Chapter Twenty-Three: One After Another (Please Add to Favorites and Recommend)

“Yang Lang?”

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head—in an instant, a chill swept through my entire body, freezing me to the core. Surrounded by the wavering beam of the flashlight and shrouded in darkness, the atmosphere grew more unnerving than ever.

My mind couldn’t help but replay Yang Lang’s appearance over and over—tall, with a fringe that gave him an air of modernity. Suddenly, the Yang Lang in my mind began to reach out his right hand toward me, as countless black dots crawled up his body and then onto his face. The black dots desperately burrowed into Yang Lang’s flesh, digging, pushing, endlessly boring deeper, until they emerged from his back at last.

I quickly shook my head, trying to dispel these wild thoughts. But while I could banish the images, the fear that had already taken root in all of us was not so easily shaken.

“It can’t be. How could that possibly be Yang Lang?” I stammered, sweating profusely as I looked at the others.

The Fat Man patted me reassuringly, then turned to Zhuge Xuan. “Show me those photos again,” he said.

Zhuge Xuan’s brow was tightly knit, as if she’d rather not revisit that scene. But in the end, she picked up her camera and scrolled to the last few images in the album.

Professor Chen glanced at them again, and in a flash, tears welled up behind his glasses. He gritted his teeth fiercely, turned away, and lit a cigarette.

The Fat Man took the camera and began examining the photos carefully. I hesitated, but eventually found my gaze drawn to the camera’s screen as well.

With every image, the Fat Man and I furrowed our brows more deeply.

Was that really Yang Lang’s face? By now, perhaps no one in the world could recognize it for certain. Yet, his square jaw was still unmistakable, and, most telling of all, his distinctive fringe was unique among us. If there were any other coincidences to be found, they were beyond our imagination.

I’d only known Yang Lang for less than half a day. After seeing the photos a few times, I recognized him, so there was no question the four seated nearby would as well.

“Professor, don’t be sad. Since what’s happened has happened, we should focus on recovering his body,” Zhang Yadong said, squatting down in front of Professor Chen.

Professor Chen seemed drained, but nodded and looked to the Fat Man. “Mr. Cao, do you think it’s dangerous to go up now?”

The Fat Man handed the camera back to Zhuge Xuan and turned. “Honestly, I’m not sure. You all saw—the coffin was set in the center of the stone sarcophagus, with nearly half a meter of space on either side that we couldn’t see. Yang Lang’s death was so bizarre that, even if we do go up, we need to prepare.”

“What kind of preparations?” I sensed the Fat Man had a way to approach, but he seemed to be hiding something.

Professor Chen must have sensed it too. “What do you suggest we do?”

The Fat Man glanced around. “Actually, it’s simple. But to ensure safety, we might—well, it’s possible—there’s a chance we’ll damage the sarcophagus or the coffin.”

Grave robbers and archaeologists have utterly different goals. One seeks to take, the other to preserve. The Fat Man was experienced and surely had a way, but he needed to make his intentions clear to Professor Chen’s group before taking action.

“No, your methods will definitely damage these artifacts. Absolutely not. If you’re afraid to go, then let me try,” Zhuge Xuan suddenly stood up.

From her words, it sounded as if she knew exactly what the Fat Man was planning.

Later, the Fat Man told me he’d intended to use “sandalwood smoke,” a kind of vapor tossed into the sarcophagus that’s deadly to many ancient tomb insects. “Sandalwood smoke” is peculiar—harmless to people and even refreshing, but if it touches wood or stone, it stains them permanently purple, impossible to clean.

Professor Chen thought they should at least hear the Fat Man’s plan, so he stepped forward to stop Zhuge Xuan.

Just as the Fat Man was about to speak, a sound echoed from the sarcophagus behind us.

Creak—clack, creak—clack...

We tensed up again, but this time, instead of fear, our faces showed more confusion. The sound now was eerily similar to the noise Zhuge Xuan’s camera made when she took photos.

A chill ran down my spine. When the sound faded, everyone looked at the camera clutched in Zhuge Xuan’s hands.

“What’s happening? Why...” Zhang Yadong’s eyes suddenly widened as if struck by a thought. “Could it be... is the sarcophagus repeating the sounds we made earlier?”

As soon as he said it, I felt a premonition of something beyond our comprehension.

The Fat Man had knocked twice on the bumps on the sarcophagus, and then we’d heard the sound repeated twice. The camera had clicked through a burst of shots, and now the same sound echoed from the sarcophagus.

Unless someone had hidden a tape recorder inside, only Zhang Yadong’s theory could explain it.

“Damn it,” the Fat Man muttered. “We’ve only just found the coffin and already so much has happened. Looks like this trip won’t be easy.”

Though we agreed with Zhang Yadong’s reasoning, it was hard for our minds to accept such an outlandish possibility so quickly.

“The odds are too low—there must be another explanation,” I said, turning to look for Peanut.

Only then did I realize Peanut had, without us noticing, moved to stand right beneath the sarcophagus.

“Zixiang, what are you doing?” Professor Chen asked.

Peanut walked back slowly, speaking in his Taiwanese accent. “I have this feeling... that thing, it might be alive.”

“What? Alive?” The Fat Man was dumbfounded.

“There’s something important you’ve all overlooked,” Peanut continued, casting a wary glance at the sarcophagus.

“What is it?” Zhuge Xuan asked urgently.

“Just now, the camera pretty much captured everything above the sarcophagus—inside, there’s the coffin and Yang Lang’s body. But didn’t you notice something missing?”

“Missing... the sarcophagus lid, and the coffin lid,” I replied.

Suddenly, Professor Chen and the Fat Man’s faces darkened. Peanut continued, “No, it’s not just that—what’s most important is, the ropes that would secure the sarcophagus are missing too. This sarcophagus—it’s completely suspended in midair.”

When I realized, I couldn’t help but grit my teeth.

Of course, damn it, how did we overlook that?

I felt I couldn’t take any more surprises. “But if there are no ropes holding it, then how...”

“Sarcophagi don’t just float. When I stood beneath it just now, I noticed there was no sign of lost gravity, so the only explanation I can think of is—it’s alive.”

Ever since returning from the Tomb of the King of Yelang, I’d thought I’d seen my share of the bizarre. But a living, flying sarcophagus—who would believe such a thing? Is it true that, in ancient tombs, anything is possible?

We barely had time to process this when a chilling, eerie laughter suddenly echoed from inside the sarcophagus behind us.

I spun around and, with a start, grabbed the Fat Man, instinctively stepping back.

Cackling, cackling...

With that hair-raising laughter, the bumps on the stone sarcophagus suddenly began to move. They quivered slightly, emitting a metallic screech, and then straight, white cracks began to split open along their surfaces.