Upon the slightly yellowed grid notebook, a record of an extraordinary past unfolded. I set aside the notebook, my heart pounding incessantly. It took several deep breaths to calm myself.
Picking up a cigarette box, I stood before the massive map left by Second Master. A small note, serving as a comment, was pinned to one corner with a thumbtack. The content was concise: "Excavate Qing Mountain, not returned."
Two lines were hung on the pin of this record, and I traced one that delved deep into the Yunnan-Guizhou region, directly nailed into the Wumeng Mountains. It was expected that this was the location of the Chao Xian Tomb. The other line, intriguingly, led all the way into the territory of Hubei. Opening the attached note, strangely, it was completely blank.
Stubbing out the cigarette and rubbing my temples, memories of Second Master's words surfaced. The Chao Xian Tomb in Wumeng Mountains was likely where my father had gone missing. It was there that he found crucial clues, unraveling the mystery of the Cao family's Qing Mountain and triggering the later events involving the Cao family's daytime activities.
If things proceeded as expected, this blank note represented the location of the last tomb raid, Cao family's Qing Mountain.
However, the appearance of this notebook at this moment introduced a flaw in the deductions. While the route matched, the timeline seemed suspicious.
This diary I held wasn't completed yet, likely belonging to the final entries of my father's series of diaries. Therefore, the recorded time was likely the moment when the incident occurred, around May 1993.
However, their visit to Cao family's Qing Mountain happened in October 1994. In this period, my father should have also visited the Chao Xian Tomb in Wumeng Mountains. So, the timeline should be: Qinling Underground Palace (May 1993) - Wumeng (unknown) - Hubei Cao family's Qing Mountain (October 1994).
If I hadn't been to the Qinling Underground Palace, perhaps these deductions would hold. However, having witnessed my father's lifeless body, the speculations seemed implausible. People don't come back to life, so how could he have built two large tombs after more than a year of his death?
Frustrated, I crumpled the cigarette box on the table. The current conclusion was a paradox; the two couldn't coexist but each independently proved itself.
Feeling powerless, I leaned back in the chair, looking at the huge map on the opposite wall. I wondered if Second Master, in countless nights, had also exhausted himself dealing with this massive puzzle.
After a moment of silence, I rubbed my face, regained my composure, knowing I must have made a mistake somewhere. Even though the situation was mysterious, it happened in the past. The truth must have unfolded in a bizarre manner.
I documented each event in the notebook. Looking at it, the focal point of all these events was my father's time of death.
If the date of death holds, then the previously deduced route map must be wrong (for various reasons, not detailed here). Anything that happened after May 1993 must have been tampered with.
If the route holds, then the time of death is incorrect. Second Master had been investigating for so many years; it couldn't be all wrong. I leaned towards this point, whether it was Wumeng or Hubei, as long as my father had been to one place, it proved the problem with the time of death!
I took out the diary again, flipping to the last few pages. Disappointingly, there were no signs of torn pages. The diary indeed only recorded up to this point.
Reluctant, I began flipping through the contents of the diary, hoping to find clues that prove this wasn't the last one, overturning my father's time of death.
From the beginning of writing this diary, my father's team seemed to have brought some rubbings from somewhere and invited someone named Zhao Sanshui to translate. They seemed pressed for time, and the translation work was not smooth. It lasted for a whole week before completion.
"Though the content is incomplete, from Sanshui's results, as I expected, there is no treasure inside Qing Mountain. May 12, 1993."
I was startled. My father's team indeed discovered Cao family's Qing Mountain. Who left Qing Mountain? What did it hide besides wealth? What was the connection between the ancestors of the Cao family and the various ghost tribes? Numerous questions flashed through my mind, but unfortunately, the content in the diary was too sparse.
Turning to the next page, my eyes lit up after reading a few lines. I trembled as I opened a packet of white sand, taking two sips to calm myself. Then, elation surged within me. The content following this diary included some speculations by my father, revealing several clues I was entirely unaware of.
I grabbed my own notebook, reorganizing the information with expanded and speculated keywords:
First, as Second Master said, my father discovered something unusual from the older generation of the Cao family. (Specific time and events unknown.) He then researched extensively into the family history, finding that both internal and external disciples of the Cao family would mysteriously "disappear" in certain years. This disappearance wasn't death but was mysteriously erased from the family records, as if they never existed.
Speaking of the Cao family, not only my father, but Second Master and I also investigated the family's background. However, this extensive family appeared out of thin air. The search couldn't trace its origin. It could go back to the Ming Dynasty at most, but in modern times, it unexpectedly became powerful, involving in various businesses – from banks, theaters, gambling dens, black markets, brothels, martial arts, to transportation. Particularly in the late Republic of China, it gradually whitewashed its image. Although still having a foot in the old business, it transformed from a business to a consortium, deeply rooted like a giant poplar tree, its roots firmly entrenched underground.
Second, Qing Mountain does not house treasure but something hidden by an ancestor.
This conclusion was followed by a drawing of a question mark by my father. A segment of recording followed, and I guessed my father wasn't certain about the content either. He believed that the ancestor at that time also discovered something, forced by circumstances, placed the clues into the so-called Qing Mountain. Based on this speculation, the secrets of the Cao family were even more ancient than we imagined. In the long history of the Cao family, my father might not have been the first to "peek" at the truth.
After this recording was a section of excerpts. Given my father's temperament at that time, I estimated that he had subsequently checked the family history but unfortunately found that the information about that ancestor had vanished in history. However, unexpectedly, he discovered a record about his grandson.
"His family originated from outside, young and wandering, returning in his prime. His father rose to the rank of general, skilled in arts, especially proficient in painting and decorating puppet soldiers. In his later years, his whereabouts became ominous."
I looked at it and took in a sharp breath. The record was clear, but the phrase "His father rose to the rank of general" made my
mind drift. The general lying in the Zhenling Terrace was also surnamed Cao. Was this just a coincidence?
I almost collapsed on the chair, the back of my shirt damp with sweat. If the father mentioned in this record was indeed General Cao, then the father of the general must be the initiator of Cao family's Qing Mountain, and the mysterious person who led the ghost tribe out of the Zhugui tribe to dig out the Zhenling Terrace, connecting everything to the Cao family. All this seemed too terrifying if it were just a coincidence.
I even doubted that the news of the treasure in Cao family's Qing Mountain was a smoke screen released by those hidden figures behind the scenes. Taking it a step further, perhaps the father of General Cao took something they needed or simply was their possession, hiding it away. Hence, the legend of treasure in Qing Mountain emerged, making the Cao family search for generations.
As for what was hidden inside Qing Mountain, I believe only my father knew.
Third, this diary was indeed written before entering the underground palace, as the latter half mostly consisted of records of the Qinling journey.
The six-person team spent several days navigating through the old forests of Qinling. Different from our aimless wandering, they, using the rubbings' records, drew a map and quickly found the entrance to the underground palace. (Various difficulties along the way, not detailed here, mainly mentioned briefly above.) On the third day down, they officially entered the ancient building complex of broken walls.
Seeing this, I suddenly realized that my father's team's route was opposite to ours. Moreover, judging by the map that Big Head and Xiao He found, it was likely the one they drew. I thought, indeed, it was like destiny; after more than twenty years, my old man still saved my life.
They passed through the building complex and reached the "core area," in their words, presumably the ancient temple used to resist monsters.
They must have had a difficult journey to get here. I noticed the later diaries had messy handwriting, even intermittent, with several short records in less than a day. In the end, he referred to this place as an "experimental platform," and a sentence lingered in my mind, "I don't know if I should go in."
Seeing this, I suddenly had a bad premonition. I quickly flipped backward, and the diary stopped here, with the date staying on June 28. I was stunned for a few seconds, realizing that he also went in. My father and Han Sheng went in, the grand and eerie, solemn and bloody underground world.
I sat here holding the diary like this, and there was a moment when I wanted to return to the underground palace, jumping down without any concerns, just to see what was inside.
After a while, I sighed. Trying to close the diary, my right thumb felt something unusual. I opened the notebook, gently rubbing it with my finger, sensing a concave outline. I immediately realized that something had been clamped here. Due to long-term compression, it left traces on the paper.
I held up the notebook against the light, faintly seeing a long trace. The light could only cast a shadow, revealing the outline but not more details. Anxiously, I turned around and saw a pencil on the desk, suddenly becoming attentive.