I fumbled in the darkness, my hands finding the surface of a table before me. With a gentle pinch, I dislodged a layer of something hard and dry that crumbled like soot. Judging by the sensation transmitted through my fingers, the debris contained hard, calcified human bone fragments. Finding old bones was not unusual, but I distinctly remembered dragging the Russian's zombie corpse down into the sewers and burning it until it was charred black—skin, hair, everything reduced to carbon, leaving only the unburnable bones. Who had brought the remnants of that cremation up onto the table?

My heart seized with horror, leaving no time for contemplation. The room was pitch black. I knew there should be matches and the six-branched candlestick we had found earlier lying on the table. My aim was to locate those items first to strike a light and see clearly. I reached out again, but instead of matches, my hand encountered something hard, round, and pitted with holes. A closer inspection revealed it to be a human skull. My thumb inadvertently pressed into an eye socket, causing me to recoil and hastily fling the object onto the table.

The instant the skull landed with a soft thud in the darkness, two balls of eerie, greenish phosphorescence suddenly ignited where it had settled. My entire body jolted, freezing me in place as if trapped in a nightmare. My mind was completely captivated by those ghostly flames; I felt hollowed out, reduced to a mere shell, an automaton unable to breathe or think. I had never believed in the existence of a soul, but in that moment, I experienced precisely what it felt like for the spirit to depart the body.

Just as I hung suspended between life and oblivion, there was a sudden vibration in my chest. The blade of the Kangxi Baodao sword rattled within its scabbard, emitting a sharp, resonant hum that vibrated the air. The two ghostly lights instantly faded away. It was as if I had been violently shaken loose from a waking trance. I gasped, "Ah!" and my vision cleared. I found myself sitting upright in my chair, the candle on the table burned down to a tiny nub, yet still flickering, with scattered bone fragments lying around its base.

I was drenched in cold sweat, feeling as though I had just escaped a terrifying nightmare, yet the experience had been brutally vivid. The remains of the Russian zombie were undeniably there on the table; this was clearly no mere dream. I glanced around. My three companions, who had been resting around the table, were also awake, all of them—including Fatty—pale-faced and sweating profusely. It was obvious they had shared the exact same harrowing experience, nearly having their souls snatched away in their sleep.

Ding Sitian, her chest rising and falling rapidly, addressed us: "Don't call me superstitious, but... but there really is a ghost in this room. Maybe that bronze chest contains the nightmare of the departed?"

Ding Sitian was panicked and speculating wildly, but no one refuted her. We had all intended merely to rest for a moment, yet all four of us had fallen asleep under some strange compulsion and shared the identical nightmare. Furthermore, the Russian zombie's skeleton had inexplicably moved onto the table. It would be sheer folly not to believe we had encountered something supernatural. However, that chill I felt deep in my core seemed strangely familiar. I realized the perpetrator might not be the Russian after all; it was highly likely the specter from the crematorium was still clinging to us. I touched the long blade in my embrace, thinking how fortunate I was to have this sword to keep things grounded, or we might have forfeited our lives senselessly. Were these horrific events connected to the bronze chest mentioned in the will? It seemed the entire research institute staff had either died or vanished simultaneously twenty-odd years ago. What exactly had transpired here? The more obscured the truth, the more unsettled we felt. Everyone agreed we could delay no longer; we needed to find the map immediately and flee this cursed place.

Judging by how much the candle had burned, we had slept for perhaps four or five hours—an unplanned detour. Yet, my mind felt clearer than before. I carefully gathered the unburned remnants of the Russian’s remains, wrapped them in cloth, and located a cabinet in the room to store them. Then, I softened my tone, reflecting on the pitiful fate of the Russian researcher. He had been imprisoned by the Japanese, yet he chose to escape only when things went awry; perhaps he harbored lingering resentment even in death. I spoke toward the cabinet: "A person's life should be lived greatly and ended honorably. If one accomplished nothing beneficial for the people in life, one ought to remain quiet in death. Though you acted under coercion, your efforts aided the tyrant. This end is the consequence of your own actions, and you have no one to blame. The sea of retribution is boundless; what meaning is there in repentance when it is too late? Fascism is utterly destroyed now. We will not be polite about the contents of your room; we are confiscating them on behalf of the people."

By this time, the other three had thoroughly searched the room and finally discovered a satchel inside the fireplace. It was clearly the Russian's old field bag, made of canvas, similar in style to a flour sack, without zippers or clasps—only a drawstring at the mouth that could be pulled tight. These bags had been popular in Russia since World War I, and many were seen in Manchuria and Mongolia around the time of World War II. It was typically Russian: simple, crude, heavy, and durable.

Old Sheepskin held the candle high while Ding Sitian and Fatty shook out the bag, examining its contents one by one. It turned out the Russian's bag was practically a treasure trove, filled with all sorts of odds and ends. Besides a water canteen and a mess kit, they found some money—perhaps intended for survival after escaping—along with matches, storm-proof candles, and several small bottles containing dozens of chemical pills. Such compounds are essential for wilderness survival: they can be used for detoxification, purging the bowels, aiding combustion, or creating luminous signals. We recognized their utility but couldn't identify the specific chemicals, so we took them all, as these were precisely the supplies we needed. Ding Sitian sorted out what was necessary and set it aside, tossing the rest onto the table.

Next, they found two Japanese engineer's signal flares. These were different from the flashlights we commonly knew; they were flat, square, entirely black, about the size of two cigarette packs, with a round light aperture the size of a fist at the front, nestled against the black metal casing. There was no handle at the back, but a fixed carrying loop on top allowed one to secure it to the chest with a strap for short-range illumination tasks. The bag also contained matching dry-cell batteries.

There was also some food. Japanese logistical support back then was primitive and insufficient for mass production of field rations. However, specialized units, like naval, air force, and various clandestine departments, received preferential treatment. This Russian likely received assistance from that Japanese medical officer, hoarding items like dehydrated fish jerky, hard candy, and canned goods. Concerned about spoilage, I tasted some. The cool, constant temperature of the basement had preserved them well enough to be edible even now. This preservation might also be linked to the special conditions that kept the Russian zombie from fully decomposing.

In the collection, there was even a "Nambu Type 14" pistol wrapped in oilcloth. This weapon was manufactured by Japanese arsenals by imitating the German Luger pistol, the standard sidearm of German Nazi officers. It employed a semi-automatic locking mechanism and held eight rounds. During the War of Resistance against Japan, our military and civilians commonly referred to this gun as the "Wang Ba He Zi" (Turtle Box). Fatty had once owned a war trophy of this model and felt as though he were greeting an old friend upon seeing it. He picked it up and cycled the slide several times. The gun was tightly wrapped in oilcloth, completely rust-free, and the magazine was full. However, this flawed weapon had inherent design defects—frequent issues with jamming, burst barrels, and misfires. Carrying it would provide, at best, only self-defense. Fatty, now armed, grew reckless and immediately tucked the pistol into his lower back without a word. I warned him: "The 'Wang Ba He Zi' is unreliable to begin with, and this one hasn't been maintained in over twenty years. Use it cautiously. Only resort to it when absolutely necessary. It’s called the 'Suicide Gun' for a reason—it’s a small problem if it fails to hit the enemy, but a disaster if it backfires on you."

Just as Fatty was about to boast about his gun handling skills, Ding Sitian exclaimed happily, "This piece of paper might be the Institute map!" She picked up a sheet from among the miscellaneous items. We stopped talking immediately, eagerly taking the map and examining it under the weak candlelight. We were slightly disappointed. There were two maps, one large and one small. The smaller one, supposedly the facility layout, was merely a rough hand-drawing covered in chaotic markings. The larger map was a topographical chart of the Baiyan Ku area, stretching north into the desert and south to the grasslands—territory Old Sheepskin was intimately familiar with, rendering this map of limited use to us.

We returned to studying the Institute's layout diagram and realized the place was vast. Despite its crudeness, the map was intuitive, easy to understand, and surprisingly comprehensive, especially detailing the underground waterways crisscrossing the complex. The markings indicated the Russian's escape route originated from this basement, following the sewage line, passing beneath the water pipes of the incineration room, looping around the entirely sealed prison sector, curving north, aiming for the northern mountain pass where the invisible, deadly "Burning Wind" occasionally swept through. He clearly intended to exit through that northern gap.

Still deeply unsettled by the basement experience, we studied the map, identified our escape route, and resolved to leave immediately. We packed all useful items, taking the remaining bottles of foreign liquor—we hadn't completely severed all our capitalist ties—and whatever suitable clothes and footwear we could carry. Seeing a combat cap in the room, I grabbed it and placed it on my head. I had lost my dog-fur hat, and my head wound needed protection from infection or from fleas and cockroaches falling in from the sewer water. I rationalized my action as necessary for wound care, thereby distinguishing my behavior from the lower-minded scavenging of Old Sheepskin and the others.

Returning to the stench of the sewer, I figured dawn couldn't be far off. While the path forward held its own set of looming problems, it was preferable to the constant dread of being trapped in the haunted Institute. We were eager to return to familiar ground, navigating by the light of the candle, following the escape route indicated on the map, which meant retracing some of our steps.

But before we had gone very far, I noticed Ding Sitian coughing incessantly, and her complexion looked wrong. I initially thought the dim light was deceiving me, but when I made her stop so I could look closely, I saw her looking haggard, a distinct layer of blue shadowing her eyes and brow. When I touched her forehead, it was slightly warm. Though the fever wasn't high, her appearance suggested she was seriously ill.

I had long worried about viruses or bacteria lurking in the sewer's crematorium. Seeing her now filled me with dread. "The Black Death? The Plague? But it doesn't seem like a contagion caught in this secret lab. If so, why aren't Fatty and Old Sheepskin showing any symptoms?"

Old Sheepskin and Fatty stopped when they heard the commotion. Old Sheepskin, knowledgeable about medicinal herbs and a self-taught medic, examined Ding Sitian's tongue coating and felt her pulse. He announced grimly, "She seems to have been poisoned..."

Ding Sitian was notoriously tough. When she worked at the Youth Settlement, she would grit her teeth through minor illnesses, refusing pity or care. She intended to hold on until we left this place, but now she knew she couldn't conceal it any longer: "When escaping the incineration room, the toxic fumes from the Jinlin Scorpion made my chest feel constricted and heavy. Because everyone else seemed fine, I didn't pay it much mind, not even in the Russian's room. But now the feeling is getting worse, and I feel cold all over. I think I've been poisoned by the Scorpion."

The Jinlin Scorpion, which releases its venom at specific hours, exhaled a potent mist. Although we managed to escape the incineration room before inhaling the fatal fumes, the venom was ferocious. Everyone in the basement had felt dizzy and nauseous; we had likely all inhaled some trace amounts. The Jinlin Scorpion is intensely yin in nature, and its venom is classified as yin poison. Men, with their strong yang energy, might not notice much, but under the same conditions, women are far more vulnerable to scorpion toxins. Even a minimal inhalation was enough for Ding Sitian to be overwhelmed. After a period of latency, the effects were now manifesting.

It is said that a woman poisoned by the Jinlin Scorpion develops blue lips and eyes, accompanied by a persistent low fever. She experiences visual hallucinations, seeing kaleidoscopic colors. Without antidote treatment, within about 24 hours, symptoms progress to dizziness, shortness of breath, full-body numbness, and, in severe cases, coma, leading ultimately to death by respiratory paralysis and muscle atrophy. In the late stages, even a genius like Hua Tuo couldn't save her.

Old Sheepskin said anxiously, "This is hopeless! Medicinal herbs to counteract this poison are almost impossible to find on the grasslands. It will take us at least two days to get back to the nearest town hospital. Is the poor girl doomed?" Fatty was beside himself with worry and pleaded with me, "Old Hu, do you have any ideas? Hurry and find a solution for En’tian. We can’t just let her die like this."