Chapter 9: Reincarnation Twenty Years Later

(Note: The meaning of the title of this chapter is that something similar happened again 20 years ago.)

This time Liu Jingsheng led the way. We'd barely taken two steps down the secret passage when we heard a burst of gunfire from the direction of the main hall—"rat‑tat‑tat‑tat‑tat!" Something was happening in the hall! Without hesitation, the rear guard became the vanguard and sprinted back toward the hall, Old Wang charging out first.

Had Mott's traffickers suddenly turned on us? Even though only Zhang Yunwei and two others were inside, surely those few couldn't hold their own against us.

Old Wang was the first to react. Ignoring the agonizing pain in his cheek, he shouted hoarsely through the breach, "Aim for the head!" His command woke us all—the two mummies in the hall had come to life again!

Seconds later, we burst into the hall. The gunfire had stopped. Fatty slid out of nowhere and planted himself behind us.

The scene froze us in our tracks. Just as Old Wang had predicted, the two mummies were indeed animated—but it looked as though someone had already slain one. Its severed skull lay near the head‑tower, separated from its body.

The remaining mummy was cornered. Before it, a white‑robed, white‑haired man stood calmly watching. The mummy trembled in obvious terror, unable to meet the stranger's gaze, quivering in place.

The tableau struck me with eerie déjà vu—or rather, it matched something I'd been told. My Third Uncle had described this very scene: twenty years ago on the train, a charred corpse shivered before a white‑haired man, tried to flee but was blocked by my Uncle—and ultimately died by that man's short sword. I'd always thought it a fanciful family legend. I never imagined I'd witness it before my eyes.

Nearby, Li Yan and the others trained their rifles on the corner‑bound mummy. Not far off lay Mott's now‑desiccated body. Old Wang frowned and strode over, demanding an explanation.

It turned out that when the five of us (including Fatty) entered the hidden chamber, nothing untoward had occurred in the hall. But when we heard those shots from the chamber, Li Jiadong and Wang Donghui had rushed to reinforce. At that moment, the same wall we'd passed through swung open—and the white‑haired man stepped through.

Mott, seeing the opening, grew frantic and tried to dart out—but Zhang Yunwei kicked him to the ground. Everyone's attention was fixed on the newcomer; Li Yan even thought he might be one of Mott's reinforcements.

As Li Yan prepared to question the white‑haired man, a dreadful sound rang out—like a blade scraping glass—so piercing it left listeners feeling nauseated and their hearts pounding.

Then came a blood‑curdling scream. The two mummies, previously motionless on the floor, suddenly attacked. One leaped forward and wrapped its limbs around Mott; the other flung itself onto his back, its arms threading around him like vines.

The mummy in front bit down on Mott's lips, sucking fiercely, as the one behind clamped its jaws around the blood vessels in his neck, drinking his blood sip by sip. Mott had no strength to resist; moments later he slumped to the floor, his pupils dilated, breath ceased.

They'd held their fire at first, worried about Mott's safety. But now that he was practically dead, Li Yan and the other two squeezed their triggers in unison, unleashing a fierce burst of automatic fire at the two mummies. Sparks flew as bullets struck their dried flesh—but the creatures shrugged off the attack and kept sucking greedily on Mott's corpse until not a drop of blood or bodily fluid remained.

Seconds later, Mott's body had withered down to a shriveled husk. The two mummies, still hungry, licked their lips and turned to Me, Li Yan, and Liu Jingsheng. Their jaws stretched impossibly wide in a grinning snarl, blood‑stained fangs bared.

Mott's henchmen had scattered, sprinting for the exit. Just as they thought they'd escaped, the secret wall silently rose back into place. The lead runner came within a step of freedom before finding himself trapped again inside the hall.

Li Yan's magazine emptied with its final shells, and as he reached to reload, one mummy sprang off Mott's body, maw gaping, lunging at him. Li Yan reversed‑gripped his rifle to block—but a pale hand shot out behind him, clamping around the mummy's neck midair. The other hand smoothed back a shock of white hair as a cold voice hissed, "Accursed wretch!"

The creature thrashed a few moments, then stiffened at the sound of that voice, as if seeing some unspeakable horror, and began to tremble uncontrollably.

A harsh laugh rang out. "Recognize me now? Didn't I say you'd all die by my hand? Don't tell me you forgot—I'll start with you." The mummy understood—its tremors grew more violent, and it emitted a pitiful wail.

The second mummy also froze at the white‑haired man's approach, then bolted toward the collapsed passage. It made two frantic steps—only to be overtaken by the stranger's swift kick, which sent it sprawling into a corner. He smirked, "Did you think I'd let you escape?"

Defeated, the creature slumped to its knees and bowed its head in submission. The white‑haired man remained expressionless. "I always found you loathsome when you were alive. Now you're a living corpse, and I've no reason to spare you."

Sensing its doom, the first mummy's wails grew even more agonized. The man's eyes flicked with disdain. "In too much of a hurry? Fine—let me send you off first." With a twist of both hands in opposite directions, he snapped the mummy's neck; then he tossed its dismembered head and body aside like refuse.

At that moment, Old Wang, Liu Jingsheng, Li Yan, and I burst into the chamber, realizing there was nothing left for us to do. I stared at the white‑haired man in stunned silence. He glanced back at me and asked, "Do you know me?"

"No," I replied, "but you remind me of my Third Uncle—his hair was white, too." Why I said it, I couldn't say—it was instinct. His icy gaze made my skin crawl. Keep your distance, I cautioned myself.

Before I could say more, he lost interest and turned back to the surviving mummy. "I'll give you one chance—where's your acupoint?" The creature, still quivering, lowered its head in silence. He snorted, "One chance only." After a pause, his tone dropped to near‑inaudible: "A man can be reborn after death. You're an undead. Die again, and you're ashes—never to return."

At those words, the mummy shuddered violently, raised its head in a weak glance, then pointed toward the head‑tower. The man nodded, "Thanks," and delivered a savage kick that smashed its skull into dust. The mummies we'd struggled to kill in the hidden chamber offered no resistance under his foot—though I still wondered what kind of power he possessed.

"You said you'd give him a chance!" Song Er blurted. Instantly, a heavy silence fell. Everyone (except the white‑haired man) shot Song Chunlei helpless glances—especially Old Wang, who seemed desperate to sew the fool's mouth shut.

The white‑haired man didn't react. He merely stared coldly at Song Chunlei. When the boy opened his mouth again, Old Wang cut him off: "Chunlei, shut it! Who do you think you are, speaking for him? Is that creature your relative?" He then turned to the stranger. "Forgive him—he's been taking too much medicine since childhood. Don't mind him." He hesitated, then added awkwardly, "My… friend, I still don't know how I should address you."

Ignored, Old Wang sank into silence. The stranger walked to the head‑tower, examined it, and then—without warning—grabbed the pile of skulls. Hundreds of desiccated heads tumbled across the floor. Even Song Chunlei, ever the scoffer, backed away in horror, scrambling to avoid the rolling skulls.

From the wreckage, he extracted a golden skull. Its cranium was marked with a series of red symbols—too archaic for me to recognize.

His expression grave, the stranger knelt on one knee and pricked his finger, drawing blood to inscribe a talismanic pattern on the floor. Old Wang and the others stood by puzzled; I recognized the ritual from the bald taoist who once taught me to wash my hair in black dog's blood—this was similar sorcery.

With the final stroke, he placed the golden skull in the center of the sigil, let a few drops of his blood fall upon it, and began chanting in a solemn voice. Though I couldn't understand the words, I sensed the gravity of what he was doing.

At the last syllable, he produced a short sword and drove its tip at the skull's crown. I expected the blade to shatter the skull—but with a clang, it snapped back, throwing his arm upward and nearly wrenching the sword from his grip.

His face contorted in fury. He daubed the blade in more blood—this time from his tongue—and shouted, "Open!" Both hands plunged the sword straight into the skull's center.

There was no sound this time. The blade sank in to the hilt, and the golden skull split into fragments. Before I could process this, a heart‑wrenching chorus of cries erupted—from thousands of unseen voices, wailing in unison.

I jumped, but Old Wang and the others stood unfazed, their eyes fixed on the stranger. Only Fatty wore a look of terror, the flesh around his eyes twitching as he stammered, "Can't you hear it?"

Old Wang's gaze left the white‑haired man. "Hear what? Is something wrong?"

Fatty nearly lost his mind. "Thousands of them are crying! Don't you hear it?"

Old Wang and Liu Jingsheng cocked their heads and listened. "Nothing. Maybe it's your imagination?"

"It's not his imagination," I snapped. "I hear it, too—people crying."

"Impossible," Old Wang said, "La Zi—why hear nothing?" He strained his ears, but heard only silence.

The white‑haired man's eyes flicked from the skull fragments to us. "You two are suffering from tinnitus. Take a deep breath and hold it for one minute."

Tinnitus? Fatty and I exchanged glances—could this deafening mourning be ear‑ringing? Desperate, we inhaled deeply and held our breath.

Barely a minute passed when Fatty exhaled, gasping. His pudgy face was purple as he gulped air. "Nearly suffocated! You okay?"

"Don't compare me to a People's Liberation Army man—one minute is nothing. I could hold three, five, even seven minutes easily." Despite my rickety stamina record, I'd always had better lung capacity than Fatty—and for once, it felt good.

"Keep bragging," Fatty snorted—then blinked in disbelief. "Hey—you're right. I can't hear it anymore. Was it really just tinnitus?"

Incredible as it seemed, the wails had vanished. At first I'd still caught the faintest sobs; but once I refilled my lungs, the cries had receded into oblivion.

Though the sound was gone, I refused to believe it was mere tinnitus. This had to be the stranger's doing.

Old Wang, who'd been watching the white‑haired man, finally approached him. "Friend, I'm a soldier—straightforward to a fault. Forgive me if I offend. But we deserve to know what's happening here. If you can tell us—no promises I won't report it, but at least let us understand."

The stranger gathered the last shard in silence, then turned to Old Wang. "You really wish to know? You may regret knowing too much."

"I'd regret it more if you didn't speak," Old Wang replied, resolutely.

The stranger smiled rarey and spoke in a different tone. "This is the sacrificial altar of the ancient Dian Kingdom, two thousand years ago. After every war, they gathered prisoners here. Each autumn, they sacrificed them to heaven. Over there," he pointed toward the pool at the hall's entrance, "they drained the blood into the pit, beheaded them, built this head‑tower, and arranged the bodies around the altar."

"So that dark liquid is blood—and it hasn't evaporated in two thousand years?" I asked.

He glanced at me. "They mixed mercury into the pool. Blood and mercury won't vaporize."

Fatty shook his head. "Did you need to give such lecture‑level detail? Like you were there?"

He ignored Fatty. "The 'living dead' you encountered are the altar's priests. When the Dian Kingdom fell, they all committed ritual suicide. In life they wielded power over life and death and feared their souls would fall into hell. So they cast an ancient spell on themselves: their souls would never depart, turning them into the undead."

Such sorcery defied nature—but it had two fatal flaws. First, at intervals they must absorb living qi to sustain their bodies—otherwise their immortal souls would remain, but their corpses would rot to dust. So over the centuries, they've continually manipulated their descendants to lure victims here for them to feed upon."

"And the second fatal flaw?" Fatty pressed.