Though the chimney was large, it was only so in relative terms; in reality, it was much smaller than the stacks found at typical crematoriums. Looking up at the hazy starlight through the flue’s opening, which resembled a skylight, my confidence grew. I scraped the interior wall with my knife sheath, swiftly clearing away a ring of soot and grease, then tested the grip with my boot. The flue was quite narrow; it seemed manageable if I used my back to brace myself and slowly inch my way up.

Yet some things that seem easy prove difficult in execution. After scraping away just one layer of grime, the smoke inside was enough to make me unable to keep my eyes open. Even with my nose covered, I felt a dizzying sensation from the severe lack of oxygen. Furthermore, the chimney wall was slick with every touch, making it impossible to exert any real force. Holding myself in place to prevent a fall while simultaneously trying to scrape the muck with the sheath was excruciatingly hard. I had barely managed to climb half a foot when my arms and legs already began to tremble.

I figured I wouldn’t last much longer and reluctantly prepared to give up. I took one last upward glance before intending to descend. As I looked up, I suddenly saw a patch of dim red light appear at the chimney opening—I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head hard, and opened them again. There, suspended above, was a light like a torch, flickering between dim and bright, shaped like a will-o’-the-wisp, drifting uncertainly.

Seeing this, I instantly recalled the old tales: on a pitch-black night, when there’s no other light source, a solitary gleam appearing suddenly must be a gui huo (ghost fire), not an actual lamp. It was exactly as the saying goes: "Do not travel alone under the bright moon; a lone lamp signifies no person." The moment this thought flashed through my mind, the ghostly fire atop the chimney began to drift downward. A panic seized me. This truly was a case of utter misfortune, bringing every evil thing right to my doorstep. My hands and feet, bracing my body, slipped, losing the balance needed to hold on, and I plummeted down the incinerator’s flue.

This unexpected sight felt like a thunderclap rending the sky. Watching the ghost-fire-like glow move down toward me, my feet slipped on the inner wall of the flue, and my body instantly lost support, beginning to fall. I knew perfectly well that falling into the furnace pit at the bottom of the flue meant certain death—even if I wasn't killed instantly by the impact, I would be left broken and shattered. But what I hadn't anticipated was that the air trapped in the incinerator chimney, combined with the flue’s extreme narrowness, caused my descent to be agonizingly slow, as if I were floating in the clouds.

Fatty was positioned right at the second-floor flue opening, waiting for my signal after I went up. Although the flue was pitch-black, he recognized from the sounds that I had failed. He quickly thrust his hand into the flue and grabbed blindly, catching my collar as I fell past him and yanking me back.

The cleanout opening on the second floor was even narrower, further blocked by mortar and brick outside the iron cover. My head struck the corner of the wall, a blow I didn't even register in my confusion. I wasn't like Fatty, who, even with a tiger at his heels, could stop to check if the beast was male or female. Realizing the danger, I didn't waste a second. Aided by Fatty’s pull, I scrambled backward out of the cleanout opening, slapped the iron cover shut, and in the darkness, heard something heavy, like a sledgehammer, strike the cover from the inside, emitting a low, resonant thrum.

It sounded as if something at the top of the flue—disturbed by the sound of me scraping soot with my sheath—had actually entered the chimney itself. The object bumped against the outside of the cleanout opening a few times, then fell silent. My heart, along with the hearts of the other three, leaped into our throats. If Fatty hadn't reacted so quickly just now, had I fallen into the incinerator, even without breaking bones, that thing in the flue would have snatched me by now. What on earth was that ghostly, fire-like thing?

Ding Sitian struck a match to see if I was hurt. Seeing the sudden flare, I quickly blew it out: "I'm covered head to toe in soot and grease! Are you trying to set me alight?" As I spoke, I felt a sticky dampness on my face—likely blood from where my head had been grazed. I rubbed it blindly with my hand, telling Ding Sitian to find a handkerchief so I could bandage it up.

Old Sheepskin said to me, "I told you, child, not to climb that black hole, but you insisted on climbing that black hole! You’re lucky to have survived, child; you must have great fortune ahead."

Fatty retorted to Old Sheepskin, "What fortune? If I hadn't been quick-witted enough to yank him back just now, Hu Bayi would cease to exist in our revolutionary ranks from this day forward."

I said, "Comrades, what time is it? Let’s not settle old scores now. Even though death doesn’t belong to the working class, that thing in the flue is no friend, I'll wager. Getting out through the chimney is a lost cause, but we absolutely cannot lose heart. In my view, if one plan fails, we hatch another. We have no choice but to feel our way into the basement. We don’t know the situation down there, so we’ll have to take it one step at a time, using steadfastness to counter all changes. From now on, whatever happens, we must be mentally prepared for the worst: cannons lining up at the gate, and every step being a struggle like a lame man climbing a mountain."

The corridor was pitch black; moving without a light source was nearly impossible, but we couldn't bear to waste another match. In those days, everyone was poor; they wouldn't burn clothes for light unless absolutely necessary, as no one knew when they might see the outside light again. Fortunately, being inside the structure, we managed well enough by feeling along the walls and the banister railing as we descended toward the basement.

The four of us shuffled to the end of the stairs only to find no further opening downward. Only then did I ask Ding Sitian to strike a match to check the terrain. Indeed, the basement beneath the building was the crematorium. Before us stood several trolleys used for moving corpses, alongside cabinets intended to hold disinfectant and odor-masking agents. On the bone-white wall next to the cabinets hung two sets of gear resembling hazmat suits, likely worn by the facility’s corpse-burning workers. Against the wall stood enormous furnace units, their two massive cast-iron doors clamped tightly shut. The ground floor space was vast. Before we could even examine the crematorium for any unconsumed remains of the victims, the match Ding Sitian held had already burned to ash.

The incineration chamber was utterly silent and frigid; the very air seemed to have frozen. Standing in such a bleak and cold environment, our nerves were completely frayed. Ding Sitian clutched my sleeve and asked, "My uncle told me stories about fighting the Japanese devils in Shanxi. When they killed civilians, they either wouldn't bury them or would throw them into shallow graves. But have you ever considered why the Japanese devils here would go to the trouble of burning bodies to ash in a furnace after killing people?"

Her question made me think that women are endlessly curious, digging into everything. I casually replied, "Why even ask? The devils were obviously trying to cover up their tracks. Did your uncle fight with the Eighth Route Army in Shanxi? I never heard you mention that." But then a second thought struck me—I hadn't considered this before. I’d heard the little devils were notoriously stingy, too frugal to use large bowls even for eating. Constructing a secret crematorium like this in the desolate wilderness, requiring significant manpower and resources, seemed utterly unnecessary. If they didn't need to hide the bodies, why incinerate them? Unless some of the bodies were...

I strongly suspected that some fatal event had occurred at this "Hundred-Eye Cave"—a plague, perhaps? Unlikely. But what was the connection between the mural summoning ancient souls, the antique bronze casket transported from the Greater Khingan Range, and the secret crematorium built by the Japanese Water Supply Unit? Furthermore, where did the people here go? Did they surrender when the war ended? Were they wiped out by the Soviet army? Or did they all vanish like that herd of cattle and wild geese? What exactly was that invisible entity capable of devouring living things? Was it the same as the dragon-shaped shadow in the cavern mural? What was the purpose of the stones buried in the cavern? Was the female corpse in the mural dug up by the Japanese? And who sealed the iron gate of the building from the outside, trying to trap us here? The room sealed with bricks, the gate that could only be opened from the outside? There were far too many questions, and none of them could be answered by mere speculation.

I deeply understood the principle that hearing is not as good as seeing, and seeing is not as good as observing the form firsthand. Perhaps the underground crematorium held some clues. However, the paramount task right now was to lead everyone out of this building. Two of these companions were my most crucial comrades, and the other was a poor and lower-middle peasant whom we were supposed to unite with. They placed unconditional trust in me, and I was determined to do everything possible to ensure nothing happened to them.

Lost in thought, I felt my way to the corpse trolley. There were some white cloth sheets on it, perhaps used for wrapping bodies before incineration. They could be used for making torches—my "bright light." I first thoroughly wiped off the grease coating my face and head, then pulled on a set of protective gear that included a mask. Afterward, I had the others help me tear the shrouds into strips and use my knife to split the disinfectant cabinets into wooden slats. After a flurry of activity, we finally fashioned over a dozen makeshift torches. I lit the first one, providing temporary relief from our predicament of blind men leading blind men.

The illumination from the torches was far superior to the matches. Everyone felt their vision instantly brighten. We saw emergency lights and various conduits intact on the walls, unlike the floor above, which was nothing but bricks and concrete. Of course, these facilities had long since lost power. Yet, despite being eerie and cold, the air quality in the basement was surprisingly good, even better than upstairs, suggesting a special structure for filtered ventilation.

Just as we lit the torches and were about to carefully survey the area for an escape plan, the massive incinerator behind us suddenly jolted violently, as if a colossal object inside was trying to burst out. I realized it might be the entity I saw in the flue, but I still didn't know what it was. Fortunately, the furnace doors were bolted shut; no matter how much force it used, it couldn't break open. Though we only heard the sound and saw no shape, the sheer force of the tremor was terrifying and signaled something truly extraordinary. I couldn't help but worry that the sturdy furnace doors might be damaged.

I raised my torch and looked around. There were no extra exits in the crematorium, only a single, straight passage. I called out to the others: "Though we’ve fought bears in the east and slaughtered donkeys in the west, a wise man retreats when the enemy advances; we avoid confrontation for now." With that, I led the way into the passage. The floor was a concrete slope, likely designed for easy pushing of the trolleys. At the end, however, was another completely sealed, heavy iron gate with no visible switch inside to open it.

We pushed against the gate blocking the passage with all our might, but it was like a dragonfly trying to move a pillar—it didn't budge. Fatty and I cursed in frustration: "Who designed this damn place? They put all the switches for opening doors on the outside!"

This building, one story above ground and three below, was nothing but a sealed can made of reinforced concrete and iron plates. The only unimpeded exit, the chimney opening, was unusable. If we couldn't find another way out, we would certainly be trapped here to die. Defeated, everyone retreated to the crematorium to search for another way out. But the walls were incredibly solid; even cannon fire might not penetrate them, let alone the single, ancient shotgun we possessed.

By then, the noise from the incinerator had stopped. I tiptoed up to the furnace and pressed my ear to the door to listen. I could hear something large slowly writhing and scraping against the metal interior. I signaled the others to be quiet and led them to a corner to confer in hushed voices.

While our current situation was worrying, there was no immediate danger. We still had enough time to figure out how to leave this haunted building. I told my three comrades, "There is definitely something in the furnace. It sounds like some kind of beast. I suspect it might be a Cyclops Python. It was probably disturbed when I was climbing out of the flue and intended to come down to attack, but it ended up trapped inside, unable to get back out. The furnace walls are coated with soot and grease; even with three heads and six arms, it won't manage to climb out without scraping it all clean."

Ding Sitian’s parents both worked at the Natural History Museum after retiring from the military, so she knew a lot about animal habits. Hearing my guess that the thing trapped in the furnace might be a giant python, she shook her head: "That’s unlikely. Given the environment here, situated between the grassland and the desert wilderness, large pythons wouldn't typically inhabit this area."

Old Sheepskin chimed in, "I told you all before, but you wouldn't listen to me. That’s the Dragon King! We’ve stirred up terrible trouble this time. Not only did we eat the Dragon King's sons and grandsons from the water, but now we’ve trapped the Dragon King himself inside. I fear even this iron shell won't hold him back..."

I thought that arguing with an under-realized poor and lower-middle peasant like Old Sheepskin was utterly pointless—like playing a lute for a donkey. He was too rigidly set in his ways, and I was too weary to explain further. The situation was truly one of being besieged by our own confusion. We had to prepare for the worst. Scrambling around upstairs and downstairs might not reveal an exit, but we certainly couldn't just wait here to see how long we could last.

This thought made me agitated, and I impatiently snapped at Old Sheepskin, "What Dragon King or Horse King? You can’t even recognize the number one when a carrying pole lies flat on the ground, yet you believe these baseless legends?"

Ding Sitian gently chided me, "Bayi, don't always speak ill of Old Sheepskin grandpa. He isn't superstitious; that’s just his simple class sentiment. We educated youths came to the countryside for re-education from the poor and lower-middle peasants, not to educate them. My father used to say that the peasants suffered the most in Chinese history—exploited their whole lives, their backs turned to the soil, their faces to the sky, their oxen worked to death and slaughtered. But the greatest, most resilient, and most patient people in China are also the peasants. Without them, there would be no Chinese history."

Ding Sitian’s words instantly calmed me. I realized that while I hadn't said anything overtly extreme, my tone toward Old Sheepskin was indeed improper. As the saying goes, a kind word warms for three winters, but a harsh word chills to the bone. However, I was too embarrassed to apologize in front of Ding Sitian, so I just side-stepped the issue, telling everyone, "We haven't conducted criticism and self-criticism these past two days; we will certainly make up for it later."

Fatty seized the opportunity to mock me: "Later, you'll take the lead in your self-examination, diligently study the documents, keep up with the line, and criticize the rightist thought deep in your heart. You must consciously reform your bourgeois worldview and confess your entire history, your origins, and how you developed fame-and-fortune thinking, strayed from the revolutionary path, and embarked on the road of being 'white and expert.' Don't think that just because you don't confess, the organization doesn't know. The organization is fully aware of your situation; this is a chance for you to confess willingly so they can treat you leniently. You had better stop before you go too far; do not alienate yourself from the people. Historical experience tells us..."

I cut him off: "Fatty, if you didn't spend your girth writing propaganda for reactionary organizations, it would be a waste of your bulk! We’re locked in this sunless concrete coffin, and you still have the mood to crack jokes? What the hell did I say that suggested I would alienate myself from the people?"

Fatty replied, "Enjoy the moment while you can; take advantage when you have the chance. What good is worrying? We still can’t get out, can we? In my opinion, we should prepare for a long siege. Old Ni will eventually send people to look for us if we don't return to the pasture in a couple of days. We can get out when they find us here."

Ding Sitian said worriedly, "What if he wants to cover up responsibility for Old Sheepskin and tries to buy us more time? We have no food or water here; how long can we hold out? And how long will it take them to find this place?"

Hearing Ding Sitian mention the lack of food and water sparked an idea in my mind. I turned to Fatty and Ding Sitian and said, "I have a wicked plan. Remember when we roasted those piglets for a snack at the brickyard? How about we drop a flaming torch from the second floor and reignite this incinerator? Whatever is locked inside, we’ll turn it into smoke and oil with a big fire."

At my suggestion, everyone cheered unanimously. It seemed that in our confusion, no one had thought of this. If we could manage to relight the furnace, not only would the thing inside be burned to death, but the flames would also clear the grease and soot from the flue, allowing us to climb out. Once one person got out, they could open the sealed iron gates from the outside.

Just as everyone was about to act, the torch in Fatty’s hand burned out. To conserve light sources as much as possible, although we had prepared over a dozen torches, we only lit the next one when the previous one was almost completely consumed. In our excitement over the escape plan, we had forgotten to tend to the fire. Ding Sitian hurriedly pulled out her matchbox to strike a light, but just at that moment, a rustling sound drifted from the darkness—it sounded like someone walking, and the noise seemed to be coming from the area around the furnace door.

Besides the four of us living people, who else could be in this building? We hadn’t even seen a single rat. I thought Old Sheepskin might have wandered over in the dark and quickly patted around me. Old Sheepskin, Fatty, and Ding Sitian were all right there beside me. How could there suddenly be another person in the dark? Or was it another... ghost?