Though the golden casket held no key, it contained a "brush"—though not one for ordinary writing. It appeared to be a large brush used for pomo (ink wash) landscape painting. Sticking to the principle of "seeing is believing," I told the others to stop looking bewildered; they should trust their eyes: "This is just a brush, nothing else."

Ninth Master Sun scratched his shiny bald head, shaking it slowly. “A brush hidden inside a stone sarcophagus and a golden casket. What kind of riddle is this? Why would Commander Feng say in his will that it's the key to opening the gates of the Ancient Immortal Tomb? Is the Guanshan Zhimizhi Fu passed down from his ancestors false? Or was he deliberately misleading us before he died? My mind is starting to seize up; perhaps it’s truly time for me to retire.”

Shirley Yang said, “I believe Commander Feng spoke truthfully as a dying man. If this object were merely a brush, having nothing to do with the Ancient Tomb of the Immortal Village, what purpose would there be in deceiving us? The Guanshan Zhimizhi Fu holds countless incredible aspects, many beyond the measure of ordinary men. Perhaps this brush is the key to unlocking the tomb’s entrance…”

As she spoke, Shirley Yang carefully lifted the brush from the golden casket for closer inspection. It wasn't embroidered; it was crafted entirely of pure gold. Two lines of script were intricately carved into the golden shaft, which she read aloud, word by word: “Divine Mountain-Viewing Brush, draw a door on the earth…” What does that mean? Should we draw a door on the ground and walk through it? How is that possible…”

Fatty suddenly recalled something. “Hey… I think I heard something about this before. There was a divine brush that could turn whatever it drew into reality. Draw a road and you could ascend a mountain; draw a bamboo ladder and you could climb a wall. But I can’t quite remember the details… was it during a tomb raiding expedition somewhere? Old Hu, do you have any recollection?”

I replied, "Commander Wang, you must be confused. But perhaps you just love our profession too much, otherwise, why would your mind always jump to tomb raiding? The story of drawing a ladder to climb a wall with a magic brush—I remember that perfectly. It was either from a xiaorenshu (children's picture book) or an animation. It was called 'Shenbi Mǎliáng' (Magic Brush Ma Liang); that story has been around longer than I have, almost.”

Fatty quickly agreed. “Yes, yes, that’s the one! Does the Divine Mountain-Viewing Brush mean the same thing? That we should just look around and draw a tomb door wherever we think is appropriate, then push it open and step inside? Based on the wealth of combat experience I’ve accumulated over half my life… we’ve probably been tricked again by the militia of the Immortal Village. This is an insult to our intelligence! Can a door drawn with a brush actually let anyone through?!”

Shirley Yang didn't understand what we were talking about and asked me, “What is this story you’re telling? Did something like that really happen in ancient times?”

I gave a wry smile. “It wasn't an event; it was a fairy tale created in China during the 1950s. It was about a poor boy named Ma Liang who had artistic talent from a young age. Instead of minding his cows honestly, he was obsessed with creating art. Though he never attended a day of school, whatever he drew looked exactly like the real thing; even teachers at the Academy of Fine Arts couldn't draw as well as he could. He had a habit, too: drawing everywhere, regardless of the time or place.”

“His only dream was to own a brush of his own. One night, an old man with a white beard appeared from nowhere and gave him a brush, telling him he could draw whatever he wished. From then on, Ma Liang used this brush to paint.”

“Unexpectedly, this turned out to be a magic brush; anything he painted became real. He drew a crane, and it immediately flew up into the sky; he drew an ox for plowing, and it could immediately pull a plow. Later, the ruling class oppressing the working people found out about this, captured Ma Liang, and locked him in prison. At night, Ma Liang drew a door in his cell. When he pushed it, the door opened. He then drew a ladder and successfully climbed over the wall to escape.”

“Eventually, he was captured again and brought to the Imperial Palace. He was ordered to paint a golden mountain for the emperor, with a vast ocean in front of it. The emperor and the court scoundrels boarded a treasure boat Ma Liang had drawn to transport gold from the mountain. However, Ma Liang secretly drew a storm, which capsized the boat, drowning all the villains in the sea.”

“The Magic Brush Ma Liang eliminated the emperor who exploited the people and returned to the common folk, using the brush to paint specifically for the poor and suffering. His story was one of the most beloved among children in the '50s and '60s, similar to The Secret of the Magic Gourd. Why did we love this story so much when we were kids? I don’t know about others, but when Fatty and I were seven or eight, our level of enlightenment was quite low. We spent our days imagining that if we had such a magic brush, we could draw ourselves ice cream bars—as many as we wanted. We both agreed that Ma Liang’s magic brush was more useful than the magic gourd because we had imagined it so deeply for so long that I still remember it quite clearly even now.”

Shirley Yang smiled. “It seems you had high aspirations even as a child. But is this Divine Mountain-Viewing Brush the same as the story you just told? Can it really draw the gate to the Ancient Tomb of the Immortal Village?”

Ninth Master Sun scoffed. “Nonsense, utter nonsense! We are here to find a tomb, not to play games. We need more constructive ideas. I think this Divine Mountain-Viewing Brush might have a hidden compartment. Perhaps the key is concealed inside the brush shaft.”

I picked up the golden casket and the divine brush, examining them several times. The golden brush was hollow; there were no hidden compartments or mechanisms. However, I noticed that the golden casket itself seemed to hold another mystery. The pattern carved on its surface belonged to the Ming Dynasty style, depicting towering mountains, flowing water, and figures—an overall image of a high mountain landscape like a stone screen. Below the mountain, amidst dense forests in the valley, an immortal figure was painting on a large mountain sandwiched between two stone screens. The painting the immortal depicted seemed to be a massive gate.

I observed that the mountains and rivers in the casket’s design featured an anomaly: swallows crossing a bridge, strikingly similar to the landscape before the 'Soul-Scaring Terrace.' If the tomb entrance is indeed at the bottom of this gorge, it supports my earlier assertion—the Ancient Tomb of the Immortal Village must be close to the wind-gathering spot of 'Coffin Gorge.' The Guanshan Zhimizhi Fu, being the pinnacle of bizarre and intricate thought, often cannot be deciphered using conventional logic. Perhaps there is a unique spot in the gorge, and using that divine brush might indeed draw open the path.

I thought to myself that the next step was finding a place without corpses so I could use the Guixu Gua Jing to uncover the tomb's secrets. Lingering in the hanging coffin cave and pondering aimlessly was useless now. Why not go to the bottom of the gorge and achieve two goals at once? Only by going there and trying it out could we know if the divine brush painting a door was true or false.

I made up my mind, pocketing both the golden casket and the divine brush, and told the group to prepare to find a path down the mountain. Professor Sun pointed at the Bāshān Ape and asked me, “What about this fellow? Isn’t it pitiful, left wandering the desolate mountain after its master died? Shall I take it back to Beijing?”

I paused briefly and told the professor that this idea was unfeasible. Times were different now; how could one transport a wild animal on the road? Even if brought back, there was no way to keep it at home. Moreover, this Bāshān Ape had been lingering nearby for ten years, indicating deep loyalty to its master. As the saying goes, 'When the elk returns to the mountains, it is fitting; when the qilin resides in the pavilion, it is appropriate.' The deep mountain forest was its destined home. Let it be.

After I reasoned with him for a while, Professor Sun finally gave up on his impractical notion. The whole group watched the Bāshān Ape climb the cliff and disappear into the mist before setting off.

The cave tomb was not far from the valley floor, and a narrow, embedded bird path connected them. Descending through the clouds along the cliff face, the sound of a raging torrent roaring past through the mountain was deafening. Being there, it felt like being deep within a massive mountain fissure thousands of feet high. The sky a thousand meters overhead was only intermittently visible, fragmented and faint, as if we had entered an area completely cut off from the outside world.

The floor of the gorge was relatively open, completely different from the middle section. Although the steep cliffs above narrowed the passage, the riverbanks at the base of the mountain deeply recessed inward. The riverbed was lined entirely with smooth, mirror-like pebbles. Wild grass and strange wildflowers sprouted from the cracks in the rocks, along with many peculiar tree species whose names I could not identify.

This area never saw the sun, and the constant water mist made the nearby vegetation extremely gloomy. Coupled with the hot and humid weather, it easily induced a sense of inexplicable restlessness and unease.

I cross-referenced the scene depicted in the golden casket and searched for a while. I found a fork in the gorge leading into a dry, blue-stone riverbed. It didn't go deep before ending at a waterfall embedded in the high mountain. However, the waterfall had either been diverted or dried up; there was no water source left, only a slick, sheer cliff face ahead.

Before the waterfall dried up, who knows how many thousands or millions of years the mountain wall had been scoured smooth by the water, making it as polished as a stone mirror. Five dense, old trees stood before the wall, their branches twisting and clawing like monstrous appendages, bearing a striking resemblance to the pattern on the golden casket. The spot where the immortal used the divine brush to paint a door must be this rock face at the dry waterfall.

But the surrounding mountain structure was seamless, showing no trace of artificial modification. To simply draw a door on it with a brush and expect it to open? It seemed impossible, unless the Divine Mountain-Viewing Brush was truly a "magic brush" capable of manifesting miracles.

Everyone stood there exchanging glances. Who would be foolish enough to take a brush and draw a door on the mountain to find a way through? If word got out, wouldn't the glorious reputation of the Mojin Xiaowei become a laughingstock?

I thought for a moment and said to Fatty, “Back when we were at the military district nursery, the aunties there already noticed your artistic talent. Other kids who wet the bed did so in a tasteless, random manner, but Commander Wang, you drew a freight train one day and a steamship the next—never repeating yourself. It was truly admirable. I think in the last couple of years, you’ve shown the potential to be a Picasso. Why don't you go draw a big door for us to admire?”