The group gathered before the wall, a wave of disappointment washing over them when they realized there was no passage behind the double layer of brick, but their curiosity to know what lay buried within the wall spurred them on. Using the Kangxi Baodao sword, they angled the kerosene lamp to illuminate the space, finally discerning a large, cold, heavy black mass embedded within the masonry. A profound sense of astonishment gripped the four of them—was there truly a wall of iron behind the layers of brick?

I reached out a hand and touched the surface, my fingertips immediately meeting a chilling, dense weight. An ominous premonition sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly steadied myself and felt the iron surface again, discovering several lines of raised lettering. They were only legible when I held the lamp close and squinted my eyes. The four of us took turns looking. They were not Chinese characters, nor numerals, and certainly not the gibberish scribbles of Japanese or their borrowed Han characters.

We were utterly bewildered. This cast-iron-like wall felt like a thick metallic shell, buried deep within the building. What were the characters on the iron block? Perhaps deciphering them would unveil the secret. But just then, the kerosene lamp in my hand flickered twice, and then the oil gave out, plunging us into darkness.

When the lamp died, the interior of the completely sealed building instantly became pitch black, a darkness so absolute you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. My three companions and I could only hear each other's breathing. In the dark, Ding Sitian found my hand, and I felt how icy her fingers were, knowing she was terrified. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her not to worry.

But recalling the sudden iron grate that had dropped after we entered this strange building, the white handprints on the windows, and now this massive iron block deeply embedded in the brick wall before us, I truly could find no comforting words to offer her. What could these illogical phenomena possibly mean? Clearly, this was a "haunted building"; at this point, denying it was impossible. However, not only did I not want to voice this, but I suspected that under these circumstances, no one would want to hear it.

I fumbled in my pocket and struck a match. In absolute darkness, even the slightest glimmer of light brings a sense of hope. Using the match's weak glow, I looked at the other three; they seemed relatively composed. We only had about two dozen matches left; once they were gone, we would have no other source of light. Therefore, they must not be used unless absolutely necessary.

Old Sheepskin remembered the writing he had glimpsed on the iron wall. Being illiterate, he asked us, "What's imprinted on that iron brick? You youngsters, sent by the Chairman, are educated—can you make it out?"

The match burned down to the root, and the surroundings once again fell into boundless darkness. I tossed the charred stub away and racked my brain, trying to recreate the characters I had seen in my mind. They seemed like foreign script. For foreign languages, we had only studied some Russian, and even that was amateurish, completely abandoned after the Sino-Soviet split. However, Ding Sitian’s parents had studied in the Soviet Union, so her Russian was decent. But if the script on the iron wall was English or something else, none of us could read it. English was sometimes taught in schools starting in '64, but the curriculum was unsystematic, focusing on direct phrases like Wanshou Wujiang (Long Live Ten Thousand Years) or Wansui Wansui Wansui (Long Live, Ten Thousand Years, Ten Thousand Times Ten Thousand). None of the schools we attended offered that course.

But Ding Sitian was very certain: those were definitely not Russian. Russian has some letters that differ significantly from English alphabet characters; that much she could tell. This was a time of tense Sino-Soviet relations, and everyone was highly conscious of defense readiness. Mentioning foreign scripts made everyone suspect the iron block contained a bomb, but on second thought, it seemed unlikely.

If it wasn't the Soviet revisionists, then perhaps it was the American imperialists. I once had some captured US military souvenirs from the Korean War front line at home—things like foreign liquor bottles, cigarette boxes, stainless steel spoons, all assorted junk. So, my knowledge of English was limited only to the extent of "Yankee."

Fatty suddenly had a whimsical thought: "During World War II, Japan and Germany were allies. Do you think this could be German? Or perhaps Japanese spoils taken from the US military in the Pacific?"

I asked Fatty, "Do you recognize what German looks like?" Fatty replied, "We don't recognize American script either, so I think as long as it’s not Russian or Japanese, it doesn't matter which country's writing it is—we don't know any of them anyway."

Fatty’s words gave me some insight. But why would a block of iron stamped with foreign characters be sealed inside a building built by the Japanese? What was this iron slab for? Why was it buried inside a brick wall? We had absolutely no clue, and the more I thought about it, the more my head ached.

At that moment, Ding Sitian turned to me and asked, "Can we use another match? Let's take another look." I was thinking the same thing. We immediately crowded back to the hole in the brick wall, and I struck another match, cupping my hand around the flame to shield the weak light from being extinguished by our collective breaths. As the light flared, the pitch-black iron surface instantly came into view.

Although the light was faint this time, everyone looked with extreme care and finally made another discovery. Earlier, we had been so focused on the strange characters on the iron plate that we hadn't noticed that the iron wall hidden behind the bricks was not one massive, solid block, but rather an iron cover that could be pulled open—like a low, movable metal door. Because Fatty had partially demolished the brick wall, some bricks were still in place, so the seam around the edge of the iron cover wasn't fully revealed, and the handle cast as part of the cover was partially obscured by debris.

This discovery accelerated everyone's breathing, and the match went out at that very moment. Fatty groped in the dark to clear the remaining bricks. Ding Sitian asked me, "Ba Yi, so this is a lid that can open and close, like an iron door. But if it’s a door, it seems awfully small; a person would have to crawl in. If it's not a door, what could it be for?"

Old Sheepskin interjected, "Sitian, why are you so curious about these things? I, an old man who has lived half a lifetime, have never encountered anything so strange. I think whatever is behind this iron wall is no good place. Otherwise, why would they hide it so securely? Opening it might release vengeful spirits. What sins did I commit in a past life to deserve this..."

I advised Old Sheepskin that ghosts don't exist; it's just the worries of the timid. Although the events in this building are strange, I believe everything has a root cause. We have only seen a small part and haven't grasped the whole picture, hence our confusion. We shouldn't act like heroes in the Hall of Yama—waiting for death with our eyes shut. Nor should we hide behind the mantle of Marxism-Leninism and do the foolish thing of opening the temple gates without lighting incense, only promising oxen and sheep when disaster strikes. I don't think praying to Bodhisattva or Buddha will help. If we manage to open this iron cover later, whatever happens, Fatty and I will take the lead.