Professor Chen’s voice suddenly became extremely sharp and grating. The tomb chamber was already narrow, making his shriek all the more horrific. Fatty, the Professor, and I exchanged confused glances. It was one thing for the Professor to have gone mad, but why had his voice changed so drastically?

I repeatedly shook Professor Chen’s shoulders, trying to rouse him. Instead, his shouting grew louder, his arms flailing. “Don’t go out, don’t go out!” he screamed, desperately tugging at my arm.

Fearing the Professor might do something reckless that would endanger us all in his delirium, I called Fatty over to help me pin Professor Chen to the ground.

Shirley Yang rushed over to stop us, afraid we would hurt the Professor. To our surprise, as soon as Professor Chen saw her approach, he suddenly lunged, snatched the ancient sheepskin scroll from Shirley Yang’s hand, ripped off the last page, and started to bite it.

That sheepskin, thousands of years old, was naturally impossible to chew, but Professor Chen paid no mind, continuously stuffing the parchment into his mouth and gnawing frantically.

Ever since the shock on the stone beam, Professor Chen had been simple-minded and foolish. How could he suddenly become this hysterical? A person suffering a complete nervous breakdown shouldn't be under the control of the Motian flower hallucinations anymore. Could he have been possessed by an evil spirit? Was he trying to prevent us from escaping this place?

Fatty yanked the ancient sheepskin from the Professor’s mouth. The scroll itself was fine, but Professor Chen’s mouth was now filled with blood. Just in case, we had no choice but to temporarily restrain him.

What concerned me most was whether the last page of the sheepskin scroll had been damaged. If there was a way out of this predicament, it should be on that final page. If Professor Chen had chewed it up, we would be in serious trouble.

The last page of the sheepskin scroll was smeared with a lot of Professor Chen’s saliva and traces of blood from his teeth, but it was completely blank, devoid of any patterns or symbols.

I told Shirley Yang, “It’s ruined. The Old Master’s prophecy was licked away by the Professor.”

Shirley Yang replied, “Don’t worry. The last page of the Prophet’s sheepskin scroll was never supposed to have anything written on it.”

I felt a pang of regret for my earlier panic. Today, for some reason, everything was going wrong, making me restless and unable to calm down. I kept sensing that something in this tomb chamber was fundamentally wrong.

However, the Prophet’s prophecies were perfectly accurate. He would naturally have foreseen what the crazed Professor Chen might do. The blank last page proved it. It seemed every move we made in this stone chamber was already destined to happen. Thinking about it was pointless; I decided to steel my resolve and let nature take its course.

Fatty and I sat down, sandwiching Professor Chen between us, and asked Shirley Yang to continue with the narrative. Trapped between us, Professor Chen struggled ceaselessly but stopped shouting.

Shirley Yang continued detailing the prophecy on the sheepskin scroll: “The Prophet foretold that eight hundred years after his death, his tribe had already migrated to the distant East to escape disaster. Then, Mount Zagelama welcomed a new tribe, one coming from the western deserts. They discovered the Ghost Cave within the mountains, and the tribe’s shaman proclaimed it the dwelling place of a demon god. This tribe became the predecessor of the Jingjue Kingdom. The Jingjue Queen possessed a pair of ghostly eyes that could see the netherworld. She mastered the ritual of summoning black serpent spirits using the Jade Eye sacrifice implement, conquering more than a dozen neighboring states. Their heathen atrocities enraged the True God, who handed over the mountain and the surrounding region to the devil. The desert swallowed their city, and every person, animal, and the black serpent spirits within the Ghost Cave would be buried deep underground.”

Fatty grew agitated and could endure no longer, urging Shirley Yang to quickly move on to the rest. Leaving this oppressive tomb at the earliest possible moment was paramount.

Shirley Yang said, “Finally, there is enlightenment for the four of us who entered the Prophet’s tomb... The enlightenment predicts that four survivors will enter the chamber due to a mountain collapse. One of them is a descendant of the ancient Saint Tribe...”

I wondered aloud, “Descendant? Does that mean someone with the bloodline of that ancient tribe? Since it doesn't specify who, I suspect it’s most likely you. Otherwise, why didn't Fatty and I dream of the Ghost Cave? Plus, you might have inherited your tribe’s ability to sense things, foreseeing the place you were destined to go.”

Fatty chimed in with agreement, “That’s right, it has to be Miss Yang. Old Hu, we never noticed before, but she has a bit of an aquiline nose and her eyes are slightly bluish. We just assumed it was from spending so much time in America. Now it seems she really inherited her ancestors' bloodline; she’s not Chinese at her core.”

Afraid Fatty’s bluntness might offend Shirley Yang again, I quickly interjected, “That lineage is certainly bizarre, but why are you named Yang?”

Shirley Yang seemed unable to fully accept this, shaking her head. “I don’t know. My family has always been Chinese for generations. Perhaps it’s from my mother’s side; my maternal grandfather had a more pronounced aquiline nose... Regardless of who the descendant in the Prophet’s revelation is, it doesn't matter now. The priority is getting out of here immediately. The rest of the revelation indicates the Ancient Saint will point out an escape route for his descendants. But you absolutely must not let the sheepskin scroll fall to the ground. The moment the scroll touches the ground is the moment the sandstorm begins. At that time, yellow sand will once again swallow the ancient city of Jingjue and Mount Zagelama, and this time, the sacred mountain will be buried beneath the sea of sand until the end of time.”

I urgently reminded Shirley Yang, “Then we absolutely cannot let that scroll touch the ground, or a massive sandstorm will erupt immediately, burying us along with this sacred mountain before we can even leave. What happens after that?”

Shirley Yang replied, “That’s the last part; there is nothing more after that. The Ancient Saint will point out an escape route? Look for clues on the Ancient Saint’s remains.”

Knowing the sheepskin scroll was like a time bomb—it could never touch the ground before they left Mount Zagelama, or the great sandstorm of the Prophet’s prediction would start—Shirley Yang opened her portable bag, preparing to store the scroll for safekeeping.

Just as we finished speaking, Professor Chen, who had been pinned between Fatty and me, suddenly mustered a strange, monstrous strength. With a wild cry, he broke free and lunged toward Shirley Yang, screaming at the top of his lungs, “You will never leave!”

The three of us were stunned by Professor Chen’s scream, not because of its harshness, but because now we could hear clearly: Professor Chen’s piercing cry sounded exactly like Ye Yixin, who had just died.

In the one or two seconds it took for us to react, Professor Chen had knocked the scroll from Shirley Yang’s grasp. The great sandstorm capable of swallowing the entire city and the sacred mountain was about to arrive...

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