The space was dim and shadowy. Liu Dashao turned on his flashlight and walked over. On the wall before him, from top to bottom, were densely packed carved characters. Zhang Enpu read them line by line, growing increasingly shocked. His hand, holding the burning stick, trembled involuntarily. Liu Dashao, puzzled, stepped closer. At the top of the wall was a large inscription that read:
“This humble Daoist has roamed across China for decades, yet I am destined to die here. Such is fate, fortune, and destiny—what more can be said?”
The handwriting was aged, solemn, and powerful, yet it radiated a deep, seething hatred that seemed ready to break through the wall itself.
The next line, written in smaller characters, read:
“I, Li Lishan, was born in the chaotic years of the Republic of China. I never sought the arts of Dragon and Tiger, but by chance and fate, I achieved minor success. In middle age, I was guided by an unnamed Daoist master from the Quanzhen sect, and only then did I realize that life is filled with mysteries, and the theories of Feng Shui are not baseless. I immersed myself in these studies for years without pause. Later, I made a solemn vow—to travel across the nine provinces, seeking auspicious sites, questioning the mysteries of spirits and gods, and compiling all into Daoist texts for future generations.”
“One day, I came to this place, having run out of travel funds. A kind family took me in and shared all their possessions without hesitation. I was deeply grateful. At that time, the family had just welcomed a newborn son, but the child cried at night without cease. Upon inspection, I found he was born with the ‘yin eye,’ attracting malevolent spirits. As the ancients said, ‘A favor repaid with a flood,’ I performed a ritual to temporarily protect the child. Worried about future troubles, I gifted him my master’s jade pendant, thus resolving a worldly matter.”
“Yet, no sooner had I left the house than I noticed an eerie aura here, hundreds and thousands of times stronger than elsewhere. Surprised, I searched and finally discovered the source of the calamity—a lake north of the village, shrouded in yin energy, intensifying itself. Within it were over a dozen pools of concentrated yin, harboring countless spirits. It was terrifying, unlike anything I had ever seen, and it shattered my courage. In haste, I cast the Three-Slaughter Binding Dragon Formation outside the lake to weaken its power. After several days of exploration, I found the lake to be strangely unusual, with hidden underground rivers beneath its surface. I risked my life to enter the lake alone, determined to subdue whatever evil lurked beneath.”
“To my shock, beneath the lake lay the tomb of Emperor Xizong of the Ming Dynasty, Zhu Youjiao. Not buried in the imperial mausoleum, but hidden beneath a lake palace—an astonishing and bizarre discovery. The tomb was filled with celestial charts and chaotic energies, the very source of the corpse’s malevolence. To eliminate this threat, the tomb must be destroyed.”
“I have spent my life mastering Daoist techniques, yet in this tomb, I was utterly overwhelmed. The malevolent energy turned against me, leading to my death—a matter of fate. I must make one final effort, sealing the tomb with the ancient sword of Zhenwu, hoping that a worthy soul may one day complete my unfinished task. May this inscription on the stone wall guide such a person, so that I may rest in peace beneath the nine springs.”
“One final note: this is the tomb of a Ming emperor, modeled after the underworld itself, a maze of twists and turns. Human understanding falls short here. Proceed with caution, plan carefully, and act only when ready. Remember this, remember this.”
The handwriting grew increasingly messy as the text continued, with some characters incomplete. It was clear that Li Lishan had been on his last breath when he wrote these words. The inscription seemed unfinished, yet it no longer mattered. All the strange occurrences that had plagued Xiushui Village over the years—like eerie pearls scattered in the dark—seemed independent, yet somehow connected by an unseen force. Now, Li Lishan’s words had tied them all together, revealing the entire truth. Zhang Enpu and Liu Dashao suddenly understood: the intense malevolence here had originated from this very place.
Liu Dashao’s eyes reddened. He now knew the truth—this was the very same blind old man who had saved his life, though they had never met. He now understood that the Three-Slaughter Binding Dragon Formation, mentioned by Grandma Fan, was none other than the old poplar tree stumps arranged in strange patterns. And most importantly, he realized that this man had sacrificed his life to grant Xiushui Village over a decade of peace.
Liu Dashao approached the skeleton. The bones were blackened, and a faint dark aura seemed to seep from them. The skeletal hands still clutched at the air, and nearby lay a broken stone sword—silent, mournful. Liu Dashao’s breath quickened. His eyes welled up, and a strange urge to cry welled within him. He didn’t understand why, but he simply felt like weeping.
“Brother Lishan!” Zhang Enpu murmured. He slowly closed his eyes, clasped his hands in respect, and solemnly bowed three times before the remains, his expression deeply sorrowful. Finally, he whispered, “Never would I have thought that after twenty years, I still fall short of you.”
Seeing his solemn expression, Tian Guoqiang tugged at Zhang Enpu’s sleeve and asked what had happened. After a long pause, Zhang Enpu began to recount the story.
It turned out that Li Lishan was a renowned figure in his time, known by the Daoist name Zidong, and was a leading figure of the Northern Quanzhen sect.
In 1937, when the War of Resistance against Japan began, Japanese invaders launched brutal attacks on Chinese soil, massacring innocent civilians. Soon, Hangzhou fell under Japanese occupation. Li Lishan witnessed the atrocities—burning villages, slaughtered families, and the Nanxing Bridge area along the Qiantang River reduced to ruins. The people by the river were left without food or clothing, struggling to survive. The sight of suffering and death everywhere filled Li Lishan with righteous fury. He could no longer remain secluded in his Daoist retreat. Driven by patriotism and a sense of justice, he halted all religious ceremonies at his temple and led his fellow Daoists in aiding the refugees.
He opened the Zilai Cave Daoist Temple to shelter over 1,700 refugees fleeing the mountains. When the shelters proved insufficient, he organized Daoists and villagers to cut bamboo and trees, hastily building dozens of huts for the displaced. With so many mouths to feed, the stored grain at Yuhuang Mountain was quickly depleted. Li Lishan risked his life to descend the mountain, evading Japanese patrols and killing several soldiers to reach Hangzhou and seek aid from the International Red Cross. The organization, upon learning of the situation, agreed to provide food supplies. However, transporting the grain back through enemy lines was perilous. Some were caught and tortured, their supplies seized. Li Lishan cleverly arranged for the Red Cross to issue permits and devised ways to disguise the shipments, ensuring the grain reached the mountain. Sometimes, the grain arrived safely while Li himself returned empty-handed and starving. Yet he never wavered, believing it his solemn duty.
As temple donations dried up and the burden of feeding nearly two thousand refugees grew heavier, Li sent his disciple Lu Zongan to Shanghai. There, in the relative safety of the foreign concessions, they established a branch of the Yuhuang Mountain Fuxing Temple on Wuding Road. The temple flourished, and the income from donations was sent back to support the refugees on the mountain. This continued for over a year until the war in Hangzhou subsided, and the refugees gradually returned home. The refugee shelter on Yuhuang Mountain was finally closed.
Li Lishan’s selfless dedication and compassion during this time earned him immense respect in both Daoist circles and among the common people.
Zhang Enpu continued, explaining that Daoists often described Li Lishan as a chivalrous hero of Jiangnan. He was fearless, righteous, and possessed extraordinary martial arts skills. Within the temple, he maintained strict discipline, demanding the same from his disciples—daily chanting and martial training, with no leniency. In the Jiangnan Daoist community, he and Zhang Enpu were leaders of the Quanzhen and Zhengyi sects respectively. Before the revolution, they had often discussed forming a unified national Daoist organization, but political instability and disagreements between the sects prevented this. Nonetheless, Li Lishan’s contributions to Daoism were undeniable.
After hearing Zhang Enpu’s account, everyone was deeply moved, feeling a newfound respect for Li Lishan. At Zhang Enpu’s suggestion, Bai Erye and Liu Dashao gathered tools and found a soft patch of earth nearby. They dug a small grave, carefully collecting Li Lishan’s bones and burying them, each person adding a handful of earth to complete the burial. At last, the Daoist had a resting place.
“Senior, no matter what, thank you,” Liu Dashao said, placing a piece of eel meat on the grave. “We don’t have anything better to offer. We’ll come back to properly honor you. This is fresh eel meat, just caught. Please accept it, and protect us on our way back. If possible, help us destroy this cursed tomb, so we can avenge you and bring justice for the villagers who died.”
Zhang Enpu coughed lightly. “Young man, Li Daoshi was a Quanzhen Daoist—he doesn’t eat meat.”
“He was a Daoist in life, but in death, what difference does it make? If there’s meat, he should eat it. If there’s wine, he should drink it. What can the King of Hell do about it? This old Li was too kind—I’m just so moved, I’m already planning to burn a couple of servant girls and a few concubines for him when I get back, to make up for it,” Bai Erye retorted, causing Zhang Enpu to break into a cold sweat. He knew better than to argue with these three, so he wisely kept quiet.
While Bai Erye carried on, Liu Dashao was troubled. The mystery had been unraveled, the grave completed, but how were they to escape this underground river? He voiced his concern, and the others nodded in agreement. Yet the river ran beneath the earth, like a separate world below the surface. Entering had been easy—leaving was another matter entirely. With no other choice, they followed Zhang Enpu’s suggestion and decided to move forward, step by step. If the tomb was the source of the evil, then they would explore it fully, hoping for a miracle.
“Be it the tomb of a Ming emperor or a Qing emperor, we’ll tear it apart if we must,” Liu Dashao declared. Without hesitation, he spat into his palms, swung his rifle butt, and smashed the black door. With a thunderous boom, a gust of cold air rushed out, and he felt his breath return. Startled, he turned on his flashlight and shone it ahead—revealing a vast palace beyond. The interior was pitch black, the edges invisible even under the beam of light.
Liu Dashao shouted in excitement, “Everyone, come quick!”
Hearing his call, the others rushed over. Liu pointed his flashlight across the cavern and said, “Look at this!”
Zhang Enpu sighed in disappointment. “I thought we’d found a way out, but it’s just another large cave.”
Tian Guoqiang patted Zhang’s shoulder. “Master Zhang, your pessimism will affect our revolutionary spirit. A new cave means a new path. Let’s go, let’s explore!”
With effort, they dug the passage wide enough for a person to crawl through. One by one, they climbed into the vast cavern beyond.
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