This subterranean passage, infested with countless field mice, opened into a cavern resembling an underground hall. The floor of the hall was embedded with massive stones, and multiple identically structured tunnels branched off in every direction. I never imagined that carved into the cavern’s stone walls would be an idol of the "Yellow Immortal Maiden" from the Weasel Temple.

This scene carved into the back of the stone wall had been noticeable the moment we discovered the natural emerald screen of rock, but the engravings were ancient; the stone surface was flaking and obscured. It would have been impossible to discern them without wiping away the accumulated dust and grime with a sleeve.

Now, standing close to the wall, under the dim, jaundiced light, my eyes immediately caught the bizarre and malevolent face of the weasel. The depiction—a woman’s body with a weasel’s head—instilled a sudden sense of dreadful unease upon the viewer. Taken completely by surprise, I nearly dropped the cigarette in my hand. I quickly pinched the butt between my fingers, brought it to my lips, and took a deep drag, forcing my shock and surprise to subside slightly.

The cheap tobacco mixed with dried leaves produced smoke that billowed out like soot from a furnace chimney, sending Ding Sitian, who stood beside me, into a fit of coughing. Waving her hand to clear the haze, she chided, "Can't you smoke a little less? Picking up a smoking habit so young, it'll be hard to quit later." I find that Ding Sitian is full of virtues, with only one minor flaw: she cannot tolerate others smoking. Whenever she saw Fatty or me light up, she would inevitably bring up Comrade Lenin’s efforts to quit. Comrade Lenin lived in poverty when he was young and was also a heavy smoker. Once, Lenin’s mother said to him, "My dear Vladimir Ilyich, can't you smoke just a little less?" Truly the mother of a great man; the words she spoke were different. She didn't directly ask if he could quit altogether, but rather if he could smoke less. What a profound piece of wisdom that was—so gentle and kind, yet empathetic and considerate; worthy of being called a woman among women. After being spoken to with such sincere earnestness by his mother, Comrade Lenin never smoked another cigarette.

Hearing her mention this again, Ding Sitian tried to persuade me to follow the great man’s example and quit. But my mind was entirely focused on the image of the "Yellow Immortal Maiden," and I paid little attention to her words. My eyes were locked onto the carving on the stone wall, and I replied to Ding Sitian with a tone half-self-mocking, half-dismissive: "Mmm... Quitting smoking, right? I think quitting is actually quite easy. I’ve already quit over a hundred times in the last six months..."

Seeing that my reply was distracted and that my gaze was completely fixed on the wall, Ding Sitian followed my line of sight. The carvings on the stone screen were intricate and complex; the sinister image of the Yellow Immortal Maiden only occupied a small corner. As soon as she clearly made out that hideous weasel face, she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, nearly crying out.

The weasel-faced woman in the depiction held a peculiar posture, as if she were chanting something and performing dark magic. Before her sat a large, ancient-patterned, mottled chest, its lid half-open, half-closed. Directly in the center of the stone wall lay a woman stiffly upright. She wore a mask and was clad in magnificent scale armor. Her posture, lying flat, was unnaturally rigid, suggesting the body of a corpse meticulously prepared for display.

Below the female corpse and the "Yellow Immortal Maiden," a long-feathered bird, resembling a chicken or a pheasant but unidentifiable, was lifting a blurred human shape upward in flight. In the six months I spent doing labor in the remote Northeast mountains, despite the isolation, I witnessed much of the most elemental and mysterious folk practices preserved among the local population. Looking at this bizarre flying bird, I recognized its form as strongly resembling the "Soul-Guiding Chicken" from local legends in the Greater Khingan Range.

Legend holds that after a person dies, they become a gui (ghost), which signifies returning. Their vital essence returns to the heavens, their flesh to the earth, their blood to the water, their pulses to the marsh, their voices to the thunder, their movements to the wind, their eyes to the sun and moon, their bones to the wood, their sinews to the mountains, their teeth to the stone, their oils and unguents to the dew, their hair to the grass, and their breath transforms into the departed spirit, returning to the ethereal void.

A living person is sustained entirely by an unbroken breath. Once breathing ceases in death, this breath of the living immediately sinks into the vastness of the earth. Following this belief system, when a family member passed away, a rooster had to be immediately slaughtered, and its blood smeared onto the body. It was believed the rooster’s soul could carry the deceased’s wandering spirit, allowing the soul to ascend and avoid falling into the cycle of reincarnation to suffer further calamity. In the village where I was stationed, there were those who performed shamanic dances, and also spirit mediums, both male and female, who performed the "Soul-Guiding Chicken" rites for the dead. During the political movements, these people were targeted, and I only learned of their practices when they confessed their supposed crimes during struggle sessions.

Seeing Fatty and me engrossed in the carving, Fatty also ambled over to join in the spectacle. The three of us stared at the bizarre and absurd imagery on the natural emerald screen, finding it impossible to grasp its true meaning. We could only speculate based on what we saw: it seemed this screen documented the "Yellow Immortal Maiden" carrying out some dark magic, employing a method akin to the "Soul-Guiding Chicken" or perhaps a "Paper Bird" effigy. In the mountain caves, we had seen similar ancient totems of divine birds, locally called the Great-Feathered Death Courier. This bird, capable only of guiding wandering souls, was seemingly rescuing the soul of the masked female corpse from the Netherworld, with the intention of reviving her. The chest that never left the "Yellow Immortal Maiden’s" side was likely the source of her dark art.

This contradicted my initial assumptions entirely. It appeared that the "Hundred-Eyed Grotto," surrounded by countless bizarre legends, was far from being the treasure hoard of the tomb-robbing bandits of the "Nier Hui." Why would they go to such elaborate lengths to excavate the chest from beneath the weasel grave and transport it deep into the grasslands, only to summon the spirit of a ghost who had been dead for a thousand years?

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and my curiosity intensified. This natural emerald screen looked extremely ancient; the masked corpse must undoubtedly be someone from antiquity. Who exactly was she? And where was she now? What transpired after the Nier Hui bandits arrived here? Was it related to the local legends of missing people and livestock near the Hundred-Eyed Grotto? And... various thoughts surged through my mind, but the more I pondered, the more confusing it became.

Suddenly, Fatty slapped his thigh: "Hey, Old Hu, something just struck me. Look at these buried stones—what do they look like? The more I look, the more familiar they seem. Haven't we seen them somewhere before?"

My attention had been completely fixed on the Yellow Immortal Maiden's chest, trying to guess what rare treasures it contained, but Fatty’s words interrupted me. I glanced down at the stones embedded in the ground and was instantly reminded of many old houses in the depths of the Greater Khingan Range, where round hearthstones were placed in the corners of rooms—some half-buried in the earth, others simply set upon the floor. When we young sent-down youths first settled in the mountains, we didn't understand this practice of keeping stones indoors; it seemed utterly pointless. Only after we befriended the villagers and inquired extensively did we learn that these stones dated back to before the Liberation. In earlier times, people used them to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. Ancient texts mention: "Stones buried at the four corners ensure no ghosts in the house." These stones were meant to suppress spirits. In Northeast folklore, tales of vengeful zombies and hanged ghosts causing trouble were rife, and families living in the wilderness adopted this custom for safety. As for the exact era it began, there was no way to verify it now.

When I mentioned this to Fatty, we began to suspect that the many stones buried in this cave were intended to suppress a powerful demonic entity. These words made Ding Sitian increasingly nervous. She said, "Stop talking about that stuff, please. I feel a chill down my spine. What should we do now? We can't go back the way we came. There are ten tunnels here, nine remain—which one should we take to get out?"

I noticed that Ding Sitian’s courage had truly diminished. Perhaps the devastating losses suffered by the herds in the pasture had left her feeling utterly lost. I estimated her mood was similar to Old Sheepskin's. If accidents occurred in the pasture, they were responsible, and the only way to lessen that responsibility was to recover the lost cattle and horses. But the missing herds and frightened horses had precisely fled into this area considered taboo by the herdsmen. The terrifying legends surrounding the "Hundred-Eyed Grotto" had seeped into the local people's bones. Advancing or retreating was truly difficult, yet in this particular era, fear of accountability was undeniably stronger than fear of the supernatural. If I put myself in her and Old Sheepskin's shoes, the pressure they felt must have been immense, and intense internal struggles must have been raging constantly.

It wasn't like this when she participated in the Big Link-Up rallies. That was when we were young, full of spirit. Once, when we were traveling together to a certain place, we happened upon a middle school teacher there leading a group of junior high students in digging up a tomb. The interred individual was a famous figure from the late Qing Dynasty during the Xinxing period. The body was pulled from the grave and hung upside down from a tree as a public display, allowing the revolutionary masses to see the ugly face of the greatest royalist party in history. Upon hearing the news, Ding Sitian and I rushed over late that night to see it. It was a dark, windy night under a dim moon, yet a few of us were excitedly creeping through the darkness just to look at the ancient corpse hanging from the tree. Back then, she showed no sign of fear.

I snapped back to the present and told Ding Sitian and Fatty, "This cavern is a place of ill omen and we shouldn't linger. Let’s check on Old Sheepskin’s condition first, and then figure out a way to leave as quickly as possible." I walked over to Old Sheepskin; his abdominal swelling hadn't subsided. We lacked medical knowledge then and didn't realize that intestinal movement within the human abdominal cavity is primarily controlled by the autonomic nervous system, and influenced by blood flow to the intestines. After overeating, bloating and vascular dilation easily occur, which in turn affects intestinal blood flow.

All we could do was massage his abdomen. Old Sheepskin had regained some consciousness, and what he was most concerned about were his horses. The remaining three horses had scattered deep into the dense forest above the Hundred-Eyed Grotto. Without mounts, returning to the ranch would be difficult. I assured him we would find the horses quickly.

Seeing Old Sheepskin slightly improved, I consulted with Fatty and Ding Sitian about which way to proceed. The cave was encircled by ten nearly identical tunnels. We had entered through one that had since collapsed; the path behind us was blocked. Whether there were other exits was unknown, but this cave clearly wasn't an ancient tomb. It wasn't very solidly constructed, so the chance of finding an exit seemed quite high. Since there were symbolic items related to summoning and guarding spirits here, suggesting a focus on the deceased and gui, I speculated that the ten surrounding tunnels might represent the Ten Roads of the Underworld. Unable to distinguish north from south inside, we had no choice but to randomly select one and proceed.

Fatty asked, "Old Hu, are you just talking nonsense? Your theory sounds pretty wild. Why ten roads in the Underworld? Why not eight, nine, or eleven?"

I replied, "I remember my grandfather used to have a map of the Water and Land Routes of the Underworld. The depiction of the netherworld on it clearly showed exactly ten roads. As for why not nine or eleven, I heard it was because the Tang Dynasty divided the realm into Ten Circuits (Dao). Yin and Yang are relative, so the Underworld also has Ten Circuits. However, I can't be certain if these ten tunnels correspond to that. How can we possibly grasp the mindset of ancient people? In any case, to shift from passive reaction to proactive control, we have to venture in and see for ourselves. If we're lucky, maybe there are other collapsed openings below we can climb out of."

Fatty considered this and thought it made sense. By this time, everyone had rested enough. So, Fatty and I lifted Old Sheepskin again. We left a marker on our path and casually entered one of the tunnels. The subterranean dampness was heavy, causing a sharp ache in our skulls. The swarms of rats were repulsive; every gap between the flagstones harbored numerous burrows, likely leading to the surface, but only rats could fit through them.

Not far in, a collapse blocked our path within the tunnel, forcing us to turn back. In another tunnel, we finally discovered a vertical shaft. The space at the top was narrow, barely fitting one person. I first climbed up the steep stone steps and found that the exit to the vertical shaft above was plugged by a large, gray rock. Touching it, I realized the gray slab was a massive piece of concrete, reinforced with iron hoops. Stranger still, the surface of the cement slab bore some Arabic numerals, like some kind of serial number. Eager to escape this gloomy, damp cave, I didn't pause to carefully examine the meaning of the numbers. I held the kerosene lantern in my mouth, extended my arm upward, and pushed with all my strength. The heavy concrete block only shifted to create a narrow gap. Cold wind immediately rushed down from above, but even using all my might, the cement slab didn't budge an inch further.

I climbed back down the shaft and relayed the situation above to my companions. Fatty and Ding Sitian were astonished: "Did you misread it? This Hundred-Eyed Grotto is supposed to be an ancient site. Even if we don't know its specific purpose, how could there be a numbered concrete slab?" However, we couldn't be sure when Western numerals were introduced to China, nor did we intend to investigate that; we just wanted to get out quickly.

Of the three of us, Fatty was the strongest. I had been unable to move the concrete slab, so I asked him to try. Fatty took off his coat, removed his cap, rolled up his sleeves, climbed into the shaft, and began exerting himself. We heard him drawing in his breath, cursing as he braced against the cement blocking the shaft, straining every muscle and sinew. With a great shout of "Open...", he forcefully shoved the concrete slab aside. Dim starlight immediately spilled down. We all let out a deep breath, feeling an overwhelming sense of seeing daylight again.

Fatty climbed out first. Ding Sitian and I held Old Sheepskin below while Fatty pulled him up from above. Then I followed him up. Outside, the moonlight was hazy, and shadows of trees danced around us. We were still in the forest surrounding the Hundred-Eyed Grotto. There were no centipedes or field mice here; everything was utterly silent.

While Fatty and I looked around to identify our bearings, Ding Sitian, holding the lantern, curiously examined the concrete cover: "Hey... besides the code, there are characters here... 'For Water Unit'... Bo 3916..."