Volume Two – The General’s Tomb Chapter Twenty – The Warning

That night, neither Li Kun nor I went anywhere. After dinner, we simply stayed in bed, conserving our strength in preparation for tomorrow’s journey—to visit Liu Xin Mountain in Liushangou. Since the place wasn’t far, we estimated that a bus ride of about an hour would get us there.

Li Kun was already snoring, arms folded across his chest, and listening to him sleep so soundly, I too felt drowsiness washing over me. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its sound filling the entire room.

That night, I had a dream. In it, I found myself inside a small armory, filled with ancient weapons—swords, spears, sabers, halberds, axes, hooks, whips, and even some rare concealed weapons from ages past. What puzzled me was that every single weapon was covered in rust. I picked up a longsword; the scabbard was so corroded, I struggled for ages but could not draw the blade.

Yet the most striking thing in that armory was not the multitude of ancient weapons, but a single, pristine spear standing in the very center. It was carved entirely from flawless white jade. Its snowy brilliance suggested immense value, and aside from this spear, there was nothing else in the armory that was intact.

I looked around, finding nothing else that caught my eye. Deciding to leave, I turned to go, but just as I was about to step out, a blood-red box appeared before me. Its sudden presence startled me, and I approached, curious. But at the very moment I reached out to open the crimson box, a huge tail lashed out at me!

The tail was as thick as an adult’s thigh. With a single sweep, it struck me and sent me flying. In an instant, I jolted awake from the dream, sitting bolt upright on my bed, my forehead beaded with cold sweat.

Wiping my brow, I realized it had only been a dream, and relief flooded through me. I exhaled deeply and turned to look outside. Dawn was just breaking, the first faint light creeping over the horizon. I reached for my phone—it was exactly four o’clock.

Seeing that there was still plenty of time, I lay back down and stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling uneasily in my mind. I hardly ever dreamed, and tonight’s dream was particularly strange.

Whenever I did dream, something would inevitably happen afterward—a warning of sorts. The last time I dreamt was early last year, on the first day of the New Year. That evening, I had a nightmare that still frightened me whenever I recalled it.

In that dream, I had no idea where or when I was—only that I stood before a building whose entrance bore two simple characters: “Charity Hall.”

The Charity Hall was established during the Song Dynasty by Fan Zhongyan, who sought to strengthen clan unity. He purchased more than ten acres of fertile land in Suzhou, designating it as clan property, and called it the Charity Hall. The income was used to provide the basic necessities of life—food, clothing, shelter, and important expenses for funerals and weddings—for members of the Fan clan.

The rules were modified and expanded by later generations, and by the Southern Song, Fan’s Charity Hall spanned over three thousand mu. Inspired by this, officials across the country set up similar halls, which sometimes evolved into charities for the poor, and were accompanied by clan-owned fields, houses, schools, and burial grounds.

As society changed, the functions of the Charity Halls gradually narrowed. In modern times, most became ancestral halls, and in cities, places called Charity Halls became public mortuaries—spaces for storing bodies of those who had died under mysterious or unjust circumstances, now often known as Buddhist or Taoist temples.

But what I never expected was to find myself trapped, alive, inside a coffin within one of these halls.

The moment I realized where I was, my scalp tingled with terror. The coffin was so cramped I could barely move. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. All I could do was pound the inside with my hands and feet, desperate for someone outside to hear that there was a living person within.

But no matter how hard I pounded, the pitch-black coffin produced no sound at all. The horror and hopelessness of that moment was something I would never forget.

After that unsettling dream on New Year's night, a bizarre incident occurred in my village. On the morning of the second day of the New Year, my father and I heard the cries of cats. Not just one, but a whole chorus of wild cats, their wails echoing mournfully through the village.

My old man recalled a folk tale from his youth. Finding a single black wild cat was already rare, but an entire pack was unheard of. These weren’t domestic cats abandoned after their owners died, but wild cats—every one of them jet black. There’s a saying: “No locust trees at home, no willows at the gate; black cats bring misfortune, fox spirits seek their own.”

This means one must never plant a locust tree at home, as it is said to attract evil spirits, and during the night’s parade of ghosts, they would pass beneath such trees. Planting a locust tree at home was a grave taboo.

As for willows, they shouldn’t be planted at the gate—while less dangerous than locust trees, they bring misfortune nonetheless.

Black cats were considered an omen of great evil. In my copy of “The Twenty-Four Mountains of Feng Shui,” it’s written that black cats bring ill fortune. One or two may be harmless, but if a whole pack gathers at your door, it foretells certain death.

As all these black cats converged in our village, we knew something was amiss. On that very day, several households near ours were haunted by the cats’ mournful cries. In homes where the elderly resided, several died of fright.

Even the coroners were baffled by the cause of death. Officially, it was put down to disease—heart attacks, sudden spikes in blood pressure—but the explanations were far from convincing.

But what happened next shocked the entire county: the black cats dug up the graves of the newly deceased elders and devoured their bodies completely.

How could these cats dig through such thick earth and even open coffins whose lids had been nailed shut?

The local police were stunned. They immediately organized teams to inspect the mountains. All evidence indicated that it was indeed the work of animals—dozens of paw prints were found in the soil.

Yet the most perplexing question remained: how did the cats open coffins that had been nailed shut? Was this really the work of animals? In the end, the case was shelved, and even after more than ten years, it remains a mystery. Among the villagers, the story grew ever more fantastical, with countless versions spreading by word of mouth.

But now, after tonight’s dream, I wondered what warning it carried for me. What was inside the blood-red box in my dream? And what was that giant tail?

I scratched my head, deciding not to dwell on it further. The answers would only reveal themselves when we ventured into the general’s tomb.

Time passed quickly. I had no desire to go back to sleep, so I simply closed my eyes and wondered if we would find the entrance to the general’s tomb today.

After dinner, we informed the old man that we might be gone for a few days. He nodded without asking questions, only reminding us to stay safe.

After our last experience, Li Kun and I had learned some lessons. Last time, we’d come back looking like vagrants: faces and clothes filthy, garments torn and ragged.

This time, thanks to our newfound experience, we packed several sets of clothes in a large bag to prevent freezing. Even though my clothes were a bit small for Li Kun, it was still better than wearing rags.

Once outside, Li Kun decided to buy some insect repellent. He had a deep-seated fear of bugs and bought two bottles to carry with him.

Laughing, I teased him, “Old Li, you’re such a big guy—how can you be afraid of tiny bugs?”

He rolled his eyes at me, replying, “Honestly, I was never afraid of them as a kid. I used to catch them with my bare hands. But later, I started thinking they’re ugly and disgusting. You know what really did it? When I was about ten, one crawled into my ear while I was sleeping.”

He turned to me and said, “Do you know what it’s like to have a bug crawl in your ear while you sleep? It feels like something’s biting inside, and there’s a constant rustling sound. You try to dig it out but can’t reach—it just burrows deeper and deeper.”

“Luckily I got to the hospital in time, or it would have chewed right through my eardrum. Ever since then, I’ve been disgusted by bugs.”