We stared intently at the garment high above, and the severed human head attached to it suddenly turned toward us, grinning silently. Though Irley Yang and I were horrified, we managed to keep our composure.

Legend has it that vengeful spirits cannot make turns; the screen walls in wealthy estates were specifically designed to block such malevolent entities. This rear hall was lined entirely with stone murals; at worst, we could maneuver around her a few times. Since it was daytime outside, we weren't worried about an escape route. With that thought, I pulled out a black donkey's hoof and shouted, "Old Hu treats you to braised trotters today—come and get it!" I flung it toward the head lurking in the darkness.

The black donkey's hoof, which specifically counters zombies and vicious spirits, whistled through the air. With the force I exerted, the Wolf's Eye lamp in my other hand became unstable, the light flickering wildly, immediately plunging the entire ceiling of the hall into darkness. We heard a loud thwack from the blackness, and a large object fell, landing squarely on the mural wall near the stone stele where Irley Yang and I stood.

I quickly shone my flashlight over, trying to see what kind of spirit it was. Fixing my gaze, I saw a half-insectoid creature grinning at us from the mural—it wasn't the red shaman's robe after all. The Thug was now easily twice the size it was when it first left its host. Earlier, the anti-insect agents from the Lingyun Heavenly Palace and the Spiral Causeway had forced them back into the Gourd Cave, but presumably, the insect-deterrent pathways throughout the royal tomb complex were mainly designed for rats and ants, and being ancient, they weren't very effective against Thugs this large; they had clearly adapted to the scents.

This Thug must have slipped into the hall at some point, hiding in the shadows to ambush us. As it lunged, it ran right into the obstacle I threw—the black donkey's hoof meant for the vengeful spirit—and crashed onto the mural wall.

This particular black donkey's hoof I carried was sourced by Yanzi when we were in Inner Mongolia; I'd had it on me for over a year, and it was almost as heavy as an iron ball. Through sheer chance, it struck the Thug's left eye, driving the eyeball deep inside, leaking copious amounts of green fluid. It shrieked horribly in pain.

As Irley Yang and I illuminated the Thug on the mural wall with the Wolf's Eye, we inadvertently noticed another set of clothes hanging from the hall ceiling behind it, also of a peculiar style. It appeared to be ancient armor belonging to the Southwestern Yi people—again, only the armor itself, with no body inside. Furthermore, this suit lacked a head, only sporting a bovine horn helmet; we couldn't tell if there was a human head inside that helm either.

It seemed there was more than just that single red shaman's robe in the rear hall. I wondered what became of the owners of these garments; chances are, most had already been sacrificed by the Cursed King to appease heaven.

But there was no time to ponder the implications. The one-eyed Thug at the top of the mural wall had already leaped down from mid-air. Irley Yang’s Type 64 pistol fired three rapid shots, knocking it out of the air, and Fatty, stationed below, immediately rushed forward to deliver several more rounds.

Fatty shouted up to us, "Quite a few more got in, damn it, they've definitely got their sights set on us…" He kept pulling the trigger, the dark palace flashing intermittently with the muzzle flashes.

Irley Yang said to me, "They must remember our scent, that's why they're relentless. But the speed at which these things grow suggests it's tied to the unique environment in the Gourd Cave. They probably won't survive long away from their lair."

Anxious to retrieve my submachine gun from beside the stele, I began climbing down while telling Fatty and Irley Yang, "While their numbers are still low, eliminate them all quickly. Seal the entrance to the short corridor of the rear hall immediately. Since the larger insects supposedly don't survive long in normal oxygen levels, we just need to hold out for a while."

The Thugs that slipped into the palace unnoticed were perhaps a few dozen strong; though not a massive swarm, their considerable size made total extermination difficult, forcing us to use the scattered stone steles and murals for cover while engaging them. The reason a full wave hadn't poured in was likely because the others hadn't reached maturity yet and couldn't withstand the insect deterrents in the hall, but that was only a matter of time.

Fatty and I stood back-to-back, relying on each other as we shot down the attacking Thugs. In the midst of the fight, Fatty warned me, "Commander Hu, we're low on ammo. Be judicious with your shots."

Hearing him mention low ammunition made me a little impatient, and the aim on my "Chicago Typewriter" wavered. A Thug that was just getting pinned down by bullets took three hits to the back and bolted into the blind spot behind the mural wall. My next few shots hammered into the wall, sending brick dust flying.

Thinking that every one killed was one less to worry about, I pursued relentlessly, turning the corner to the inner side of the mural wall. I saw the heavily wounded Thug crouched on the lid of a black Ding, glaring at me menacingly. It opened its four large mouths, howling to vent the pain of its bones and sinews being shredded by high-caliber rounds, and the endless resentment of the female slaves flowing within its venomous blood.

Seeing me follow, the badly injured Thug went into a frenzy, viciously pushing off the Ding lid with its two forelimbs and lunging at me. Its strength was astonishing; the force of this push actually sent the lid of the black bronze Ding flying backward off the vessel. With the mural wall directly behind me, evasion was difficult, but I knew instinctively that its charge was fierce and desperate, concentrating its remaining life energy in its mouth, intending a mutual kill.

I didn't dodge; I raised my rifle, intending to finish it in mid-air. But as I pulled the trigger, the bullet jammed. Just what I feared most had happened. While this American gear was lethal, it was old surplus; lasting this long before jamming was already a minor miracle. I tried to swing the stock to strike the lunging Thug, but its approach was too swift and violent. I smelled a foul stench, and its terrifying mouth, with its moving palps and flesh teeth, lunged for my face.

I had no choice but to raise my IAI to block its neck, but the creature seemed infinitely strong, its momentum undiminished, slamming me to the ground. I took the opportunity to kick out at the Thug's abdomen, using the force of its own lunge to shove it backward. The Thug's head smashed against the mural wall, leaving a large patch of black gore on the pure white surface.

Seeing the Thug wasn't quite dead, I moved to smash its head in completely with the butt of my rifle, when I heard a heavy, metallic rolling sound behind me, as if a colossal wheel was grinding toward me from the rear.

What the hell train is that? I thought, not daring to delay, and quickly rolled sideways to evade. The lid of that massive black Ding scraped past my back. The Thug, just struggling to get up from beneath the mural wall, was struck squarely by the edge of the rolling lid. With a dull thud, like a watermelon dropped from a height, large amounts of black blood spattered across the entire mural wall. It was crushed into a mass of insect pulp by the heavy lid. Its head was flattened, merging with the cracked section of the mural wall; it was impossible to tell where the head ended and the wall began, only its forelimbs remained outstretched and twitching spasmodically.

As the saying goes, lifting a stone only to drop it on one's own foot. This Thug, perhaps having accumulated bad karma in a past life, was so focused on pouncing to bite me that it was crushed beneath the Ding lid it had kicked loose, which had rolled in a circle and ended up grinding right onto its own head.

Gunfire still echoed in the hall; Fatty and Irley Yang had already taken down more than ten of the largest Thugs and were finishing off the remaining few. Seeing that my immediate area was temporarily secure, I let out a long breath, quickly ejected the magazine, and cleared the jammed cartridge—it had nearly cost me my life.

Afterward, I stood up, intending to go assist Fatty and the others, but the moment I moved, I was confronted with a scene so bizarre it defied description. The six-legged black Ding, now missing its lid, was filled with a mass of glistening white bodies—all naked corpses. Judging by their forms, there were men, women, and children, numbering at least seventeen or eighteen.

These bodies were piled in translucent, congealed grease, clear as if they were preserved in aspic. Bloodstains were fresh on the flesh. I mused to myself, Irley Yang was right after all; this is indeed a refining cauldron for sacrificing bodies to heaven by burning. These corpses must be the owners of those strange clothes on the ceiling, perhaps the most prominent captives of the Cursed King among the Yi people, maybe even members of the Yi King's own retinue.

Records from the Xia and Shang dynasties mention using cauldrons to boil men as sacrifices to Heaven and Earth; moreover, the victims could not be common slaves, as that would be seen as disrespect to the deities. It seems the Cursed King died before he could perform his ritual ascension to dragonhood, so this "great pot" never got to be used.

I then wondered if the vengeful spirit’s grin in the corner of the palace was meant to stop us from opening the Ding lid—did this cauldron hold some unspeakable secret? Even with naked female corpses, covered in rendered fat and fresh blood, the sight alone made me nauseous; who the hell would be eager to look?

The grotesque appearance and state of these Yi corpses made me utterly unwilling to look any longer, and I turned to leave. But before my feet could move, a blast of scorching air erupted from the black Ding. The six beast-like feet supporting the cauldron suddenly looked like six fire qilin, positioned facing inward, spitting six pillars of flame from their maws; the black surface of the Ding, upon contact with the intense fire, instantly began to burn violently. The corpses inside were engulfed by flames and hot oil, rapidly melting away. A powerful stench of rendered oil filled the hall, the heavy odor almost making one retch.

The six-legged black Ding instantly transformed into a massive fireball, its fierce flames illuminating the entire rear hall brightly. High up on the ceiling, suspended were more than a dozen sets of uniquely styled ancient garments, none of which looked like they were made for the living.