Ma Xiong hopped forward stiffly down the straight, dark passage, forcing Lu Zong to follow behind him with mounting impatience. Even accompanied by several hopping dried corpses, he felt no fear; after all, if they had intended to harm him, they would have done so long ago. Besides, with a few female corpses among the group, loneliness wasn't an issue.

The tunnel was pitch black, but his night-vision goggles negated any visual impairment. Yet, a feeling of oppressive gloom settled in his heart, something felt deeply wrong. It was strangely unsettling that such a bizarrely silent cave yielded absolutely no echo.

The procession of man and corpses continued forward, the rhythmic thud of feet echoing one after another. But beneath that sound, Lu Zong felt he was hearing another strange noise—like a hallucination, yet upon careful listening, it seemed terrifyingly close. He decided to dismiss it as phantom noise; after all, no one enjoys hearing anomalies in such a deep cavern.

Despite this mental dismissal, the fear of a surprise attack began to creep in. The harder he tried not to listen, the more acutely he perceived the sound’s presence—that vague resonance, that drawn-out echo lingering near his ears, convinced him the sound was undeniably real.

He began to discern the source of the noise and the message it might carry. At this point, he stopped caring whether the sound existed or not; he felt that if he could perceive it, it was information. In this desperate situation, any piece of intelligence could be life-saving, so he focused, ears straining.

But listening brought immediate peril. He heard what sounded like the desolate wail of an ancient elder, a voice saturated with the weight of time. The profound desolation magnified the horror within the tomb, tightening Lu Zong’s nerves until he nervously scanned his surroundings, terrified any spirit or demonic beast might leap out to startle him.

As they advanced, the sound grew clearer. Lu Zong had to admit he had been trying to self-soothe; he was, in fact, hearing the sound, and now it was clearer, more distinct.

He had to face reality, scrutinizing his surroundings with increased vigilance; defensive posture was non-negotiable.

Still, to steady his frayed nerves, he resolved to focus and determine precisely what the voice was saying.

He tilted his head, listening intently.

From the beginning until now, it seemed to be a constant, low moan from an aged voice, faint and sporadic, expressing deep sorrow and heartbreak. He could almost sense the elder’s suffering, even conjuring a fantasy that this must be an unfortunate test subject from some World War II era biological weapon program, perhaps captured Uyghur civilians, now trapped between worlds, unable to find release, becoming solitary, wandering spirits.

The thought sent a shiver through him. What was he doing? Believing in such superstitious nonsense! Ma Xiong was right; he was a scientist, why indulge in these feudal superstitions?

Yet, glancing at Ma Xiong and the accompanying officials behind him, his own worldview began to waver. Who truly knew if ghosts existed? Did the spirit vanish with the body's decay? No one knew for certain. And since humanity refused to share Earth with other forms of existence, perhaps those alternative life forms were hidden in some corner, awaiting communication.

Goosebumps erupted across his skin. His thoughts grew increasingly uncontrollable; the spectral ideas seemed determined to take root and blossom in his mind, impossible to suppress. He finally grasped the power of belief—that primal, intense mental compulsion that inspires worship and longing.

He started to feel that perhaps the followers of Shamanism had truly transcended humanity, having seen through the mundane world, hiding quietly, waiting for a specific moment to erupt and reveal their true power to the world.

Gradually, his fear subsided. He began to feel that everything here was a potential ally, as long as he didn't provoke them, they wouldn't harm him.

He heard the voice again, and this time he was stunned into silence, mouth agape, unable to react for a full moment.

He felt his brain churning, his entire body trembling, breath catching—clear symptoms of a recurring heart condition. Shaking, he fumbled in his pocket, swallowed a dose of heart medication, and finally quieted down.

Once he felt slightly better, the terrifying sound returned, making him even more astonished, making him forget Ma Xiong entirely.

The aged voice sounded as if it were pressed against his ear; he could almost feel the warm breath accompanying the utterance. He heard the desolate gasps, desperate cries: "Ma Xiong, Lu Zong, Lu Zong."

The voice was slow, the tone deep. He looked around and realized that beyond the dark tunnel walls, there was actually a small crypt containing a coffin.

Judging by the path they had taken, this entire structure was actually a laboratory. The small, dark passages were riddled with tightly packed, gridded rooms, lacking doors but featuring windows. Looking through the panes revealed not just wooden beds, but shelves jammed with medical apparatus, rusted but still vaguely discernible.

He even spotted several wooden tables where corpses lay. Though ravaged by insects, their abdomens had clearly been opened; the piles of grey dust scattered nearby must have been intestines or viscera from that time, and the reddish stains were likely blood—the blood of Chinese people.

The realization brought a pang of sorrow, yet a nagging confusion remained: why were these experiments abandoned before completion? Had some sudden incident occurred? The more he pondered, the less sense it made, so he forced the thoughts aside.

At that moment, the voice sounded again. He focused intently: "Lu Zong, help me."

He shuddered, utterly confused by the situation.

He listened closely, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound. Finally, he noticed that an additional coffin had appeared in the laboratory adjacent to him.

He peered closer with curiosity and saw the coffin seemed to be moving. Sweat immediately drenched his shirt. He used his shirt to dry his face and then stared fixedly at the container, waiting for the voice to return.

The sound finally rang out once more: "Lu Zong, save me. Lu Zong, hurry and save me."

Curiosity now entirely replaced apprehension. He had to know what was calling to him from inside that coffin. Even if danger loomed, Ma Xiong was still nearby...

Ah, Ma Xiong. He immediately scanned his surroundings for his companion, only to realize that Ma Xiong and the dried corpses had vanished without a trace.

Frustration flared within him. Just as he was about to panic, this new predicament arose. He was cursed with terrible luck.

Ma Xiong! he shouted loudly. The only reply was the slight tremor of the coffin. There was no echo at all. It seemed this tunnel stretched on endlessly.

Gritting his teeth, he decided, why hold back now? He had to see what was hidden in that coffin—something that knew his name! Had his reputation somehow reached the underworld?

His legs trembling, he approached the coffin warily and examined it closely.

He saw that the coffin was slightly ajar, a thin crack separating the lid from the base. This crack appeared fresher than the surrounding wood, suggesting the lid had recently shifted. Had the lid been opened just moments ago?

The more he considered it, the more intense his curiosity became; he had to know what lay beneath that lid.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, preparing to lift the cover.

With tremendous effort, he managed to shift the heavy lid just enough to reveal a gap the width of an arm. He couldn't tell what material the coffin was made of, but it felt like dense hardwood; it was incredibly heavy.

He decided to rest, squatting momentarily on the edge of the lid. He pulled a cigarette and a gun from his waist, lit up, and took a few deep drags.

Suddenly, an intense itching sensation struck his backside, like something was scratching him. Startled, he leaped off the coffin. He glanced back and saw that the opening was now smeared with a thick, dark substance. He leaned closer to inspect it and recoiled in disgust—it was a pile of rotting flesh. He couldn't help but gag and vomit.

Instinctively, his hand rested on the rim of the coffin.

A gaunt, sinister arm shot out from inside, gripping Lu Zong's forearm with shocking strength. Unprepared, Lu Zong was yanked violently toward the opening, his face smashed against the lid. If the cover hadn't provided a barrier, he would have tumbled inside. His sudden impact had caused the lid to shift slightly more, allowing him to glimpse the viscous matter within.

The thick, pitch-black rotting mass looked even more horrifying in the gloomy cavern. Lu Zong held his breath, desperate not to inhale the foul contents. How many years had this flesh been decaying?

Then, something even more unbelievable occurred: the mass of rotting tissue began to writhe.

He was certain it wasn't the movement of maggots; he could see no actual worms. He trembled with terror. Could this corpse be alive?

The skeletal hand pulled relentlessly, and Lu Zong struggled with all his might against the grip.

He could feel the corpse's strength was significantly greater than his own. At this moment, his mind completely blanked from panic, focusing only on escaping the grip by any means necessary.

He felt his strength rapidly draining, yet the power in that withered hand showed no sign of diminishing. Despair began to set in. He strained to see what was pulling him. If ghosts truly existed, perhaps he should surrender—become a spirit himself and spend eternity visiting the women’s dormitories.

But what he clearly saw was a mass of rotting flesh undulating, the movement growing larger, as if the outer skin were a pregnant woman hosting a squirming infant inside.

An unknown amount of time passed in the struggle against the withered hand. Finally, the familiar voice emerged from within: "Lu Zong, save me."