It was impossible to gauge the sheer size of the passage; their eyes ached from straining against the darkness, yet the walls showed no discernible feature. Could they have missed the breach? Unlikely. Every inch of the passage had been scrutinized four times over. Such a large opening simply couldn't be overlooked, not even in poor visibility.

Gradually, impatience set in, especially for Fatty, whose backside was screaming in protest. He whined loudly, invoking his mother. This enraged Ma Xiong, who seethed and muttered to Lu Zong, “If this lard-ass doesn't straighten up, I’m dragging him to the CIA for a two-day workout once we’re out. That'll cure his hemorrhoids.” Lu Zong merely smiled, though it was a strained expression. He too wondered about the passage’s true dimensions and when they might locate the entry point they’d made.

Two agonizing hours bled away, and still, their makeshift tunnel remained unfound. Confidence evaporated. Lu Zong felt a leaden despair settle over him, losing the will to face the oppressive wall any longer. He considered the passage’s rotation speed—if it was moving too slowly, they might as well walk and search actively.

He called out, urging them to stand up rather than sit on the cold floor, lest they develop debilitating conditions like fissures or prolapse. “Let’s move around a bit,” he suggested. “We can search for the hole as we walk. Maybe we’ll stumble right into it.”

No one objected. They were well-rested and brimming with unused energy. A slow walk sounded preferable to sitting still; it was essentially a stroll.

So Lu Zong took the lead, followed by Ganda. Fatty and Ma Xiong trailed behind, constantly craning their necks, eyes darting left and right, hoping to spot some leftover gold or treasure. After all, what was the point of coming this far without securing a souvenir?

He couldn't fathom the driving force behind this tunnel’s rotation. In ancient times—three millennia past—mechanical power, absent human intervention, seemed impossible to sustain for such a duration. Furthermore, besides inert objects like jade pendants, what else could maintain its integrity for three thousand years? Even if machinery had existed then, three millennia of air erosion and sand abrasion should have reduced it to useless scrap, incapable of generating power now.

If not mechanical, then the energy source had to be natural.

Yet, this tomb was utterly silent, offering no clue as to what force could muster such sustained output. Wind? Water? Something else? It certainly couldn't be paranormal, could it?

As he wrestled with these thoughts, he suddenly noticed an anomaly ahead on the wall. He squinted, realizing with a jolt that he was facing a series of murals. In a cavern sealed for over three thousand years, the colors remained astonishingly vibrant. Though some pigment had flaked away, the integrity of the artwork was intact. His interest flared instantly. He hurried forward, leaning in for a closer look.

The others, seeing the murals, surged up behind him as if spotting a lifeline, crowding around to examine the art.

Clearly, these murals were carved into the passage wall using the most primitive sculpting methods and painted with elemental pigments. While they seemed crude by modern standards, they represented advanced technology for their era. Such intricate and luxurious artwork was typically reserved for the tombs of nobility. Lu Zong felt a surge of excitement; what began as a simple mission to retrieve a desiccated corpse had unexpectedly morphed into a treasure hunt.

He focused intently on the artwork, processing the opinions offered by the other three.

Ma Xiong pointed. “Look at these murals. The same woman appears in every single one. She is clearly the central theme. Maybe she was the tomb's owner.”

Lu Zong disagreed. “I doubt it. This tomb might not belong to her. Notice how frequently a man also appears? His frequency is nearly equal to hers. This ancient tomb probably isn't that straightforward.”

Ganda, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. Being a local, he had some grounding in regional history and might recognize something in the depiction.

“Look closer,” Ganda advised. “The murals record the significant deeds of the owner, their major contributions to human society. See what events are depicted, and you’ll know who the master was.”

They began their study with the first panel.

The first mural showed a large column of people marching across a desert. Their attire suggested they were Han Chinese from the Ming Dynasty, though the reason for their presence here was unknown. Their horses were heavily laden with supplies, and behind them stretched a limitless expanse of sand. Most strikingly, a distinct mountain dominated the background, sharply interrupting the flat, featureless horizon—the artist seemed determined to emphasize it. He couldn't discern the purpose, but inserting something so jarringly out of place suggested deliberate intent rather than an oversight.

He paused to think: Which historical figure from the Ming Dynasty could have led such a contingent into the Xinjiang region? The first name that came to mind was Zhang Qian, the famed envoy who braved the harsh Western Regions with the grand ambition of opening up communication routes—a Ming Dynasty official, though Zhang Qian was historically from an earlier period, which Lu Zong momentarily overlooked in his excitement. Perhaps this depiction represented a later expedition styled after Zhang Qian's spirit? He felt it was plausible and moved to the second panel.

The second mural shared the same landscape as the first. The difference lay in the figures: now, two exhausted men occupied the foreground. One was the official-like figure positioned at the front in the first painting; for the sake of argument, they labeled him Zhang Qian. This panel likely illustrated Zhang Qian’s disastrous retreat after being detained by local officials in the Western Regions, barely escaping the jaws of the enemy. Their direction of travel was now east, contrasting with the westward trajectory in the first painting. These two panels seemed thematically linked: Zhang Qian’s diplomatic mission to the West followed by a crushing defeat on his return.

The third panel was fascinating. It still depicted Zhang Qian, but the volcano in the background was erupting. Zhang Qian struggled forward, seemingly trying to outrun the eruption. Due to exhaustion, the pace of the two figures remained agonizingly slow in the depiction, suggesting they had surrendered hope of survival. Just as Lu Zong was about to examine the next image, something atop the volcanic cone snagged his attention. He leaned in close. The mural, corroded by millennia, was blurry in sections, allowing him only a vague glimpse.

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