I first heard Gu Cai mention seeing a white sun and couldn't make any sense of his nonsense, thinking he was just panicked and disoriented—after all, the intense psychological pressure of desperation was probably too much for a boy of sixteen or seventeen to handle.

Uncle Ming, however, was startled. Seeing a pale sun at sea was never a good omen. Anyone familiar with the ocean’s temperament and weather knew that a "ghastly white sun forecasts relentless storms," a sign of an impending catastrophic upheaval. He nearly collapsed, saved only by being steadied. Shirley Yang asked Gu Cai, "Don't panic. Explain exactly what you saw."

Gu Cai frantically pointed above their heads: "Look! The sun is white..." No one expected him to mean the actual sun directly overhead. They were deep within the Guixu, in a formation resembling a whale’s belly; how could they see the sky’s sun? All eyes snapped upward, only to find a vast, pale, circular object suspended above them, directly facing the apex of the Jianmu, which was studded with arrow-shaped stones.

Moments before, the clash between the sea air and the geological structures had sent molten dragon-fire splashing out, resulting in a rain of fire. The air was thick with thin mist formed by the negative fire burning the sea, so nobody had noticed what was above. My heart clenched first; I was utterly baffled and wondered aloud, "What is that?" The event had occurred too suddenly for me to process; I felt only confusion, though I instinctively knew that object was certainly not the sun.

Shirley Yang stared intently at a black dome rising conspicuously from the rock layer. It seemed she suddenly grasped something, exclaiming with delight, "Ghost Island!" The pale halo Gu Cai described was not the sun, but a "skylight" in the Guixu, an aperture in the ceiling untouched by the sea mist. This place possesses a Celestial Gate above and hidden currents below, which is why its vital energy has not diminished over the centuries. When we first entered the Coral Spiral, the tide was low, exposing a stretch of black island—a phantom isle that alternately appeared and vanished due to tidal action.

When the tide rose, the island disappeared underwater, only to resurface when the water receded. Initially, we mistook the Ghost Island for the spine of a colossal whale about to breach, fearing it would capsize our vessel with its surfacing. We had even attacked it with the Sea God Cannon, confirming it was merely a solitary islet. Ghost Island divided the Coral Spiral into eastern and western sectors. After being attacked by the giant sea snake, we sank through the ocean’s eye on the east side. Unexpectedly, the ancient ruins of the Hentian clan in the Guixu were built directly beneath Ghost Island.

Even more surprisingly, Ghost Island had a skylight-like cavern leading straight to the sea surface. Presumably, dawn had broken, revealing a disc of bright daylight, which Gu Cai had mistaken for the white sun preceding a great storm. This well-like opening was likely not collapsed by the tremor cannon from the Trident. This sun-shooting divine artifact, the Jianmu, stood like a massive tree with its canopy formed by arrow-stones, seemingly poised to pierce the heavens. The layout of this sun-shooting totem was meticulously designed, filled with profound meaning. Only now did I realize the lengths the Hentian people went to construct this mythological spectacle. It was clearly more than mere display; it seemed to conceal a greater secret. Since the Shang and Zhou dynasties, people used celestial bodies and mythical creatures to represent defense. Judging by the broken bronze ornaments on the submerged divine wood, that skylight corresponds precisely to the position of the moon. I simply cannot fathom the reasoning behind this arrangement.

Fatty asked the group, "Folks, I suggest we stop marveling and look around. Haven't you noticed the water level is rising? Should we climb up this 'Sea-Stabilizing Pillar,' or dive underwater to find another way out? Time is short; we must decide on our next move immediately."

I saw that Ghost Island offered the only living exit to the sea surface. The booming sounds around us confirmed the rising tide was imminent. Once the water level increased, the Ghost Island would also be submerged. We had to seize the opportunity to climb the divine wood and escape the Guixu; concerns about everything else could wait until we reached the surface.

Just as I was about to make this decision, Shirley Yang suddenly stopped me. "When I first saw the Jianmu being fashioned into a giant arrow, it felt somewhat inconsistent with the ancient legends of Chinese civilization. Although the Hentian clan claims descent from the sun-shooting totem, the Jianmu is Yin-Chen Wood. Legend says it is an ancient divine tree that can grow from the seabed all the way to the Moon Palace. The skylight cavern being positioned at the moon’s locus must symbolize the bright moon. Ancient texts offer little about the Hentian clan, but a bronze tripod from King Mu of Zhou’s era depicts a legend of the Hentian people ascending to the moon after death. This might not be a sun-shooting totem at all, but rather a celestial path for the deceased—a nether passage for departed souls. Is it dangerous for us to climb up this way?"

A chill ran through everyone. So the Jianmu was not a war totem for shooting the sun, but a symbol of the passage to the moon—a funerary path. Ultimately, this circular basin was indeed an ancient tomb existing outside the realm of common sense. In the Coral Spiral, the condensation of sea air rarely allowed starlight or moonlight to penetrate. The blinding white light from the Jianmu's peak truly resembled a full moon. This submarine divine wood, intended for the sublimation of departed souls, seemed only a single leap away from the bright moon. By climbing to its top and leaping, one might escape this chaotic sea with no discernible exit.

Uncle Ming observed the frantic swirling of shark shadows on the water surface; diving down meant inevitably engaging in a life-or-death struggle with the school. Having sailed the seas for many years, he understood the danger. The current situation dictated upward movement, not downward. He quickly told the group, "Miss Yang is right; there are old legends about a divine wood connecting to the moon for those seeking death at sea. But even if it’s a divine wood for vengeful spirits to ascend, right now it’s our only passage from doom to survival..." With that, he led the way, gripping the sloping side of the ancient wood, coarse and scaled like dragon skin, and began his slow climb toward the skylight. To bolster his courage, he hummed that mournful tune of the Egg Islanders, his voice sounding like a tragic wolf's howl or a ghost's cry: "Oh, Sea God, save your suffering sons; fear not the bottomless waves, only fear dying far from home..."

Seeing Uncle Ming, already in his sixties, boldly take the lead up the wood that seemed to reach the moon, I cursed him internally as a selfish individualist, thinking only of himself. Yet, his action dispelled our lingering doubts. This was our last, desperate throw; we had to commit to climbing toward the exit for survival. We couldn't discard our scuba gear either; we bit down and climbed, weighed by the equipment, just in case we couldn't get out up top and had to retreat into the water.

The second one up the Jianmu was Fatty. He was burdened by his scuba tank and a large pack of green supplies. While the weight was manageable for him, climbing was always his weak point. Pushed to this extreme, he had no choice but to commit. He closed his eyes and scrambled several meters up the leaning giant wood in a few swift movements.

We followed, forming a chain up the towering Jianmu, hung with bronze chains, wondering if this wood, millions of years old, could bear our weight. Looking down, the surrounding seawater churned violently. On the water surface below our feet, we could see countless bronze slaves and numerous sharks circling. Most of the ruins of the ancient circular city had already sunk. Fearing Fatty might lose his nerve from the height and fall, I shouted to him, perched just ahead: "Commander Wang, hurry up and open your eyes! We are about to reach the moon! The little widow and her elixir of immortality are waiting for you in the Moon Palace."

Fatty felt the menacing presence of the water beneath the giant wood, and the cold wind whistling down from above scraped against his ears. He dared not open his eyes, but managed a retort, "Hu Bayi, at a time like this, you still have the gall to stir up trouble. Don't you know the Commander's only sophisticated hobby is closing his eyes to contemplate profound thoughts when high up? I know perfectly well that if I open my eyes, I won't see any little widow—I’ll just fall and feed the fish! And when that happens, I'm definitely dragging your rotten, unethical carcass down with me..."

Amid the roar of raging waves, the six of us finally reached the summit of the sea-god wood. By then, every muscle ached from the strain of carrying heavy gear, and though our limbs were weak, no one dared let go. The air from the surface was now brushing our faces, and the hazy white sky was clearly visible. However, from below, the exit seemed close, but standing right beneath it, we realized we wouldn't get out without wings. Uncle Ming, shaking precariously at the highest point, stood up, stretched onto his tiptoes, and desperately reached toward the edge of the cavern. He was still a good ten meters short, and despair washed over him, nearly causing him to lose his balance and tumble into the water.

I cursed my carelessness; we hadn't brought climbing gear like grappling hooks or flying-tiger claws. Now, just a few more feet separated us from salvation, and we were helpless with anxiety. Only then did everyone understand: mortals are not Chang'e, taking elixirs to float upward. In this life, we are all flesh and blood, heavy and dense. Even Confucius and Mencius, with their world-spanning wisdom, or the might of the Hegemon of Western Chu, capable of tearing silk and uprooting mountains, are bound by gravity. One cannot simply float into the air; flying to the moon remains the domain of myth.

I climbed onto an arrow-stone embedded at the wood's tip. This stone had fossilized, yet it remained resilient after eons of seawater erosion. The dragon-fire from the rock formations veiled the sea mist, and suspended in the air, it felt as though clouds were gathering beneath my feet. Dozens of meters below was a churning, chaotic mass of water, the level of which was still steadily rising. Sweat and mist coated everyone’s faces as we realized this supposed "path to the moon" was a dead end. We could only gasp, helpless.

Uncle Ming was still clinging to a wild hope: perhaps when the water rose high enough, we could use the surging current to swim out through the opening. Gu Cai and Duoling looked around anxiously, equally lost. I heard the sound of air ripping overhead, a series of howling gusts. I realized the sky outside was just beginning to lighten—it was the very start of the early tide. In moments, the rising water would submerge Ghost Island, and the sea would rush in through this skylight. Staying here meant being torn apart by the torrent. We had to descend back into the water. Looking down, the sheer number of circling sharks and predatory fish was terrifying. To jump in unprotected meant certain death; we would likely be shredded the moment we hit the surface, let alone managing a deep dive.

Just then, Shirley Yang let out an "Eh?" On the sloping wood surface, there were many arrow-stones, several meters in diameter, spreading out like the crown of an old tree. These stones were fossils of ancient marine life, and the Yin-Chen Wood had settled on the seabed for millennia. We couldn't tell if the stones embedded in it were naturally formed or deliberately placed as decoration. However, in a sparser section of the wood, there was a bronze door. The patterns on the heavy bronze plate were distinctly scale-like, matching the black, fissured scales on the wood trunk. If Shirley hadn't paused there on the slope, it would have been easy to miss.

None of us expected such a large bronze door so high up on the Jianmu. Wiping away the seaweed, we saw faint, engraved patterns within the bronze grain—a vague etching of the sea-god wood connecting the seawater and the bright moon. Furthermore, there were totems of flying birds, symbols often seen in tombs from the Western Zhou and Yin-Shang periods, confirming this was a tomb passage. It suggested the Jianmu was hollow, concealing a passage—a path for the dead to ascend to the moon by treading on the divine wood. This passage must lead down to the ancient tomb of the Hentian clan. This mirrored the ancient Chinese custom of leaving a "Heavenly Gate" at the entrance of an underground palace, meant to allow the deceased to ascend to immortality. The difference here was that this "Heavenly Gate" to the moon, intended for souls seeking the elixir of life, was opened atop a divine wood that supposedly reached the Moon Palace.

At that moment, the massive tide of the Coral Spiral rushed in, overwhelming the sky, and the hazy light from the skylight instantly dimmed. Everyone knew that once the tide submerged Ghost Island, the water would pour down violently, and the water level beneath the Jianmu was already rising. The sharks had finished devouring the deep-sea golden snapper killed by the cluster grenade; going into the water now was suicidal. Facing such an impasse, caught between a flood above and sharks below, no one dared pretend to be a hero. Every face was ash-gray as they clung desperately to the arrow-stones atop the divine wood, their hearts pounding in panic.

I noticed the bronze door was slightly recessed into the wood, sealed extremely tightly. I couldn't tell if the ancient tomb beneath had already filled with seawater, but we had no choice. We had to slide into the tomb through the passage to escape the danger of the torrent above and the sharks below. I pointed to the bronze door for Shirley Yang and said, "Since we can't reach the Guanghan Palace, we have to go down into the grave."

Shirley Yang nodded and pulled out her diving knife to pry open the sealed door. I, in turn, drew the water-parting ancient sword used by the Hentian clan—a dragon-clutching design. I had stopped caring about the sword's value; it was now just a lever. To my surprise, the blade, sharp and tough, bit deep after only a few attempts, severing the chains binding the bronze door.

By now, seawater was already beginning to pour down in gusts. The tide hadn't fully submerged Ghost Island, but the surge had reached above us. Time was running out. Uncle Ming, Gu Cai, and the others watched with mounting anxiety, crowding over to help heave at the door on the wet ancient wood. The heavy bronze door, unopened for a thousand years, groaned open. It emitted no foul stench, only a gagging smell of mildew and rot, revealing a wide, pitch-black passage, vast and deep, seemingly leading into the void.

Shirley Yang struck a 'Cun Lin' flare and tossed it down. The light reflected off the water, showing the surface was less than ten meters below. Below lay a pool of dark water, with no visible landmarks nearby. I instructed everyone to release the inflation rings of the two buoyancy packs, toss them onto the water, and then drop in one by one. We all struggled to swim to the air bags to catch our breath, shaken by the near-death experience moments ago.

Under the fierce flare light, I looked around. The base of the towering, black timber was set deep into a cavern formed by ancient coral reef debris, filled with water of unknown depth. The bronze door opened onto the water surface inside this cavity, which was littered with tortoise shells and dragon bones the size of millstones. These bones and shells were covered in countless ancient symbols and markings used for divination, though most were blurred beyond recognition from centuries of seawater immersion. On a nearby reef lay the skull of some ancient creature resembling a giant whale. Inside the skull, dozens of raised, humanoid shapes were faintly visible—perhaps where bodies were placed in the ancient tomb. I surmised these were ancient corpses, preserved for a thousand years without decay, likely due to having Zhuyan Zhu (Face-Preserving Pearls) in their mouths.

I instinctively patted my diving satchel, only to realize I hadn't brought the Black Donkey Hooves. However, the presence of the cold, hard Qin King Bone-Illuminating Mirror brought me some comfort. I tried to gauge the water depth, but the gauge's needle was pegged at the maximum. I couldn't tell if it was broken or if the water in the coral cave was simply unfathomable.

Fatty's legs had cramped from fear during his descent, but seeing the corpses in this strange ancient tomb revived his spirits. He urged us forward to investigate. I saw that the pile of whale bones offered a good spot for the group to rest briefly, so I gestured for everyone to swim over, unload their gear, and catch their breath.

Exhausted, the group climbed onto the reef and discovered a lamp fueled by lamp oil rendered from a mummified Jiaoren (Merfolk). Merfolk oil never spoils and has a very low ignition point, burning with just a trace of air. It was a perfect replacement for our dive torches. Uncle Ming immediately lit the fish-oil candle, illuminating the corpses within the whale bones, and muttered, "Damn it all, there really is an ancient tomb of the Hentian clan in the South China Sea! These genuine deep-sea zombies are worth a fortune..."

In the light of the fish-oil lamp, before we could properly examine the indistinct ancient bodies, we noticed the 'Zhen Shang Zhen Xia' (Tremor Above, Tremor Below) hexagram marked on the tortoise shell in front of the whale bones. Having seen it two or three times already in the Guixu, even Uncle Ming and Fatty recognized it: the hexagram signifying 'Shaking a Hundred Li.' What was the profound significance of this ancient divination sign repeating itself in the Guixu?

At this point, I was mentally drained and physically exhausted. Thinking about these complicated I Ching calculations gave me a headache, yet the 'Zhen' hexagram seemed to hide a major secret closely connected to the Guixu. Just as I was struggling to find an answer, Shirley Yang suddenly asked, "I don't know much about the Yi Jing, but I once read a book by a Chinese scholar living in the US—a renowned expert in I Ching studies with very unique views. He mentioned that in the I Ching, any hexagram containing numeric language is not arbitrary; it harbors ancient encrypted information that modern people can barely decipher. This 'Zhen' hexagram speaks of shaking a hundred li. Old Hu, do you know why the hexagram specified one hundred li, rather than ninety-nine li or one hundred and one li, or even using terms like a thousand li or ten thousand li?"