By the root of the tree knocked down by the bear, half a stone statue was buried in the mud, depicting a rare beast’s head and a human body, wearing a helmet, with hands grasping a stone axe decorated with human heads. It possessed an extraordinary bearing, yet its face was terrifyingly fierce. Upon seeing the stone statues of tiger-headed, human-bodied figures, Yanzi immediately recalled an ancient legend from the mountains and, forgetting all about cleaning the bearskin and meat, exclaimed to us in alarm, "That looks like the statue of a Mountain Ghost. This patch of woods must be the Ghost Yamen of the mountain. Let’s flee, quickly!”

The legend of the "Ghost Yamen" had circulated for years in the deepest forests on the western edge of the Greater Khingan Range. It was rumored to be a secret entrance to the Hall of Yama (the King of Hell) in the mortal world. Hunters lost in the mountains, once they strayed into the "Ghost Yamen," would unconsciously walk into the netherworld, becoming lonely, wandering spirits, never to return to the living world. However, in the last hundred years or so, very few people had seen it again.

The most distinct feature of that "Ghost Yamen" was the guardian Mountain Ghosts—tiger-headed, human-bodied figures—standing before the gate. Of course, no one could now trace back to which dynasty or generation this mountain legend originated. But the story of those who entered the "Ghost Yamen" to visit the Hall of Yama was enough to strike terror into one’s heart. Coupled with the innate sense of awe hunters held toward the great mountains, Yanzi panicked and could only urge us to leave quickly.

Fatty and I had both heard the legend, and I also knew that one should not linger in a place that felt inherently wrong. However, I wasn't about to be scared off by a mere stone statue of a tiger-headed man. I casually comforted Yanzi with remarks like, "The 'Ghost Yamen'? That’s just the dregs of feudal society. How can we be afraid of such things?" But even as I spoke, I was simultaneously pondering that we must first sort out the current situation before making any further plans.

The bear den was naturally a semi-enclosed cave beneath a dead tree. It was only because the bear, while chasing and attacking someone, had uprooted a troublesome Korean Pine that happened to be growing nearby, thus exposing half a stone beast buried in the soil as the roots pulled up the earth. As for the baseless nonsense about the tiger-headed Mountain Ghost guarding the "Ghost Yamen," I didn't believe it at all. In my view, this warrior statuette with a tiger head and human body was most likely a guardian figure placed before an ancient tomb. However, my knowledge of the Five Elements, Feng Shui, and tomb layout was rather superficial then, so I dared not jump to conclusions. Still, curiosity was piqued: since we had discovered these uniquely sculpted stone figures, what fun would there be in not investigating their mystery thoroughly while we had the chance?

I persuaded Yanzi not to rush back to the logging camp. Instead, I suggested we search in that direction for the "Ghost Yamen." Looking at the direction the tiger-headed statue faced, if there were any structures like ancestral halls or tombs in the mountains, they should generally be toward the "Weasel Grave." The ancient bowls and gold beans traded by the weasels might very well have come from that supposed "Ghost Yamen." If we could find those treasures, it would be a tremendous contribution to supporting the world revolution.

Yanzi stamped her foot and said, "Stop talking nonsense. If I don't guard the logging camp and sneak out to hunt bears with you, I'm already in the wrong. When I get back, the old Party Secretary is going to give me a severe dressing-down. If I stir up more trouble, how will I ever explain it to him?"

Fatty, his mind fixed on the gold, joined me in cajoling Yanzi. We said to her, "Sister Yanzi, aren't you a bit too scared of the old Party Secretary? No matter how big his title, he only has authority in the village. Besides, we aren't committing any crimes here; we are supporting the world revolution! Although guarding the camp is our duty, don't forget the highest directive: do not let production suppress revolution. In the torrent of revolutionary struggle, work must be set aside. The Secretary’s words don’t count; let him do as he pleases. Why are you hesitating? Don't forget this is the final battle—one must strike while the iron is hot to succeed. If we delay, the red flag will fly over the whole world, and nothing we do will catch up!"

We elevated the issue to such a high political level that Yanzi was speechless. She was so confused that she finally hardened her resolve, thinking, let it be whatever it will be. So, we immediately got to work, leaving the bearskin and meat for the moment, only wrapping up the bear paws and gallbladders to carry with us. Fatty suddenly remembered: Where was the wooden cage for the "Immortal Yellow Lady"? Earlier, the bear had fallen from the tree and broken off a large section of the Korean Pine, which had smashed right onto our resting spot. At the time, we were only focused on dodging and fleeing, and in the chaos, we had no memory of where we had thrown the wooden cage. Although the weasel was small, it still weighed nearly half a pound, and more importantly, the "Immortal Yellow Lady’s" fur was so smooth and sleek it could fetch at least ten pounds of fruit candies. Losing it so easily was quite a letdown.

We searched around the broken Korean Pine and discovered that the wooden cage had long been smashed to pieces by the branches. Moreover, the cage was empty—the "Immortal Yellow Lady" had already made a clean getaway. Fatty cursed in frustration.

I recalled that the weasel’s hind leg had been firmly secured by the wire. Even if the cage broke, it shouldn't have been able to escape the wire’s restraint. At most, it could have crawled out using its front paws to escape. Weasels rely entirely on their powerful hind limbs for darting and leaping, so it couldn't have fled too far. Thinking this, I quickly looked up at the surroundings. In the snow, aside from our own scattered footprints from the struggle with the bear, there was indeed a rough drag mark. The "Immortal Yellow Lady" must have fled along this path. Following the trail, my eyes immediately fell upon a furry object struggling desperately next to the tiger-headed statuette. It was indeed the "Immortal Yellow Lady" that had escaped the squirrel cage.

Seeing it hadn't gone far, we immediately energized, chasing after it like a gust of wind. We saw the "Immortal Yellow Lady" struggling hard, pulling itself along with its two front paws toward the direction of the Weasel Grave. Sensing someone pursuing from behind, it immediately burrowed into a small hole near the statuette and vanished without a trace.

We rushed over to look. It turned out there was a tunnel beneath the feet of the tiger-headed Mountain Ghost statuette. Due to the long passage of time and changes in the soil, it had been covered by mud and pine needles. When the ancient pine fell, the tunnel was revealed through a small gap. It was pitch black inside, and nothing could be seen clearly. The "Immortal Yellow Lady" had fled into this tiny opening.

Fatty angrily kicked the mud wall near the hole a few times. After just a few kicks, the mud of the tunnel wall collapsed, and a large cavity was exposed in the depression left by the uprooted ancient tree roots. A blast of chilling air rushed out, making our faces feel cold. It seemed the air flowed well inside, meaning there must be another exit further in.

Even Fatty was surprised by how fragile the earthen wall was. I quickly stopped him, realizing that this deep hole at the mouth of the opening was not the tunnel itself, but merely an access passage dug through the mud and stone, which was not sturdy and could collapse at any moment. We didn't know where it led, so we quickly found some pine branches, lit a few torches for illumination, and cautiously began to probe the dark space beyond the opening.

The cave inside was very narrow; we could only advance by crawling on our bellies. But none of us wanted to tear our sleeves, so we could only hold the torches slanted ahead and then shuffle forward, bent over, using the torchlight to see traces of excavation by sharp tools on the four walls. I took the lead, with Fatty close behind holding a long-handled splitting axe. Yanzi brought up the rear, holding the other torch and dragging the hunting rifle.

None of us knew where this damp, cold tunnel led, and we were full of doubt. My grandfather had been a Feng Shui master. Because he understood the secret art of dragon vein tracing and was quite renowned in the province, he associated with many fellow Yin-Yang and Feng Shui practitioners. Among them were tomb robbers who engaged in the business of "grave robbing" (dǎodǒu). From him, I learned that the most formidable among tomb robbers were the "Gold Seal Captains" (Mōjīn Xiàowèi). These captains could survey the mountain shapes, examine the earth veins, determine the burial sites precisely, and go straight for the vital spot—what was called "striking directly at the Yellow Dragon" (zhídǎo huánglóng). This meant digging a secret, precise tunnel to bypass the copper walls and iron sarcophagi, piercing directly into the treasure-laden chamber through the Golden Well. Perhaps the passage we were crawling through now was a treasure-hunting tunnel dug by grave robbers.

However, I soon dismissed this possibility myself. The earthen tunnel was both narrow and short, beginning under the tiger-headed statuette, and it ended after winding for only about ten meters. What lay there was not a tomb chamber holding ancient corpses or secret treasures, but a rather old bluestone door set into the earth. It seemed to have eaves and dougong brackets, but the tunnel only exposed a section of the stone door, making detailed identification impossible at the moment. The stone door was divided into two leaves, half-open and half-closed, with a large gap visible in the middle. On either side stood stone pillars, carved with ancient dragon patterns and symbols of the sun and moon, now severely weathered. This at least indicated that the stone structure inside the tunnel had once existed above ground and had been eroded by factors like wind, rain, and sun over the years to reach its current state.

Fatty and I guessed that this was probably an ancient ancestral hall that had been buried underground by geological activity. The pine tree growing so large above it suggested an unknown but considerable age. In any case, there was no reason not to go in and take a look now that we were at the door. If there were good things inside, we'd take them out. If there was nothing, we’d paint a couple of slogans on it and smash it as one of the "Four Olds."

Yanzi insisted this was definitely the "Ghost Yamen," and behind the door was most likely the Underworld Hall of Yama. She pleaded, "Let's go back the way we came. Let’s not enter whatever is inside." I told Yanzi, "This tunnel is so short and has no other exit. The Yellow Immortal must have crawled through this stone door. We’ll go in, catch it, and come right back. If we don't catch it, last night’s effort will have been in vain, and we won't get any fruit candies. Don’t you want candy?"

Yanzi swallowed hard. "How could I not want candy? Actually, fruit candies aren't as good as the milk candies the educated youth brought from the city..." Eager to capture the "Immortal Yellow Lady," Fatty pushed past us before I could fully persuade Yanzi, slipping through the stone door first. Fearing unexpected dangers inside and worried that Fatty might be left alone, I urged Yanzi to follow us quickly inside.

The torchlight flickered wildly as we moved rapidly. In the shifting light and shadow, I clearly saw that there was no soil behind the door, but rather a rather spacious stone hall. Inside were stone pillars and stone tables; along the sides, mud statues of deities lay scattered haphazardly. Thick cobwebs and accumulated dust hung in every corner. Everywhere I looked was a scene of utter disarray and ruin. The torchlight was also very limited, so for a moment, I couldn't see where the "Immortal Yellow Lady" had hidden.

The three of us entering together created quite a commotion. Someone must have dislodged some dust, causing us all to cough uncontrollably. Once the dust settled, we looked at each other—we were all covered in grime and looked quite disheveled.

Fatty’s legs and feet were numb from crouching in the low, narrow passage during the several-meter crawl. Now that he was in the stone hall, he could finally stretch his limbs and move around. He stretched his arms and legs, noticed a large clump of dust on his dog-skin hat, and spotting a round wooden stump near the entrance that resembled a tree stump, he shook his hat out over it twice. Then, he casually sat down on it and said to me, "I’ll guard the entrance here—one man holding the pass. That little weasel can’t grow wings and fly away. Old Hu, you go search everywhere for it. Drive it out so I can skin it alive. But I see this large room seems to have a back door too. If it slips out the back, that'll be troublesome. Yanzi, quickly go guard the back door..."

Ever since entering this strange stone hall, I had been consumed with curiosity about everything inside, having completely forgotten about catching the "Immortal Yellow Lady." It was only when Fatty reminded me that I remembered. Just as I was about to look for it, I saw Yanzi urgently pulling Fatty off the wooden stump. Yanzi told us, "You two never believe me, but this is the Ghost Yamen. Everyone in the mountains knows that you can't sit on the tree stumps in the woods because they are the dining tables of the Tiger God. Mortals who sit on them invite disaster and trouble. Why did you just sit down?"

Fatty placed his foot on the stump and laughed, "Satellites are already in the sky, and atomic bombs have exploded. The poor have achieved liberation. Who cares whose god or king’s dining table or altar it is? That’s all old history now. Today, we working people use it as a stool to sit on—that’s giving it honor. If I were really happy, I might even piss on it."

I shoved Fatty aside and joked, "Stop your goddamn nonsense. Even the working class can't just relieve themselves anywhere. Besides, look at yourself in the mirror—when did the working class ever have a fat pig like you? Just looking at your belly exposes you. No need to ask, you must be a bad element infiltrated into our ranks of the working class."

What puzzled me most was the purpose of this stone hall, especially the presence of this wooden stump by the entrance. To uncover its secret, I pushed the bothersome Fatty aside and squatted down, shining my torch on it. Upon inspection, I realized that this tree stump-like wooden block indeed held a profound secret. It bore ancient patterns and many strange symbols I couldn't decipher. Most remarkably, right in the center of the block was an engraving of a human figure wearing ancient women’s clothing. However, instead of a human head, the figure had the face of a weasel—a weasel face wearing a sly, wicked smile, utterly detestable and evoking inexplicable revulsion. That bizarre expression seemed to project an invisible force that gripped the heart, causing one’s body hair to stand on end with icy coldness upon seeing it. I thought to myself, This is bad; we’ve probably entered the weasel’s lair.

The circular wooden block was likely an offering table. Although called a stump, its texture was incredibly hard, suggesting it was a rare type of petrified wood that had resisted decay for ages. Engraved upon it was a divine image of a weasel wearing human clothes, its expression extremely strange, terrifying mixed with mystery.

Fatty didn't care what was on the wooden block; he was busy explaining to me that he got so fat in preparation for infiltrating the enemy. I waved him off. Now was not the time for witty banter. It seemed we had entered a Mountain Ghost Temple dedicated to the Great Immortal Yellow, judging by the pattern on the offering table and the overturned mud statues in the stone hall.

The collapsed clay statues in the hall resembled the arrangement of City God and Kitchen God statues in ordinary temples. On both sides were deities with beast heads and human bodies, likely attendants and adjudicators. Behind the offering table was a mud sculpture of a weasel spirit. The hall retained many bizarre inscriptions and pictorial reliefs, which mostly depicted terrifying scenes of weasels transforming into spirits and eating people. The accompanying inscriptions recorded bizarre content that I largely couldn't understand.

The stone door deeply embedded in the earth and the chaotic ruins inside the hall all suggested that a natural disaster, like a landslide, had occurred previously, burying this stone "Ghost Temple" halfway underground. However, the passage leading to the stone door was clearly dug out later. Why would those who dug the tunnel go to such trouble to unearth this ancient temple? Were they looking for something important? What could possibly be inside a mountain ghost temple? I couldn't fathom it, but precisely because the unknown elements were increasing, it strengthened my resolve to investigate thoroughly.

Yanzi, full of superstitious ideas, was inherently fearful of the "Ghost Yamen" legend. She wiped a dust-covered stone bowl beside the wooden stump with her glove. The bowl contained a dark brown solidified substance, which reminded her of the legend of the Mountain Ghost drinking human blood. She began to suspect that the "Immortal Yellow Lady" had deliberately led us into this Mountain Ghost Temple. The more she thought about it, the more frightened she became.

Fatty and I didn't believe the little weasel had such arrogant, reactionary audacity to dare challenge the powers that be. We dismissed her fears, saying, "Trying to lead us into an ambush? Has that bastard revolted against us? Besides, even if weasels are clever, they are still beasts. How can they exaggerate the power of ghosts and monsters so much? That ideological tendency is dangerous. You must know that the iron fist of the proletariat can smash all reactionary forces."

Fatty and I finally concluded that the mountain folk were overly superstitious about the Great Immortal Yellow. It seemed that watering the roots of trees and cultivating the hearts of people were equally important. Machines rust if not polished; people become revisionists if they don't study. This showed that our ideological education work was insufficient. We needed to make Yanzi realize that a weasel is just a weasel; even if it wears human skin, it can’t become a spirit.

Yanzi became angry and cursed, "You two knuckleheads are just spinning yarns! What can I say about you two? The legend says anyone who enters the Ghost Yamen will be caught by the Mountain Ghost and have their blood sucked dry. Look at this stone bowl under the wooden offering table—it’s saturated with human blood! This is a bloody fact, so how is that superstition on my part?"

I wondered if Mountain Ghosts really drank human blood—that was quite sinister. Could such a human tragedy really exist? I lowered my head to look at the stone bowl Yanzi mentioned, supposedly used for holding human blood. Beneath the round wooden offering table, there was indeed a large stone bowl. In the Northeast, such an extra-large bowl is called a haiwan (sea bowl). This stone bowl was also very old, heavily worn, with broken and incomplete edges.

Wanting to check if the dark residue in the bowl was human blood, I lifted the stone bowl, turned it over, and knocked it onto the ground. A lot of dark purplish powder shook out of it. I then looked at the statue of the weasel spirit on the altar table and suddenly understood. I waved my hand downward, making a gesture of chopping off a head, and said to Fatty and Yanzi, "This round wooden block isn't an offering table; it's a guillotine! It must have been used for slaughtering chickens and draining their blood. Look at the dense knife and axe marks all along the edge of the block. After chopping off a chicken's head here, the blood must have been poured into the stone bowl as an offering to the Great Immortal Yellow. Why do I say chicken blood? Because the deity worshipped in this stone hall is the Weasel, and weasels don't eat people. The idea that weasels eat chickens is absolutely a rumor; they don't eat the meat. They steal chickens only because they like to drink chicken blood."

My explanation made Yanzi nod repeatedly. The analysis was logical and reasonable. Such customs did exist in earlier times, which convinced her that this stone hall was just a temple dedicated to the Great Immortal Yellow long ago, not a "Ghost Yamen" where Mountain Ghosts drank human blood. Yanzi feared Mountain Ghosts, but not weasels; after all, every hunter in the mountains had trapped a weasel before. Her mind calmed down, and her thinking became much clearer. She no longer only wanted to drag us away. Seeing the stone bowl for the weasel drinking chicken blood, she suddenly remembered an ancient legend that had circulated for years. She said if one mentioned the Great Immortal Yellow Temple, there seemed to be one such temple near Tuanshanzi.

Many, many years ago, there was a gold vein below Tuanshanzi. People dug for gold in the mountains during the day and camped by the banks of the Chaganha River at night. Because there were too many people, when lights were lit in the camp at night, the valley shone brightly. Those searching for gold veins believed in the Great Immortal Yellow, thinking that all the gold in the mountains belonged to the Great Immortal, and that allowing them to dig was a benevolent act by the Great Immortal to aid the poor. They were all deeply grateful and frequently went to the Great Immortal Yellow Temple below Tuanshanzi to worship.

That temple existed before them, long abandoned. But precisely because the location of the Great Immortal Yellow Temple was so special—it directly faced the open camp below the mountain—the place that is now the Tuanshanzi Logging Camp—the gold miners eating and lighting fires for warmth was equivalent to offering incense to the Great Immortal. Because there were so many gold miners, the Great Immortal in the temple "received thousands of offerings a day and tens of thousands of incense sticks lit at night." What deity could enjoy such treatment? As a result, the Mountain God learned of it, becoming jealous and envious, and caused a mountain collapse, burying many people. From then on, the Great Immortal Yellow Temple vanished, and the mountain's gold vein disappeared without a trace. Another version of the story suggests that someone dug out a bronze casket in the mine tunnel; that casket belonged to the Great Immortal Yellow, and mortals were forbidden to open it. Once opened, the mountain collapsed. What was inside the casket remains unknown, as everyone who saw it died.

Finally, Yanzi concluded, "These are stories from the old generations, perhaps hundreds of years old. If this place isn't the Ghost Yamen, it’s definitely the Great Immortal Yellow Temple built by the gold miners in ancient times."

I nodded. That sounded somewhat plausible. To think that this remote, seldom-traveled mountain forest had once thrived due to a gold vein—I wouldn't have believed it unless I had seen the subterranean huangpizi temple with my own eyes. Of course, I certainly didn't believe the mountain collapse was related to the Mountain God’s wrath, nor did I buy the story that the mountain fell because a bronze casket was unearthed. It was an earthquake, plain and simple. Why must people insist on forcing sensationalist elements onto it?

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