“You *** blind dog! The path is over here!”
“Mistake! It was a mistake, Old Tang, don’t be mad!”
“Stop arguing! Look at these… what are they?”
“Human bones.”
Before the words were finished, a withered hand reached toward me. I pushed it away, but something was pulling me downward—hard. I struggled, but couldn’t break free.
“Not good! Brother Xiang, help Tang!”
Zeng Xiang drew his sickle and swung toward me as I was being dragged lower. I kicked hard, freeing my right leg, but then a bony hand grabbed my head and yanked upward with a strength no less than Lao Hu’s brute force. Was I about to be torn apart?
Damn it, that’d be ridiculous—dying in the hands of bones that have been dead for hundreds of years. Lao Sun and Brother Xiang were fighting desperately with the skeletons. My head hurt badly from the grip—seems it was one stubborn dead bastard.
I gritted my teeth, grabbed the bony arm, and smashed it against the pile of bones. Then I ran forward a few steps, slipping across the ground, finally shaking off the dead thing clinging to my feet.
Lao Sun, quick-eyed, leaped out of the pile and climbed up the nearby rock wall. That’s the difference between a scholar and us rough men—while we fight, he’s already looking for an escape route.
Meanwhile, Brother Xiang was barely holding on, fighting and shouting for help. But it was useless—everyone was in danger. I saw Lao Sun on the wall and climbed up after him, shouting to Xiang to come over. Hearing me, he dashed toward us, the skeletons swarming after him. Xiang scrambled up, and Lao Sun pulled him onto the ledge. We were temporarily safe on the stone wall. But that wasn’t going to last long. The bones couldn’t climb, but we were trapped here—and that was deadly.
“Lao Sun, think of something! It’s up to you now!” Xiang shouted.
“Try fire,” said Lao Sun calmly.
I struck a match and tossed it down. The skeletons recoiled as if they could feel it—they clearly knew the danger of fire. The match fell into some liquid at the bottom, and suddenly flames burst up, black smoke rising with a nauseating stench.
“Go! Now!” Lao Sun yelled. We climbed along the wall toward the side with less fire.
“This is a burial pit. The liquid below might be undissolved body fat,” he explained.
“Old Tang, think of something! I’ve got elders at home!” cried Xiang.
“Damn it, don’t I have parents too? Looks like we’re finished today.”
“Do you think there’s another exit?” Zeng Xiang asked while smashing at the climbing skeletons with an iron bar. It wasn’t cruelty—there was just no room left on the wall.
I stomped in frustration, fearing we’d be roasted alive or starve here. Lao Sun suddenly shouted for us to climb back where we came from. Above the pit was a large hole venting black smoke, so we weren’t choking yet. We climbed back—the fire below had burned out.
Across the pit, the skeletons still writhed. Someone must have cursed them—they moved as if they could feel pain. Soon the fire died; those old bones couldn’t withstand the flames for long. Zeng Xiang wanted to jump down but Lao Sun stopped him.
“You wanna die? It’s still hot down there!” I knew what Lao Sun meant, so I scolded Xiang for being reckless.
“What’s going on here?” I asked Lao Sun, staring at the bones. “These people don’t look like they were just thrown down here after being killed.” It was a dumb question, but we needed to talk—to think—right then.
“Look! There’s writing on that wall!” Xiang pointed to the stone on the left.
We crawled along the wall to get closer. Sure enough, faint characters were carved there. We jumped down. The pit wasn’t as hot anymore. The words were written in blood. Despite the years, the lack of ventilation had preserved them well.
“We were merchants from inside and outside the passes. In the prosperous days of the Great Ming, the inner lands suffered years of blizzards and poor harvests. In the 96th year of Ming, our clan began trading with the empire. By the 99th year, bandits rose in the mountains, threatening trade and calling themselves kings. In the 100th year, we merchants were ambushed—127 of us captured, 22 killed on the spot. The rest taken to this mountain and forced to mine and cut stone.
“More prisoners came later. In autumn of the 112th year, hundreds of us were thrown into this deep pit. The first ones were trampled to death by those thrown later. Then a Soulbone Curse was cast upon us. Knowing death was near, we wrote this message in blood, hoping those who find us will burn our remains to ashes. As gratitude, remember this:
‘When the stone falls into the cave, the stone gate will appear.’”
Reading it made my heart tremble. What a horror that must have been. I could almost see the scene—blood spraying, men screaming, torn flesh floating among corpses. The dead restless, the living crying in terror. Worse than hell itself.
“Old Tang, we must find the Tiger God and turn this place upside down. These people weren’t even treated as human!” Xiang shouted.
“With you, brother, I’ll go all the way!” I replied. Then I asked Lao Sun, “You’re the scholar—what’s this Soulbone Curse?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“You’re asking the wrong guy,” I said. “This kind of dark sorcery isn’t in any book. But I’ve heard old folks talk about it. Long ago, in the southern lands, there was a tribe called Jian. They made cursed powders—once it touched your body, your soul would be trapped in your bones. Later that tribe disappeared, and the dark art was lost. Didn’t expect to see it here.”
Xiang frowned. “That’s too much, Old Tang. Can poison really do that?”
“You don’t understand,” Lao Sun replied. “The Soulbone Curse works like the black magic in Southeast Asia.”
“Then this pit was built by those tormented souls,” I said. “From that blood message, it seems this pit wasn’t originally for burial. So what does ‘When the stone falls into the cave, the stone gate will appear’ mean?”
“The key must be the stone lock,” said Lao Sun. We raised our night pearls and searched. But the light wasn’t enough; seven or eight pearls barely lit a few meters. Suddenly Lao Sun pointed to a protruding stone platform. “Doesn’t that look like a lamp stand?” Xiang climbed up—it was indeed a lamp stand, with oil still inside. We lit them one by one. The whole pit brightened.
We searched carefully but found no stone lock. Climbing back wasn’t an option. The only hope was finding that mechanism.
“The word says ‘fall’—so maybe the lock is below us, like a hole,” I said. They agreed. We searched the ground again but found nothing useful. “Could I be wrong?” I muttered. Lao Sun looked around and said, “No, the whole place is the lock. The stone must have rolled down from the slide we came through, and the trigger is here in the pit.”
That made sense. We began searching again for the mechanism. The ancients really were beyond understanding.
Finally, we found one lamp stand that looked different—taller than the others. Lao Sun said, “Let’s try turning it.” We pushed together, and the pit began to tremble. We backed away from the slide. Then, as expected, a giant stone fell with a crash, smashing into the floor.
Nothing happened at first. Then, seconds later, the stone wall in one corner began to crack and crumble. A black doorway slowly appeared. The night pearls wouldn’t light beyond it—the next chamber was pitch-dark. We packed our gear and prepared to move on, with Xiang in the lead.
We gave Xiang four night pearls, while Lao Sun and I each kept two. Each pearl was the size of a bowl, enough to light our way. The passage was long—unnaturally long. We walked and walked, but still no end in sight.
“Something’s wrong,” said Lao Sun, frowning. “I think we’re walking in circles.”