Chapter 7: The Tower of a Hundred Corpses

Boss Tang's peculiar hobby was unique even in these parts. His basement housed a macabre collection of coffins, each containing its own horror: a "Nine-Yin Smiling Corpse" excavated from the burial grounds of Xiangxi, a desert mummy from the Devil's City in the Northwest.

He'd even transported a glacial corpse from the Tibetan plateau, preserving it in a special cold storage unit.

Recently, he'd paid an exorbitant sum to acquire an ancient coffin from another collector. Inside lay something extraordinary - a female corpse clothed entirely in gold.

The golden garment defied explanation. At first glance, it resembled the jade burial suits of ancient emperors, which used gold thread to bind jade plates together to preserve the body. But gold itself had no preservative properties.

Yet this corpse's golden attire was seamless, fitting like a second skin, with perfect articulation at every joint. Most remarkably, the corpse wore a golden mask of exquisite craftsmanship, its features rendered with such detail that it seemed almost alive.

Boss Tang, despite his expertise in identifying corpses, had been instantly obsessed. He'd negotiated relentlessly until the collector agreed to sell. Money was no object for Boss Tang - he'd happily paid thirteen million yuan for his prize.

The collector had warned him, though: this corpse was dangerous. Without powerful talismans to contain it, it was best left untouched.

Boss Tang had dismissed the warning with a wave of his hand. "The more dangerous, the better!" he'd declared. "If it were just another lifeless corpse, I wouldn't want it at all!"

He'd immediately summoned workers to transport his prize to this villa - his specially designed repository for the dead, which he'd named with elegant understatement: The Tower of a Hundred Corpses.

But the golden corpse proved more malevolent than even Tang had anticipated. During transport alone, it had caused two accidents. First, an inexplicable tire blowout had sent the coffin sliding, crushing a worker to death. Then, on the highway, their truck had rear-ended an oil tanker. The resulting explosion had turned both driver and passenger to ash.

These disasters had finally made Tang cautious. While handling the aftermath, he'd retrieved an ancient bronze mirror from his home - a Ming Dynasty relic said to subdue even the most vengeful spirits - and placed it atop the coffin.

Only then had they managed to deliver the corpse safely to its new home in the Tower's basement. The mirror remained in place, a necessary precaution against whatever lurked within the golden shroud.

But even this proved insufficient. Since the golden corpse's arrival, the Tower had come alive at night. The Nine-Yin Smiling Corpse would scratch at its coffin walls, the desert mummy would emit blood-curdling laughs - every corpse in the collection had grown restless, except for the glacial remains.

Most alarming, the ancient bronze mirror was deteriorating day by day. Its once-lustrous surface had dulled to near-blackness in just two days.

Now Tang was truly worried. If even a Ming Dynasty artifact couldn't contain this entity, what power did it possess?

Yet he couldn't bear to part with it. Beyond its astronomical cost, this corpse represented something unprecedented - potentially more fearsome than even the legendary Corpse King of Xiangxi.

So he'd summoned this gathering of experts: two Corpse Handlers from Xiangxi, two Mourners from Mount Wu, and a Yin Walker from Northern Hubei at considerable expense.

He'd even tried to engage Third Uncle, reportedly the greatest exorcist in North China, visiting twice in person. When Third Uncle had ignored him, Tang had resorted to having me kidnapped. Qualified or not, he reasoned, Third Uncle wouldn't let his disciple die at the hands of a golden corpse.

Understanding all this, I could only sigh. The corpse's power was clearly born of unresolved hatred - it had already claimed several lives during transport. Once freed from the mirror's weakening influence, who knew how many more would die?

The sensible solution would be to find a geomantically suitable burial site, where natural forces could properly decompose the remains. Let dust return to dust, ending this cycle of death.

But no - Tang wanted to open the coffin, to study it. That wasn't curiosity anymore; it was courting disaster.

My thoughts were interrupted as Boss Tang opened the basement door. "This way, honored masters," he gestured.

The assembled experts bowed and followed, each carrying their specialized tools. Only I descended empty-handed, withering under Tang's stern gaze.

Outside, the summer sun blazed, but the basement air cut like winter wind, raising goosebumps on our skin. I recognized this chill - the touch of yin energy dispersing our vital warmth.

Yet the space itself was surprisingly modern - wide corridors, bright fluorescent lights, nothing like a traditional crypt.

Crystal coffins lined the hallways, each illuminated by colored lights to showcase its occupant. Among them stood more traditional caskets: one bound in copper and willow wood, its surface rotting beneath yellowed talismans; another of granite, covered in mystical ink patterns.

Most disturbing was a black iron coffin, unmarked but unmistakable. Such coffins were designed to trap souls forever - "iron mound graves," we called them. Thousands of years of exorcist lore, written in blood, warned that these always spawned the most vicious spirits.

Copper bindings, ink wards, iron prisons - each a marker of terrible power. What was Tang thinking, collecting such dangers? Did he not fear his own violent end?

My dark musings were interrupted when the lead Corpse Handler suddenly stopped. "We're here," he whispered.

A cold wind swept through the corridor, and every hair on my body stood on end.