My name is Du Guangting, at the prime of my life, yet my physical condition deteriorates by the day, with blindness in both eyes, loss of taste, and multiple organ failures, time is running out for me.

All this is my just deserts; I am the last patriarch of the Huoye Society, the most notorious tomb raider in the Guanzhong area.

In my final moments, I made two significant decisions.

Firstly, to surrender cultural relics worth nearly a hundred billion to the state, as a meaningful gesture to society; secondly, to compile the numerous crimes I committed over the years as a cautionary tale for future generations.

My foray into tomb raiding is deeply intertwined with my grandfather, who was also a tomb raider and the last patriarch of the Huoye Society.

We called tomb raiding "zhiguo," and my grandfather's downfall came during one of these operations. He was convicted of grave robbing, selling antiquities, and intentional homicide, and was sentenced to death.

I witnessed his execution.

During the third grade winter vacation, just as dawn broke, my father dragged me out of my warm bed.

"Your grandfather is being executed today. If we delay, you won't be able to see him for the last time."

Thirty miles away on a farm was the execution ground.

Several Liberation brand trucks roared in, kicking up clouds of dust ten feet high. Armed police officers stood inside the carriages, escorting death row inmates, one of whom was my grandfather.

"Grubs eat standing trees; houses collapse and walls crumble."

A shot rang out, and my grandfather fell with a crash, a legend falling, leaving behind these parting words. My father said it was slang, but he wasn't entirely sure of its meaning.

When I was eighteen, I was admitted to a decent second-tier university. With poor family finances, the exorbitant tuition fees became a burden on both me and my father.

My father told me not to worry, saying that my grandfather left behind a treasure worth a lot of money. He had already contacted a buyer, and we would soon be rich.

A few days later, I received a call to identify the body. My father had been killed in a car accident involving a Bentley. The scene was horrifying. According to the surveillance footage, my father was at fault, suspected of fraud, and held responsible for the entire accident.

Out of humanitarianism, the owner of the car gave me a funeral fee of 5000 yuan and asked me to leave.

That period was the darkest time of my life; I stayed indoors all day, drowning my sorrows in alcohol.

Until one day, I saw a treasure-hunting program on TV. The experts said that wealth does not last for more than three generations. In the early years, wealthy families, to prevent their descendants from squandering the fortune, would hide valuable items and leave behind cryptic messages. One of these was "standing trees," which referred to pillars.

One of the Eight Strange Things in Shaanxi was about collapsing houses, also known as "shaxia" houses. Thinking of my grandfather's last words, I immediately inspected the pillars in my house carefully and made a startling discovery.

Over time, the paint had peeled off, revealing a square wooden wedge at the top of one pillar.

Using a dagger, I picked out the wooden wedge, only to find it hollow inside. Instead of rare treasures, there was an old yellowing thread-bound book with four powerful characters on the cover: "The Wandering of Ten Thousand Tombs."

This book was written by a Qing dynasty figure named Yinyangzi, the founder of the Huoye Society and the first patriarch. Its tomb-raiding techniques were unparalleled, and it was said that Yinyangzi participated in the looting of the Qing East Mausoleum.

"The Wandering of Ten Thousand Tombs" combines feng shui of yin dwellings, burial books, and various geomantic secrets, but its language is convoluted and obscure, making it particularly challenging to read.

Over the next three months, I developed a keen interest in "The Wandering of Ten Thousand Tombs" and indeed learned a great deal. Yet, it felt like entering an incomprehensibly vast universe because the book was so profound and extensive.

Unexpectedly, the village chief, that old donkey, led people to my house, pointing fingers at me, loudly demanding to reclaim our old house.

When my grandfather was sentenced to death and immediately executed, his personal property was confiscated, including this old house.

We had nowhere to live at the time, so the execution was postponed indefinitely. Now, a directive from higher authorities mandates a retrospective review of past cases, coupled with the Land Bureau's decision to reclaim abandoned properties for compensation. Unable to resist, I was evicted from the old house.

I burned paper at the grave, wept bitterly, and with "The Wandering of Ten Thousand Tombs" and an 8000 yuan compensation grant in hand, I left the old house where I had lived for over twenty years and went to the Western Capital to make a living.

As soon as I got off the bus and walked a short distance, a simple-looking peasant, carrying a bundle on his shoulder, hurriedly approached.

As we brushed past each other, I accidentally bumped into his shoulder. He exclaimed in pain, and the bundle fell to the ground with a crisp clang.

"Young man, you can't just walk away." The old farmer firmly grabbed my arm.

Upon opening the bundle, we found a pile of broken porcelain fragments. Seeing this, the old farmer stumbled back a few steps, sat down on the ground, and kept slapping his thigh.

"My son has gone blind, and I was planning to sell these ancestral bottles to pay for his treatment. Now, everything's ruined. Why is my life so bitter?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it was not intentional. I'll compensate you for the damage."

The old farmer looked at the pile of porcelain fragments, then raised his eyes to look at me, showing a look of dilemma.

"I'm not familiar with the market and don't know how much these bottles are worth. How about this: you come with me to Zhuque Street's antique market, and we'll find someone knowledgeable to assess them."

The old farmer said, picking up the bundle with one hand and pulling my arm with the other, heading to the antique market. Immediately, a crowd gathered around us. The old farmer explained the situation, asking the bystanders for help in appraising the items.

A chubby man pushed through the crowd, volunteered, and bent down to pick up a shard, gradually showing a surprised expression. He rolled up his trousers, squatted on the ground, and carefully inspected the fragments.

"What a pity! This is a Qianlong Imperial Famille Rose Hollow Eight Immortals Birthday Vase, an absolute treasure."

However, the old farmer was baffled, bending over and asking, "How much is it worth?"

The chubby man extended a finger, thick and short, adorned with a gold ring.

"Ten thousand?" He shook his finger.

The chubby man shook his finger again.

"Could it be a hundred thousand?" The old farmer's mouth gaped.

The chubby man shook his finger once more.

"Dear me, could it be... one million?" The old farmer's eyes widened, shaking his head.

The chubby man shook his finger again, then looked at the old farmer and shook his head.

"You peasants, all you know are crops and roots. Let me tell you frankly, conservatively estimated, it's worth ten million."

The old farmer trembled, slapped his thigh hard.

"Oh my God!"

My blood pressure skyrocketed, and I nearly fainted on the spot.

The old farmer grabbed my collar, wailing and demanding that I compensate him according to the valuation.