The circular wooden stump, perhaps an altar, was actually made of an incredibly hard, imperishable material—a rare, semi-fossilized stone-wood. Carved upon it was a statue of a Huangpizi wearing human clothes, its expression exceedingly strange, harboring a touch of the horrific beneath its mystery.

Fatty paid no mind to what lay on the wooden stump; he was busy explaining to me that his stout figure was preparation for infiltrating the enemy ranks. I waved him off; there was no time for chatter now. It seemed we had stumbled into a mountain ghost shrine dedicated to the Huang Daxian. This was evident from the carvings on the wooden altar and the overturned clay figures scattered within the stone hall.

The collapsed clay statues in the stone hall resembled the typical arrangements for City God or Stove Gods in ordinary temples, with fierce, humanoid figures possessing beast heads standing guard on either side. Behind the altar was a clay sculpture of a Huangpizi spirit. The hall retained numerous bizarre inscriptions and pictograms, most depicting terrifying scenes of Huangpizi spirits transforming and consuming humans. The accompanying texts were largely filled with arcane content I couldn't decipher.

The stone door, deeply embedded in the earth and rubble, and the chaotic state of decay within the hall all suggested that a natural disaster, like a landslide, had occurred previously, burying this stone-built ghost shrine halfway underground. However, the passage leading to the stone door had clearly been dug out much later. Why would those who dug the tunnel go to such pains to excavate this ancient shrine? Were they searching for something important? What could possibly be hidden in a ghost shrine on a desolate mountain? I couldn't fathom it, but the accumulation of the unknown only hardened my resolve to investigate thoroughly.

Yanzi, riddled with superstitious beliefs, possessed an innate fear of the legends surrounding the "Ghost Yamen." She used her glove to wipe dust from a stone bowl near the round wooden stump. The bowl was filled with dark brown solidified residue, which reminded her of the mountain ghost's legend of drinking human blood. This led her to suspect that the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" had deliberately lured us into this mountain ghost temple. The more she thought about it, the more unnerved she became.

Neither Fatty nor I believed the little Huangpizi possessed such arrogant, counter-revolutionary fervor as to dare challenge the great powers above (Tai Sui). So, we carelessly told Yanzi, "Trying to lure us into an ambush? Has that little thing actually rebelled against us? Besides, while Huangpizi are clever, they are ultimately beasts. To excessively exaggerate the power of monsters and spirits is a dangerous way of thinking. Remember, the iron fist of the proletariat can smash all reactionary forces."

Fatty and I finally concluded that the local mountain people were overly superstitious about the Huang Daxian. It seemed that to water a tree, one must water the roots; to educate a person, one must cultivate the heart. Machines rust if not cleaned; people turn revisionist if they cease learning. This proved that our ideological education work was lacking. We needed to make Yanzi realize that a Huangpizi is just a Huangpizi; even if it wears human skin, it cannot become a true spirit.

Yanzi became furious and cursed, "You two bastards are spouting nonsense! What good can I say about either of you? The legend says anyone who enters the Ghost Yamen gets captured by the mountain ghost and has their blood drained dry. Look at the stone bowl beneath this wooden altar—it’s soaked through with human blood! This is a bloody fact! How is that superstition?"

I thought to myself, a mountain ghost drinking human blood? That was quite sinister. Could such human tragedies truly have occurred? I bent down to examine the stone bowl Yanzi mentioned, supposedly used to hold human blood. Sure enough, beneath the round wooden altar was a very large stone bowl. In the Northeast, such an oversized bowl is called a Haiwan. This stone bowl was clearly ancient, heavily worn, with its edges chipped and incomplete.

Wanting to confirm if the deep black residue inside was human blood, I lifted the stone bowl, turned it over, and slammed it onto the ground. A cloud of dark purple, powdery residue shook out of it. I then looked at the statue of the Huangpizi spirit on the altar, and suddenly understood. I waved my hand downward, mimicking a chopping motion, and told Fatty and Yanzi, "This round wooden stump is not an altar; it’s a guillotine. It was definitely used for beheading chickens and collecting their blood. Look at the dense axe and knife marks along the edges of the stump. After chopping off a chicken's head here, the blood must have been channeled into the stone bowl as an offering to the Huang Daxian. Why do I say chicken blood? Because the deity worshipped in this stone hall is a Huangpizi. Huangpizi don't eat people. The rumor that Huangpizi like to eat chickens is also false; they don't eat the meat. They steal chickens because they only like to drink the blood."

My explanation made Yanzi nod repeatedly. It sounded logical and reasonable; such customs did exist in earlier times. This convinced her that the stone hall was merely a former temple dedicated to the Huang Daxian, not some "Ghost Yamen" where mountain ghosts drank human blood. Yanzi feared the mountain ghost, but not the Huangpizi. After all, every hunter in the mountains had set traps for Huangpizi. Once her mind settled, her thinking became clearer, and she stopped obsessing about dragging us away. Seeing the stone bowl that held Huangpizi offerings, she suddenly recalled an ancient legend passed down for years. She said if one mentioned the Huang Daxian temple, there really seemed to have been one near Tuan Shanzi long ago.

Many, many years ago, there was a gold vein beneath Tuan Shanzi. Those digging for gold during the day would camp by the Zhaganha River at night. Because there were too many people, when night fell, the lights from the camp illuminated the valley brightly. Those searching for gold believed in the Huang Daxian, thinking the gold in the mountains belonged to the Great Immortal, and that allowing them to dig was a compassionate act by the Huang Daxian to aid the poor, suffering folk. They were deeply grateful and frequently went to the Huang Daxian temple below Tuan Shanzi to pay respects.

That temple existed beforehand but had long been abandoned. However, because the location of the Huang Daxian temple was so strategic, directly facing the open camp below, which is now the Tuan Shanzi Forest Farm, the miners’ meals and the fires they lit for warmth were essentially offerings of incense to the Huang Daxian. Because there were so many miners, the Huang Daxian in the temple supposedly "received offerings from a thousand tables daily and had ten thousand incense sticks lit every night." What deity could enjoy such treatment? In the end, the Mountain God learned of this, becoming jealous and envious, and caused the mountain to collapse, crushing many people. From then on, the Huang Daxian temple vanished, and the gold veins in the mountains disappeared without a trace. There was another version: someone dug up a bronze casket in the mine tunnel, which belonged to the Huang Daxian. Mortals were strictly forbidden from opening it. Once opened, the mountain collapsed. No one knew what was in the casket, and everyone who saw it died.

Finally, Yanzi concluded, "These are stories from the elders, perhaps centuries old. If this place isn't the Ghost Yamen, it must be the Huang Daxian temple built by those gold miners in ancient times."

I nodded. This sounded somewhat plausible. I never would have guessed that this remote, deep mountain forest had once prospered due to a gold rush. If I hadn't seen this buried Huangpizi temple with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. Of course, I didn't believe the mountain collapse was due to the Mountain God’s anger, nor did I believe the mountain collapsed because someone found a bronze casket. An earthquake is an earthquake; why must sensational elements be tacked onto it?

As we spoke, the pine branch torches we carried began to dim, nearing exhaustion. We quickly replaced them with two Songzhu (pine candles). These were simple, local candles made in the mountains, with the drawback that they burned quickly, not lasting as long as proper candles. They were adequate for navigating at night, better than having no light at all.

I told Fatty and Yanzi that since this place was merely a Huangpizi temple, there was nothing strange about it. We should "pursue the remaining enemy with the last of our strength," capture the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" in the rear hall, and then hurry back to the forest farm before dark.

The "Yellow Immortal Aunt" had its mouth stuffed with a Mangua (a type of vegetable), its anus sealed with yellow wax, and its hind legs tied with iron wire. It could neither cry out nor release its noxious gas, and it couldn't crawl fast. It was barely clinging to life, so we weren't worried about it flying away. The three of us proceeded unhurriedly, searching toward the depths of the stone hall.

The stone hall of the Huang Daxian temple had limited depth, with the rear wall built snugly against the mountainside. The entire hall had only the stone door we entered through as an entrance; there was no back door. Several places in the ceiling of stone beams and bricks were damaged, causing gusts of cold wind to rush down. Above them were likely tree hollows, sinkholes, or underground crevices, but the gaps were less than a palm's width wide—the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" couldn't possibly squeeze out.

In the hall stood a half-toppled clay statue, the niche for the Huang Daxian. This clay figure wore a long robe, was of average human height, and appeared even more anthropomorphic than usual, yet it had a shrew-like head, beady eyes, and a few small whiskers near its mouth, still closely resembling the snout of a weasel. Behind the Huang Daxian statue was a Diyinzi (cellar/trapdoor), with stone steps leading deeper underground. It seemed the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" must have fled down here to seek the protection of its ancestors.

I found this Diyinzi very peculiar. The entrance to the Diyinzi should have been paved with blue bricks, but those bricks had been pried up and tossed aside. This was clearly the entrance to a well-hidden secret passage. It seemed the prying up of the Diyinzi might have been the work of the group who excavated the ancient underground temple. They had clearly come here with a purpose. What were they searching for? Could it be the bronze casket rumored in local legends to hold the Huang Daxian's treasures?

Yanzi and I held the pine candles, one in front and one behind, while Fatty walked between us holding his weapon. The three of us descended the steps one by one. The stone steps were steep and narrow. The Diyinzi was bone-chillingly cold. As I walked, I briefly relayed my recent speculation to Fatty and Yanzi. Fatty replied, "Old Hu, you’re always smart but sometimes foolish. Didn't you see how thick the soil was over the tunnel entrance when we came down? That’s all mud and stone washed down from the mountain by rainwater, which has since buried it again. Even if people came here decades or a century ago to dig for treasure, they would have taken everything worthwhile by now. What’s left for us? We're too late! Catching a few small Huangpizi every now and then to trade for a few pounds of fruit candy would satisfy me. Don't be greedy. Didn't we already find a bear paw and golden soybeans? These past couple of days have been a real windfall; we’ve secured enough money for our Spring Festival trip home and future tobacco and alcohol."

I talked with Fatty and Yanzi as we walked down, only to realize the Diyinzi was much deeper than expected. My heart started to pound; I couldn't guess where this led. The air quality grew worse the deeper we went, but it was still breathable. What was most unbearable was that the flame of the pine candles shifted from blue to green, flickering brightly and dimly, casting an eerie blue glow over our faces. I've never seen a ghost, but I figured if one truly existed, its complexion probably wouldn't be much different from ours right now.

Not only did the pine candles sting our eyes, but their flames were weak. Even without wind, they would sometimes extinguish on their own. I held a candle in one hand, partially cupping the flame with the other to shield it from the airflow caused by my own breathing and movement. But these crude, local candles were poorly made; despite my care, the one in my hand suddenly went out.

The moment the candle in my hand extinguished, I was plunged into absolute darkness. I stopped, intending to relight it before moving on, but Fatty was too close behind me, and the stairs were narrow—I couldn't stop my momentum. His push unbalanced me, and I staggered. Yanzi, bringing up the rear, saw us two about to tumble down the steps and quickly reached out to grab Fatty's arm. But she couldn't hold him, and she fell down with us, tumbling and crashing.

Fortunately, the stone steps were almost at an end, and we were wearing thick clothes, so we weren't seriously injured. However, the pine candle in Yanzi's hand had also gone out. It was pitch black, impossible to see anything. I rubbed my aching elbow, fumbling in my satchel for another pine candle to light, wanting to see what kind of place we had fallen into.

But as soon as I sat up, my head, covered by the fur hat, struck something. Things were swinging loosely past my face, and higher up, I heard the dry, grating sound of rope rubbing against wood—a constant "squeak, squeak." I wondered what was hanging there. I reached out and touched it. Judging by the feel, it was like the thick-soled, felted cotton boots (Tisi Niu Mian Xie) common in the Northeast. Touching further inside, there was a hard lump—a human foot. Higher up was a calf clad in padded trousers, the cuffs still tied. I froze in shock. The sole of the boot was level with my head and face. What kind of person hangs suspended in the air? It had to be a hanged corpse. In the utter blackness, I had found a hanging body. All the legends about the "Old Hanging Master" (Lao Diao Ye), as they call hanged ghosts in the Northeast mountains, were intensely terrifying. Although I'd never believed them, facing it now, it was impossible not to be scared. I couldn't help but let out a loud "Ah!"

My cry startled both Yanzi and Fatty, who were lying next to me. Fatty had taken the worst of the fall, his tailbone hitting the edge of a stone step. He was currently sucking in cold air from the pain and hadn't gotten up yet. Hearing my terrified shout, he became worried and urgently asked, "Old Hu, what's wrong with you? Why... why are you screaming? Hurry up and give us some light!"

I had truly been momentarily stunned by the shock. My hands were still clutching the dangling feet of the corpse, refusing to let go. Hearing Fatty's question, I didn't know how to explain, so I blurted out, "I... I... these feet... they scared me to death."

Yanzi seemed equally bewildered by my fright. In the darkness, I heard her stammer frantically, "Ah? You died? You absolutely cannot die! When the village secretary scolds me later, I was counting on you to take the blame for me. If you die, what will I do?"