Amidst the tangled words of Fatty and Yanzi, I frantically pushed away the corpse's feet dangling near my chest, shifting my body back. Unexpectedly, another dead body hung behind me. My collision made it sway, and the sound of coarse hemp rope grating against wood echoed from overhead. In the darkness, I couldn't tell how many hanged ghosts surrounded me. I could only press myself back to the ground, yet I could still feel pairs of cotton-shoed feet swinging back and forth above me like pendulums.

I was drenched in a cold sweat. Having fallen from the stone steps, I had no idea where I'd dropped my satchel, and in this pitch black, there was no way to search. I quickly urged Yanzi, "Yanzi, quickly bring up the light! Let's see where we've fallen." Near the lumberyard, under no circumstances could the word "fire" () be uttered, nor any character containing the "fire" radical, such as "light a lamp" () or "candle" (). If one absolutely had to say something like "light a lamp," only the substitute phrase "bring up the light" () could be used. This wasn't superstition, but rather a taboo, much like how the fire department always uses the term "fire control" () rather than "extinguish fire" ().

Yanzi, having just tumbled down the stone steps, was dizzy and disoriented. Hearing my call to "bring up the light," she finally snapped back to reality and pulled out a pine torch, lighting it. Although the air could circulate in the depths of this dugout, it was still filled with a turbid gas so pungent it made one's eyes water. The fact that the pine torch even ignited was remarkable. The weak, faint light was greenish, cold, and clear, and due to the excessive impurities in the air blocking light transmission, its brightness was barely stronger than that of a will-o'-the-wisp, failing to illuminate even a square meter around us.

Under the flickering, hazy candlelight, I urgently wanted to see if there were hanged ghosts above me. But whether it was the dimness of the pine torch or the dizziness from rolling and falling, my vision suddenly seemed smeared with a layer of gauze. No matter how hard I strained my eyes, I couldn't see anything clearly. The only discernible element was the light of the torch, which in my sight had transformed into a ghostly, hazy patch of green light, floating uncertainly before me, sometimes distant, sometimes near.

I rubbed my eyes vigorously, but still couldn't see clearly. However, I heard a soft whisper behind the light, as if someone was speaking to me. I couldn't help but wonder—who was talking? Fatty and Yanzi were both loudmouths with deep, booming voices, but if it wasn't them, who was mumbling behind the candle? I could neither see clearly nor hear distinctly, yet there is a deep-seated instinct in people: the less clearly one hears, the more one wants to know what is being said. I craned my neck, trying to lean closer.

As my body moved, a chill suddenly swept through me. I faintly sensed that something was amiss. Although I couldn't pinpoint the exact problem, the hazy, indistinct light ahead seemed familiar, as if I had seen it somewhere before. I felt a strong warning in my mind that approaching that pine torch meant danger, yet the awareness of the torch's danger couldn't suppress the inherent desire to move closer. I involuntarily continued to shuffle forward, getting nearer and nearer to the green glow emanating from the pine torch.

Just moments ago, I had clearly felt the cotton-shoed feet of the hanged ghosts. Now, after lighting the torch, the hanged corpses, along with Yanzi and Fatty, seemed to have completely vanished, leaving only that single, wavering point of green light from the torch. I suddenly recalled the legend of hanged ghosts seeking substitutes—luring people into the noose. The green glow was now right in front of me, and I wanted to quickly recoil and pull back, but my body was paralyzed, as if caught in a nightmare, completely unresponsive. At this moment, only my head and neck could move. It was all because of that damned ghost fire. Acting purely on the instinct for survival, without thinking, I gathered all my strength and blew out that green light of the pine torch in one breath.

The pine torch's ghost-like green light was extinguished by my breath. Suddenly, the entire dugout lit up, and the choking stench vanished. I looked down and saw that I was standing on the edge of an earthen kang bed, my hands gripping a thick hemp noose, pulling it toward my own neck. I cursed inwardly for the bad luck and quickly shoved the hemp rope aside.

Before I could properly examine my surroundings, I saw Fatty and Yanzi standing beside me, both staring blankly and pulling at the hemp nooses dangling from the ceiling, clearly intending to hang themselves. Yanzi was still holding the lit pine torch, but the flame was no longer green. I quickly reached out, took the pine torch from Yanzi, and simultaneously pulled the nooses away from them. With a cough, both of them shook off their trance-like state and regained consciousness.

I didn't have time to dwell on the nightmarish and shocking experience I just had. First, I assessed the surroundings. Looking around, the depths of the dugout revealed a small room with an earthen kang. We had fallen from the stone steps and rolled into a heap on the ground. Somehow, we had groggily climbed onto the kang and were nearly hanging ourselves by standing on its edge. The interior dimensions of this dugout were similar to an ordinary dwelling, dry inside, complete with an earthen stove, an earthen platform, and the kang. It resembled a typical mountain home, complete with ceiling beams across which countless rough hemp nooses were hung. The hemp ropes had been interwoven with raw silk and copper threads, ensuring they wouldn't rot or break like ordinary hemp rope over time.

Suspended from the countless nooses were four male corpses. Their bodies had been desiccated by the cold air inside the dugout. All four "Old Hangers" stared wide-eyed with their tongues sticking out. The purplish-black color of their mummified skin made their expressions of death even more terrifying. Because they had been hanging by the neck for so long, the victims' necks were stretched considerably longer.

Yanzi was terrified of ghosts—mountain spirits, water ghosts, or hanged ghosts. Seeing the four shocking "Old Hangers" under the meager light of the pine torch, she quickly covered her eyes. Fatty and I were speechless for a long time. Encountering the Hanged Ones first—what terrible bad luck!

I spotted an oil lamp made of bronze at the head of the kang, still containing residual pine oil. I used the lit pine torch to light it. The room brightened considerably. Shining the lamp around, I saw that the four hanged male corpses were all identically dressed: all black clothes, black shoes, black trousers, and even black hats. The only exceptions were the belts tied around their waists, their socks, and their hat tassels, which were bright red. Although there are many shades of red, theirs was the vibrant, vivid color of pig's blood. I couldn't discern any particular significance to their attire, but they didn't seem very old, perhaps clothing from twenty or thirty years ago. I suspected that the Yellow Immortal Temple buried in the earth had likely been excavated by this group. Unexpectedly, they entered this place and never managed to leave. The moment we entered this dugout, we seemed to be afflicted with a manic delusion, crawling toward the nooses ourselves. If I hadn't blown out that ghostly fire, there would have been three more dead bodies hanging here now. Folk wisdom says that a hanged corpse must trick a living person into hanging themselves before they can reincarnate. Were we possessed by the "Old Hangers," afflicted by some dark magic?

Fatty finally recovered, pointing at the four "Old Hangers" and cursing loudly. He was furious that these hanged ghosts had almost trapped him too. There was a vat for lamp oil in the dugout, and while cursing incessantly, Fatty started preparing to douse the hanged corpses with oil to light their "Heavenly Lamps."

I thought burning them was a good idea, preventing them from causing harm later. But as I stood up, I noticed a crack in the side wall. This crack wasn't due to aged, crumbling earth, but appeared deliberately left open. There was space behind the main part of the dugout, separated by an earthen wall, which I hadn't noticed in the dim light. Peeking through the crack in that earthen partition were two small, eerie green lights observing us.

The dugout was too dark, and the two green lights vanished with a flicker. My head warmed with a sudden impulse, and without much thought, I jumped off the kang, pushed aside the hanging corpses in front of me, and rushed into the narrow space beside the wall. There, I saw the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" that had slipped through our fingers, bracing herself with her front paws on the wall, peering through the crack back into the room.

The area behind the dividing wall was another large underground room, but this one held no hanged humans. Instead, a row of stiff, dead weasels were hanging. The legend of weasels trading lives with humans is ancient. It is said that weasels are spirit beings, adept at causing trouble, bringing misfortune, or confusing the mind. However, their cultivation is limited. Even an old weasel that has cultivated for hundreds of years and become a spirit—it is difficult for mountain spirits to achieve this state. But this so-called "becoming a spirit" merely means gaining sentience over time, such as understanding human speech or imitating human behavior. Yet, humans are born human, so even a spirit weasel is inherently much lower than humans, the spirit of all things. No matter how powerful it is, it cannot easily take a human life. If it wishes to kill someone, it must find a young weasel from its clan to hang itself alongside that person. Many people have heard of such things, but no one knows the exact mechanism. Perhaps the weasels confuse human minds through a special scent they secrete, inducing a hypnotic effect.

Yanzi, having grown up in the mountains, knew the most about these matters, followed by Fatty. Fatty's father had participated in bandit suppression work before the Liberation, giving him extensive knowledge of the legends in the deep forests of Northeast China, which he had shared with Fatty. Among the three of us, I understood the least. At that time, I didn't know much about weasels, but seeing the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" lurking suspiciously behind the wall, I knew it was most likely responsible for the mischief. I quickly strode over, caught it, and lifted it by its hind legs. Upon inspection, the wire around its leg was still intact, and its mouth was still stuffed with mangua (). Mangua is a wild plant found in the mountains that has an anesthetic effect on the tongue. If you stuff a wild animal's mouth with mangua, it cannot cry out, and its mouth becomes numb, preventing it from opening to bite.

Fatty followed me in. This time, I couldn't let the little weasel escape. I looked at the weasels hanging in the back room—exactly seven in total. Three of the bodies were still slightly warm, having died recently; these were undoubtedly the three intending to trade lives with us. The other four corpses were withered and hard.

Something suddenly struck me. I looked back at the intelligent little eyes of the "Yellow Immortal Aunt" in Fatty's hand, then glanced toward where we had nearly hanged ourselves. I realized that when I was mentally confused by the weasel and stretching my neck toward the noose, blowing out that green ghost fire had saved me. Looking back now, that wasn't a ghost fire at all, but the weasel's eyes. When I blew, it blinked, which broke the soul-capturing spell. I couldn't allow those thieving eyes to open again. So, I took out a remaining sticky bean bun (), pried off a piece, and stuck it over the "Yellow Immortal Aunt's" eyes. Only then did I feel truly at ease.

Everything in this back room was symmetrical to the front room, also featuring an earthen kang. At the head of the kang was an ancient painting. The paper had turned dark yellow, and the colors were blurred, but one could still make out a human figure wearing ancient women's clothing but sporting a weasel's face—identical to the clay sculpture on the altar in the temple. This must be the portrait of the Great Yellow Immortal. However, at the feet of the painted immortal, there was a strangely shaped box. That section of the painting was exceptionally blurred, impossible to see clearly no matter how hard I looked. Local legend says the Great Yellow Immortal possesses a casket full of treasures. Could this be the box depicted in the painting?

Fatty and I hesitated not at all and immediately began turning the room upside down, searching everywhere. The underground chambers beneath the Great Yellow Immortal Temple were deliberately styled like human residences, but the form was bizarre and permeated with an evil aura. For instance, the entire room was divided in half, yet featured perfectly symmetrical arrangements: one side hung with dead humans, the other with dead weasels hanging from the wooden beams. Everything here was inexplicable and utterly different from the ordinary. We desperately wanted to see what was inside that box, so we braced ourselves and ignored the unsettling surroundings.

But the inner and outer rooms of the dugout were only so large. We had already searched every corner during our entry and exit. There was no sign of any box or casket. Fatty and I became somewhat disheartened. We heard rustling sounds from the ceiling beams every so often. We raised the oil lamp to illuminate the area. The ceiling of the dugout had several crisscrossing wooden beams, and above them, the vault was riddled with large holes, one after another. I suddenly understood: judging by the direction and distance, this dugout, slanted down from the Great Yellow Immortal Temple, must have reached below the large earthen mound of the Weasel Grave. The little weasels scurrying and making noise above were coming through the holes in the ceiling, and the cold wind in the dugout was also seeping in through those same openings.

I said to Fatty, "It seems that box must contain something valuable. The four hanging outside were probably trying to dig up treasures but fell into the weasels' trap and became wrongfully dead. They likely never figured out what happened before they died. Fortunately, since we captured the spell-casting Yellow Immortal Aunt beforehand and tormented her until she was barely clinging to life, we avoided being killed by her. If we don't seize this opportune moment to find that box and open it, wouldn't we be wasting this golden chance? But there is the worst possibility: those people had other accomplices who let one of the hanged ghosts test the waters first, and they have already reaped the benefits and taken the box. Then our excitement would have been for nothing."

Fatty sighed dejectedly and said, "What good stuff could be in a box guarded by big and little weasels? Maybe just a pile of chicken feathers and bones? Is it worth all this trouble? I say, let's burn this ghostly place down and get back to eating." Yanzi had long wanted to leave this cursed place as soon as possible, so she also advised me, "I heard that box contains something belonging to the Mountain God. Mortals who look upon it invite disaster. Didn't the Great Yellow Immortal Temple itself get buried by a landslide? What are you still looking for? Let's hurry back to the lumberyard."

I listened to their nagging, but my mind was racing. Only when they had mostly finished did I address them, "Neither of you should shake morale. I remember Yanzi mentioned earlier that the gold veins in the mountains all belong to the old Yellow family of the Great Yellow Immortal. I think the contents of that box are most likely gold. Moreover..." Saying this, I surveyed the four walls, paused, and continued, "Moreover, these four walls are empty. Only inside the earthen kang could a box or casket be hidden."