father reluctantly give up.

So, I stayed by my grandfather’s side until I turned eighteen.

During those years, my grandfather once handed me two yellowed old books, instructing me to copy their contents.

These books had no titles, filled with a mixture of classical and vernacular Chinese that was difficult to read. Yet, through relentless study, I managed to memorize most of it.

Just after I finished the college entrance exam, my grandfather suddenly fell gravely ill.

His condition rapidly deteriorated like leaves swept away by autumn wind. Within days, he was bedridden and unable to move.

Before passing, he called me to his bedside and revealed two instructions:

First, I must not leave the village before turning eighteen.

Second, I must find a woman who had a mole behind her ear.

I was bewildered by his words.

Though I had just finished my exams, I still had nearly a month before my eighteenth birthday.

As for finding a woman with a mole behind her ear—that was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Yet, looking into my grandfather’s urgent eyes, I nodded resolutely.

At last, he was at peace and closed his eyes forever...

...

When my grandfather died, neither my father nor other relatives had returned. The villagers took care of the funeral arrangements.

For this reason, I didn’t accept any condolence money.

At the burial, many villagers told me my grandfather was a good man but, unfortunately, had foretold a lonely fate for himself—cursed by a solitary star, so few would accompany him in his old age.

I doubted that story.

According to the two nameless books my grandfather gave me, fortune-tellers never read their own fortunes, just as doctors don’t treat themselves.

My grandfather treasured those books like precious gems. Even if he practiced divination, surely he wouldn’t have foreseen his own destiny.

I wonder if he ever read mine.

Now, on the brink of adulthood, I felt increasingly uncertain about the future.

After my grandfather’s passing, the old house grew noticeably quiet.

In my spare time, I sorted through his belongings, burning old clothes and other worthless items to sever lingering attachments.

The only thing I kept was a worn wooden box, which I had opened once. Inside were two peachwood swords, a compass, and several ritual implements.

...

That August, the day after my eighteenth birthday, my father came to fetch me.

His black car stopped at my doorstep amidst the amazed gazes of the villagers.

The unfamiliar middle-aged man introduced himself as Jiang Yuanshan—my father’s name.

My name is Jiang Chen, born at dawn, utterly ordinary.

After packing a few clothes, I climbed into my father’s car, bound for the ancient capital.

The journey was silent, the atmosphere tense and oppressive.

My father, behind the wheel, neither smiled nor scowled when he glanced at me. I had no idea what thoughts crossed his mind.

Fifteen years had passed.

Over the years, I had imagined confronting him—demanding why he had abandoned me, or feigning indifference to keep him at arm’s length.

I was wrong.

When we finally met, it was just like this—cool, distant, like strangers.