Finding the owner of the snack stall to be a complete windbag, I realized asking him was worse than not asking at all. I turned to look around for someone else, catching sight of an old shop on the street corner with its door only half-closed. From the look of it, they sold sundries.

Strangely, hanging before the shop entrance on a length of hemp rope was a wooden box resembling a small coffin. The box was covered in layers of black lacquer, clearly ancient and long-used; the paint was peeling and weathered. Just by the quality of the wood, I could tell it was zitan—certainly an antique of some provenance, and its shape was entirely unusual. The more I looked, the more perplexed I became. To find such an object in this unremarkable, secluded little town—it felt like fate had guided my "Mojin Xiaowei" eyes to it.

I fixed my gaze on the "black box" hanging outside the shop for a long time, studying it closely until I was certain of my appraisal. Feeling confident in my judgment, I turned back to the bald-headed proprietor and asked, "Let me ask you one more thing: is that general store on the street state-owned or private?"

The bald-headed boss, busy tending his stove, glanced up toward the shop I indicated and replied, "That one's private. The old manager is named Li Shuguo, an outsider from Baoding Prefecture. He's an old relic from the chaotic wars, only good for idle chatter, knows nothing about business. He doesn't carry any proper goods. If you need anything, you'd be better off walking down the street; there's a state-run store there."

Hearing that the sundry shop owner was from Baoding, I was even more convinced I was on the right track. I thanked the bald man and returned to sit with Shirley Yang and the others. Shirley Yang asked me, "Well? Did you get any information?"

I said, "The locals here don't know anything about a headless king. But I made another unexpected discovery..." As I spoke, I pointed toward the sundry shop on the street corner, directing everyone's attention to the "black box" hanging outside.

Fatty exclaimed in surprise, "It's a coffin shop! Old Hu, who are you buying a coffin for?"

Sun Jiuye said it definitely wasn't a coffin model. Having spent so much time in the countryside, he'd never seen such a coffin maker's sign. Besides, what kind of sundry shop sells coffins? He had no idea what significance the wooden box hanging out front held, wondering if they were just killing time.

Shirley Yang's maternal grandfather was a renowned "Banshan Daoren" (Mountain-Moving Taoist) during the Republic of China era, intimately familiar with all the hidden paths of the jianghu (martial world/underworld). Although Shirley Yang grew up overseas, she was well-versed in the secret jargon of the jianghu. While the academic Professor Sun Jiuye and Fatty were confused, she had already discerned something amiss. She turned to me and said, "This wooden box is riddled with holes, much like a beekeeper's hive. I suspect the shop owner has ties to Fengwoshan (Honeycomb Mountain)."

Sun Jiuye looked puzzled. "Honeycomb Mountain? Beekeepers? That can't be right. Look at those holes—they vary in size and depth, completely irregular. They might have been poked with knives, perhaps some local custom. We shouldn't jump to conclusions; we need to respect the local folk traditions."

I said, "Professor Sun, you truly are out of your depth in this area. I can't even be bothered to argue with you. Let's stop talking and go in to buy something, just to see if this shop harbors an old master from Fengwoshan."

Fatty, though clueless himself, pretended to know everything. He said to Sun Jiuye, "Showing your inexperience, eh? Don't talk nonsense if you don't know. Don't think just because you have a fancy title as an expert you can dictate everything. Even professors aren't omniscient. You should learn a thing or two from Fatty from now on; I'll broaden your horizons by taking you inside." After quickly swallowing a couple more mouthfuls of rice, he grabbed his backpack and joined us at the old shop entrance.

Inside were an old man and a young woman. The old man was seventy or eighty, with white hair and beard, holding two iron balls in his hands, dozing fitfully on a bamboo recliner. He must have been the old manager, Mr. Li. The other was a young woman in her early twenties, fair-featured and very pretty, with two braids hanging down her chest. She exuded cleanliness and efficiency from head to toe, clearly a local Sichuan girl, not appearing to have any familial relation to the old manager; she was likely the shop assistant. Seeing us enter, she immediately bustled over to greet us, asking what we wanted to buy.

I looked around. Although the shop's furnishings were antique, everything was spotlessly clean. There was an old wooden counter, worn smooth and glossy from years of use. Most conspicuous on the counter was a long row of glass jars filled with colorful hard candies, along with some local specialties. The various goods on the shelves were all neatly arranged. I knew that "Fengwoshan" artisans belonged to one of the Seventy-Two Trades. Such shops conduct two entirely different kinds of business, one above board and one concealed. A stranger walking in directly would never be offered the real transaction. I figured I needed an excuse first. Since we were heading into the mountains to rob a tomb and were in a hurry leaving, we hadn't procured some necessary sundries. So, I said to the girl, "Little sister, we need to buy candles, good quality white paper, twine, and matches. Also, two pounds of sugar."

The girl understood immediately and began fetching the items I requested one by one, according to quantity. Fatty, standing beside me, supplemented my order: "Listen here, sister, we want good candles too, none of that brand-name stuff we won't take."

The girl thought Fatty was teasing her and said with a touch of annoyance, "What kind of nonsense is that? Who cares about the brand when buying candles?"

At this point, the old manager opened one eye, rubbing the iron balls in his hand, and said to the girl, "Yao Mei'er, these folks are honored guests from out of town, don't be rude."

Seeing the old manager awake, I figured the young Yao Mei'er was too young to be one of the "Fengwoshan" people, but the old manager, though elderly, was not muddled. His speech was refined, suggesting he might indeed be a master craftsman from "Fengwoshan." I seized the opportunity to inquire, "Old manager, I'm hoping to procure some specialized items from you. Do you happen to have any ready stock?"

The old manager remained composed and replied, "Every specialized item is displayed on the counter. If the guests want anything, just ask Yao Mei'er to fetch it."

I thought the old manager was deliberately playing dumb. I wanted to use a coded phrase to convey my true intentions, but I only knew fragments from my grandfather Hu Guohua's lessons, mostly relating to tomb raiding. I wasn't very familiar with the general "Shanjing Chun Dian" (Classic of Mountains and Rivers Charm Sayings). I knew a few phrases, but I couldn't string them together properly. I couldn't find the right opening and dared not ask directly, lest I be deemed an "outsider." I quickly signaled Shirley Yang, gesturing for her to take over the conversation.

Shirley Yang nodded in understanding and stepped forward, saying casually to the old manager, "Passing by high mountains, one looks up; above the mountain hangs a golden plaque; behind the golden plaque is a silver plaque, rows of which bear the character for 'bee' [Feng]."

Hearing this, the old manager suddenly flung his eyes open, examining Shirley Yang from head to toe, as if unable to believe such words would come from her mouth. He thought he had misheard, and immediately started the "Shanjing" inquiry: "A mirror reflects two mountains. The reflection reveals the golden wind blowing across the face; tell me, which path leads to Feng Mountain, where one recognizes the golden and silver plaques of the bee?"

Shirley Yang answered without hesitation, "The kite in the wind follows the mountain's turn; spurring the horse and saddling up to press on; don't be surprised if the procession is uneven; overlook minor breaches of etiquette."

The old manager's expression grew even more astonished. He asked again, "Up the mountain and down the mountain? For what purpose do you come?"

Shirley Yang replied, "Neither up nor down; we seek to request the 'bee box' [Feng Xia]." The old manager stroked his beard and nodded slightly, but perhaps still felt a degree of unease. He continued to press, "The Bee Master is easy to see, but the Bee Box is hard to request. Once requested, what manner of deed will be performed?"

Shirley Yang refused to easily disclose her itinerary, only replying vaguely, "Tea is offered to mountain guests, the gate welcomes guests from five lakes; all are people of the mountains, why inquire about the roots?"

The old manager slapped his thigh and rose from the bamboo chair. "Well said! In all these decades, I have not heard anyone speak so frankly! Yao Mei'er, quickly escort our honored guests to the inner room."

I could grasp the general meaning of the exchange between Shirley Yang and the old manager. Fatty and Sun Jiuye, however, were utterly lost, adrift in a fog. Fatty let it pass through one ear and out the other without pondering it, but Professor Sun was stunned, freezing on the spot. Only after we had all entered the inner room did we hear him mutter behind us, "What kind of secret cant is this?"

We followed the old manager and Yao Mei'er into the back room. The shop front led to a two-story wooden structure used for daily living, but instead of taking us to a parlor, he led us down to the basement.

The basement resembled a workshop. There were at least four or five grinding wheels inside, and lined up against the walls were all sorts of hidden weapons: "sleeve arrows, throwing darts, flying hand nails, flying tiger claws"—a menagerie of mechanisms, some familiar, some entirely new, many whose names we couldn't even call out, let alone know how to use.

Professor Sun tugged me back from behind and asked, "What on earth is going on? What is that wooden box hanging outside the shop? What is Fengwoshan? How did a few phrases of cant bring us down here?"

I said, "Professor Jiuye, you really need to study up. I suspect ever since you acquired the honorary title of professor, you've forgotten your place in the world! If people stop learning, they become stagnant. That’s why one must learn until one is old. Not studying for a day causes problems; not studying for two days leads to decline; not studying for three days means one cannot live. How can this continue?"

Professor Sun said, "Stop joking. I don't want to rest on my laurels, but where am I supposed to learn these tricks? What exactly are they up to?"

So I gave him a brief explanation. Since antiquity, many taboo occupations have necessitated specialized trade jargon, what we now call "lingo." But since trades are far apart, to facilitate broader communication, the Seventy-Two Trades developed a universally accepted set of essential phrases called the "Shanjing."

"Fengwoshan" refers to artisans who specialize in crafting all manner of "contraband instruments." However, hidden weapons have been explicitly banned since ancient times, being far more dangerous than controlled knives. No one would ever openly set up a shop to sell them; transactions are always conducted in secret. Hanging a black wooden box full of holes outside the door signifies that the holes were made by testing hidden weapons. Any knowledgeable person seeing it would immediately know this shop sells such items. Upon entering and speaking the correct phrases, a transaction can occur. If one is ignorant of the ways, they won't understand the signs, and even if they offered a fortune, no one would sell them the genuine article.

After I explained things to Professor Sun, I went back to converse with the old manager. It turned out Manager Li's ancestral home was in Baoding Prefecture, Hebei—a place famous for martial arts. Manager Li's family had been skilled craftsmen of the "Fengwoshan" tradition for generations, specializing in intricate mechanisms. After the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, the full-scale Sino-Japanese War broke out, and Manager Li fled to Sichuan, taking a false name and opening the sundry shop, though his real intent was to continue his old trade. However, after the Liberation, these skills and the Shanjing began to fade into obscurity. He hadn't openly traded in concealed weapons for decades, and keeping the wooden box hanging outside was purely an act of nostalgia—"seeing the saddle and thinking of the horse, seeing the object and recalling the person." He never expected customers who recognized the "Feng" sign. Fortunately, he had kept all his old equipment.

This time, our team entered Sichuan with nothing but our field shovels; we dared not even bring paratrooper knives, entering the depths of Wushan empty-handed to search for ancient tombs. We were somewhat vulnerable. Naturally, seeing the "Feng" sign in this small town meant we had to buy some suitable implements. We picked a few items. In this era, almost no one knew how to use sleeve arrows or throwing darts anymore; we just needed sharp, bladed weapons for self-defense. The old manager had "Emei Thorns"—short, sharp, made of fine steel, and easy to carry. So, each of us chose one to conceal. Fatty, meanwhile, was taken with the only "Quick-fire Repeater"—this device lacked the range of a rifle, but it fired forty-two "Misfortune Gate" darts sequentially, capable of piercing armor within dozens of paces. Only the skilled artisans of "Fengwoshan" could craft such lethal equipment. Fatty asked, "Old manager, your stock is truly comprehensive; my eyes are glazing over. Which item is the treasure that anchors this establishment? If you showed it to us, it would be an education."

The old manager laughed heartily and said, "As for a 'treasure that anchors the establishment,' I wouldn't dare claim it. However, I do possess one exquisitely crafted device, the pride of my life's work. Leaving it here to rust year after year is not its proper destiny. I wonder if you heroes would be interested. Well then, take a look first, heroes, feast your eyes..." Saying this, he lifted the lid of a lying-flat box. Inside lay an object wrapped tightly in several layers of brocade. As he unfolded the silk, Fatty, Shirley Yang, and I simultaneously cried out, "The Diamond Umbrella!"

The "Diamond Umbrella" was a protective artifact for the Mojin Xiaowei. Elder Liaochen of Wuku Temple had once passed one down, and Shirley Yang had brought another back from America, but we lost it during our expedition to the Yun Tomb. The material and manufacturing process of this umbrella were secrets, lost to time; it was impossible to find someone to craft another. I never expected Manager Li had actually made one. A thought flashed through my mind: "Could the old manager also have been a Mojin Xiaowei?"