Chapter 24: Coffin (Request for Collection and Recommendation)

The white gaps grew larger and larger. The metal layer covering the fleshy mass peeled back like eyelids, exposing the horrifying thing beneath.

“Damn it, how... are all these things eyes?” Fatty said through gritted teeth.

Staring at those eyes, my shoulders and neck drew inward involuntarily. Beneath the fleshy mass were countless white orbs, each resembling a pupil. A single red crescent mark pulsed among them, shifting left and right with unnatural speed.

I began to believe what Peanut had warned about. This sarcophagus was no ordinary tomb—it was a living horror.

Fatty led the way, one hand gripping a shovel, the other already reaching for his pistol. But against such a creature, even a submachine gun would be useless.

The eyeballs on the sarcophagus grew smaller, and we held our breath, waiting for the next impossible shift. Then all the red crescents lunged toward us at once, as if we had been spotted. Everyone flinched in terror.

The sarcophagus began to shake violently in midair, its laughter growing wilder, more frenzied.

“Fatty, we should run now,” I said, glancing at him.

“This damned thing doesn’t know what it wants,” Fatty replied, scanning nervously. “We need to get out of here.”

“What about Yang Lang’s body?” Professor Chen asked.

Fatty sighed. “Right now, we don’t even know how to handle ourselves. I say we leave it.”

Professor Chen opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Zhang Yadong suddenly pointed at the sarcophagus. “Look! There—something is crawling out!”

I focused my flashlight beam. A pale human hand extended from the top of the sarcophagus, followed by the face of the man covered in tiny black dots.

Seeing the photograph was one thing. Witnessing it in the flesh was another. When Yang Lang began crawling down the side of the sarcophagus, the only sound was our collective silence. Even Fatty froze.

Half his body emerged. The flesh stretched along his back like wet noodles, clinging to the interior of the tomb. When he finally stood before us, he hung suspended by those strips of meat.

At the same time, the sarcophagus seemed to be lowering itself toward the floor. Without further thought, I realized that if we stayed, Yang Lang’s corpse would soon reach us.

“You useless fat bastard, have you ever fought a zombie before?” I asked, my face pale.

Fatty ignored me. He bit down and drew his pistol. “I’ve never fought them one-on-one, but I heard that smashing a zombie’s head ruins it. Can’t move anymore.”

He raised the gun and aimed at Yang Lang’s skull.

“No!” Professor Chen seized his wrist.

I knew he couldn’t bear it, but the thing was almost touching the ground.

Zhuge Xuan stepped forward and pulled Professor Chen away. “Take the gear and run!” she shouted at Fatty.

Fatty shook her off, glared at the corpse, and waved us toward the corridor.

We snatched up our equipment and turned—

Before we could react, Peanut’s hand clamped over my nose and mouth.

I tried to struggle, but the corridor we had come down suddenly filled with purple mist. I caught a faint, sweet scent beneath it.

“Cover your mouths, the mist’s poisonous,” Peanut warned.

Panic surged. We shone our flashlights and saw the mist rising from cracks in the walls. We had spent hours wondering what those gaps were for; now it was clear—they had been meant to kill us.

“What now? What now?” Zhang Yadong’s voice cracked. He lunged toward the corridor.

Professor Chen grabbed him. “Calm down!”

“Professor, are we going to end up like A Wei and the others?” Zhang Yadong trembled. “I knew it—that thing is cursed. It will destroy us all...”

Slap.

The sharp crack echoed as Zhuge Xuan’s hand left a red mark on Zhang Yadong’s cheek.

I exchanged a stunned glance with Fatty and Peanut. We had all heard the hidden meaning in his words.

“Cursed thing... destroy us all...”

Fatty’s earlier suspicion had been correct. These men had come here for reasons other than treasure.

“Have you gone mad?” Zhuge Xuan’s eyes burned with fury. Whether from the blow or terror, Zhang Yadong fell silent.

Though puzzled, we knew now was not the time for questions.

I turned back and saw Yang Lang’s corpse sprawled on the tomb floor. The flesh along his back had stretched nearly two meters. Each slow crawl pulled the sarcophagus a fraction closer.

His movements were agonizingly deliberate, yet none of us could be sure he would not suddenly lunge.

Fatty turned to Professor Chen. “This time, you listen to me.” He raised the pistol again.

Professor Chen did not stop him. He simply stared at the corpse on the ground, face creased with worry.

We could do nothing but wait for Fatty to fire. The tension was unbearable.

Then Peanut whispered, “Wait.”

Fatty jolted. “What the hell, little brother?”

Peanut pointed at the corpse. “Look at his left hand.”

I saw Yang Lang had stopped. His right arm still stretched toward us, but his left—clawed with black dots—moved in slow, deliberate strokes across the brick floor.

It was writing.

“What is he drawing?” Zhuge Xuan murmured.

We all leaned in to watch. Yang Lang’s left hand was brittle as dry wood; each stroke left a faint gray mark as a fingertip wore away.

It took nearly two minutes for the hand to stop.

When it did, the mark on the floor formed a single perfect character: 金.

Everyone stared, stunned.

“Why would Yang Lang’s corpse write ‘Jin’?” I asked.

Professor Chen suddenly groaned and shouted, “He can still write! Yang Lang is alive! He’s alive!”

We reacted instantly. Yang Lang’s head lifted. The eyes beneath the black dots turned toward us, and he nodded slowly.

I refused to believe it. The man before us was a corpse, yet he was alive. If he had no mind, he would never have written those characters or nodded.

Professor Chen lunged forward. Fatty caught him.

“Wait!” Fatty cried. “We can’t be sure yet!”

Professor Chen fought to break free, but Fatty held him. How could we not reach the man?

The laughter inside the sarcophagus died abruptly. The eyes turned toward Yang Lang.

In that split second, a black shape erupted from the coffin and struck like lightning.

Before I could identify it, a tide of darkness poured out—hundreds of the massive black rats we had seen earlier. They swarmed Yang Lang, tearing into his flesh with savage hunger. The scene was nightmarish. The zombie could not fight back. He lay on the ground, reaching out, turning his head once, twice, then went still.

We watched in horrified silence. Even Professor Chen dared not approach.

Within half a minute, the rats scattered around the tomb chamber. Only a pile of white bones remained where the corpse had been.

The sarcophagus’s laughter rose again. A cold mockery filled the air. I felt powerless, defeated. The sarcophagus lifted from the floor and began to drift upward.

The laughter seemed to mock us, echoing with cruel amusement.

Fatty cursed and charged the floating coffin.

We were still frozen when he leaped and drove his right foot into the side of the sarcophagus. The impact spun the entire structure over in midair.

Yet it kept rising, faster and faster, until it hovered directly above us. Strangely, the heavy coffin inside remained suspended.

“Damn your ancestors!” Fatty shouted. He fired upward into the sarcophagus.

No one argued about damaging cultural relics in that moment. As he lowered the pistol, a face-basin-sized grotesque face suddenly pushed out of the coffin and locked eyes with Fatty.

The moment was fleeting. When we realized what we were seeing, both the sarcophagus and that twisted face had vanished, leaving only Fatty standing rigid, staring upward like a broken doll.