I scrambled upward within the dark, slick eye socket, treading on the inner coffin of the Buried King, with the anxious shouts of Fatty and Shirley Yang echoing down from above. Whether it was due to my overly frantic state or the influence of the melted substances within the "Aconite Flesh Sarcophagus," everything around me seemed a boundless, inky black. The meager beam from my climbing helmet seemed to dissolve into the meat-coffin's infinite darkness, becoming almost negligible.

During this upward climb, I felt something below me also starting to ascend. The moment I registered the sensation, my heart chilled: within the eye socket of this flesh sarcophagus, besides the headless corpse of the Buried King, there could be nothing else. It must be that old Zongzi chasing after the head.

The thought flashed through my mind just as a strong hand grabbed my left ankle. I had almost clambered out, but now my body was yanked back toward the center of the eye socket. Clutching the head in one hand, I jammed my entrenching tool into the flesh-like wall to temporarily secure myself, preventing a direct plunge back to the bottom.

I looked down into the hazy light and saw a mottled black, headless corpse struggling to pull itself out of the inner coffin. Its body seemed coated in a black, viscous membrane, almost merging seamlessly with the eye socket of the "Aconite Flesh Sarcophagus." A pitch-black hand was gripping my ankle, pulling me downward.

The peach-wood nails seemed to have absolutely no effect on this body, suggesting only one possibility: the corpse had merged entirely with the "Corpse Hole" adhering to the flesh sarcophagus. The Buried King’s body was the epicenter of the Corpse Hole. Thinking of this sent a chill through my bones. I recalled Shirley Yang mentioning the Paris Catacombs. No one truly knew how deep they ran or how vast their scale was, nor how many different types of dried corpses resided there. A widely circulated theory suggested the scale of the Paris Catacombs rivaled that of Beijing’s underground civil defense systems. While such comparisons aren't entirely reliable, they certainly indicate the immense size of this tomb network.

Due to some unknown reason, a supernatural phenomenon—a "Corpse Hole"—had formed deep within the Paris Catacombs. It was described as a "fissure zone" existing between matter and energy. The French "Corpse Hole" was said to be only two or three meters in diameter, but this Buried King’s flesh sarcophagus spanned over twenty meters across. If it had fully manifested into a "Corpse Hole" capable of devouring everything, escaping would be harder than ascending to heaven.

However, finding myself in such a desperate situation, I couldn't afford to dwell on it. The immediate priority was shaking off the headless corpse's entanglement. I yelled up to Fatty, "Fatty, the blasting caps! Hurry and get the blasting caps!" As I shouted, I tossed the Buried King's head upward.

Fatty saw a round object thrown his way and caught it without looking closely. When he looked down, the light from his helmet illuminated a bizarre head, its features seemingly melted. Even with his immense courage, he flinched, dropping the Buried King's head to the ground. He ignored it immediately and scrambled to retrieve the blasting caps.

Struggling below, I threw the head up and didn't have time to worry if Fatty and Shirley Yang recognized it as the Buried King’s. Freeing one hand, I yanked out my entrenching tool and brought it down hard on the headless black corpse below. A few dull thuds echoed, like hitting rotten leather, sending a numbing ache up my own hand.

Suddenly, my foot felt free; the iron grip was gone. The headless corpse had abandoned me, silently climbing upward along the side. It seemed its sole objective was that severed head.

Seeing an opportunity, I dared not relax. I quickly used my feet to stomp hard against the torso of the headless corpse, kicking it back down into the socket. Using that momentum, I sprang upward, clinging to the slippery edge of the eye socket.

Shirley Yang above immediately grabbed my arm and helped pull me up. My jump down had been a surge of desperate bravery; climbing back up, terror set in, and my legs trembled. I stomped my feet hard to steady myself.

But there was no time to reflect on what just happened. Sparks hissed chi-chi before my eyes; Fatty had lit three connected blasting caps. Cursing under his breath, he aimed and threw the bundle down into the eye socket I had just exited.

My heart rate calmed slightly. I thought that with this blast, even if the headless corpse had skin of bronze and bones of iron, it would be reduced to bloody pulp. The surrounding flesh sarcophagus had completely distorted, resembling churning viscera of cattle and sheep, countless limbs writhing within. It looked like this place would fully evolve into a "Corpse Hole" within ten seconds. Fortunately, the entrance we used was still there, though now also covered in black membrane. I snatched the Buried King's head that Fatty had dropped, held it tight under my arm, and yelled to Shirley Yang and Fatty, "Are you waiting for lightning, or are we getting out?" (Kan jing: moving out; zou fan: escape)

The three of us bolted for the exit. Amidst the chaos, Fatty didn't forget to ask, "That thing you threw up, was it a head or a funerary object?"

Running, I informed him, "This head of the Buried King is very likely the life-saving bead we’ve been searching for." Hearing that the "Muchen Pearl" had been secured, Shirley Yang’s spirits lifted. Together, she, Fatty, and I rushed toward the entrance, taking two steps where only one was needed, and swiftly hacked at the rotten-flesh-like membranes blocking the opening with our entrenching tools.

Just as we were about to leap out, a dark, sooty object shot down from above, trailing white smoke, landing directly in Fatty’s hands. Fatty exclaimed in surprise, "What in the world is this?" Concentrating, he saw it was the bundle of blasting caps he had just thrown into the eye socket. The area where the headless corpse lay was generating a massive amount of flesh membrane, which had managed to eject the detonators just before they exploded. The fuse was nearly burned down. Fatty roared in alarm, instantly flinging the caps backward. Blasted by the shockwave of the explosion, the three of us tumbled out of the flesh sarcophagus, covered in smoke and grime.

The situation in the large cavern remained the same, save for the addition of numerous Corpse Moths swirling nearby. Shirley Yang fired the last illumination flare toward a corner, drawing all the scattered moths to that spot. Then, the three of us sprinted back the way we came. Just as we neared the bottom of the massive cavern, we heard a chorus of scraping, scratching noises from the ceiling above, like dozens of fingernails dragging on stone.

We had no further long-range illumination tools left; we couldn't see the situation above, but we didn't need to. The "Corpse Hole effect" was spreading beyond the Aconite Flesh Sarcophagus. And it was headed straight for us.

We dared not pause. We jumped into the middle-level tomb chamber along our escape route. I told Fatty and Shirley Yang, "We absolutely cannot return this head of the Buried King, but doing so means we can't escape the entanglement of the Corpse Hole."

The Yin Palace of the Buried King's tomb consisted of three nested chambers: the lowest wooden coffin, the middle stone sarcophagus, and the highest flesh sarcophagus. A surrounding gallery encircled them, giving a top-down view like the character '' (return), though the perimeter was circular. Since the three chambers varied in size, it resembled a whirlpool, or perhaps the shape of an eyeball. This Yin Palace was built deep within the mountain wall, possessing only one exit; there were no alternative passages to break through—we could only retreat the way we came.

As we fled, we debated. Running forever wasn't a solution. It was likely past midnight; we hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and since we'd hastily eaten something atop the glazed roof of the Lingyun Heavenly Palace, we hadn't taken in any water or food since. We had to find a way to completely neutralize this massive Corpse Hole, or there would be no chance of survival.

In this desperate flight, no brilliant strategy came to mind. All I could think of was to use our rapid retreat to wear the enemy down, exposing its weaknesses, and then act on opportunity. How far we could flee depended on the speed at which the Corpse Hole devoured matter.

After a frantic sprint, we passed the Bridge of Three Lives before the Yin Palace gate and rushed through the long tomb passage, finally reaching the colossal, heavy stone door. We climbed onto the bronze-eaved, latticed Heavenly Gate. The sounds emanating from the Corpse Hole behind us had diminished significantly; it seemed we had gained some distance, but it clung to us like maggots to the bone.

Fatty perched on the lintel of the bronze Heavenly Gate and said, "We still have a few blocks of explosives left. How about we blow up this Heavenly Gate and seal it inside?"

Shirley Yang replied, "This stone door won't stop the Corpse Hole’s consumption, but it might slow it down for a while..." Before she finished, she sensed something wrong below the door: "Why has the water in the channel risen so high?"

I looked down. One-third of the stone door was submerged. This meant the external water source had been blocked. I immediately urged Fatty to set the charges. It seemed this millennia-old Laorouzhi (ancient fungus-like organism) was the convergence point for the area’s catastrophic Feng Shui. Disturbing it had likely unleashed two thousand years of suppressed terrestrial energy, which might flood the entire Worm Valley within moments. If we couldn't escape before that, we would surely feed the carp and old turtles at the bottom of the pool until the earth’s energy stabilized and the flood receded. Since only the narrow Heavenly Gate needed to be destroyed, Fatty finished setting the charges quickly. I glanced back into the pitch-black Yin Palace through the gap in the gate, gritted my teeth, thinking that having failed thirty-six times, I couldn't fail at the very last hurdle. I resolved to take this head out, no matter what. I beckoned, and the three of us slipped under the Heavenly Gate, submerging ourselves into the water to retrace our path.

Swimming near the water source, the suction of the vortex was indeed gone, and the current was surging upward. We used the upward rolling water to swim back to the external pool. The water level here was also continuously rising, but because the funnel-shaped surrounding walls were riddled with large and small fissures and caves, normally hidden by vines and silt, the rising water seeped into these openings. Thus, the surface level wasn't rising as disastrously fast as we expected.

We found a stone slab "walkway" near the surface and climbed out. Even though we were far from the eerie, dark underground royal tomb, there was no sense of seeing daylight. The sky outside was still black as soot. The roar of the surrounding waterfalls thundered overhead, and the pressing darkness made breathing feel difficult.

Halfway up, the booming water sounds gradually faded, and we could hear each other speak. I told Fatty and Shirley Yang, "Let's climb back to the Lingyun Palace first, and then figure out how to escape the Worm Valley. We can deal with the Toad Palace in the Gourd Cave some other time."

Shirley Yang understood the situation perfectly. The Corpse Hole would catch up in an instant. We could barely manage ourselves; other matters had to be set aside for now. She followed as Fatty and I wound our way up the "walkway." Suddenly, her foot sank, and she fell to her knees.

I rushed to help her up, only to find Shirley Yang unable to stand. I asked in alarm, "Did you get a cramp in your leg?"

Shirley Yang clutched her knee and said, "It feels like... my calf has lost all feeling." Her voice trembled with sheer panic.

Fatty shone his flashlight as I examined Shirley Yang’s leg. I saw a bruise the size of a palm on her pale white calf, so black it looked dyed with ink. Fatty and I cried out simultaneously, "It’s a Corpse Bruise!"

My heart burned with anxiety. I said to Shirley Yang, "My dear lady, your leg was bitten by a Corpse Moth. This is deadly... Do we have any glutinous rice left?"

Suddenly, scratching sounds, like fingernails on stone, echoed from the sheer cliff below us. The Corpse Hole, resembling a giant meat locker, had followed us without making a sound, and it was terrifyingly close—within ten meters.

If we were caught in this treacherous place, where the cliffs were sheer and even apes and birds dared not tread, escape would be impossible. Fatty and I exchanged a look; we knew the final moment had arrived. Weighing the odds, we decided we had to abandon the head. But even sacrificing that piece might not be enough to overcome the present danger.

Just then, a crack of blood-red light split the inky sky. Our timing estimate was wrong; dawn had broken outside, but the "Black Pig Crossing the River" clouds were too thick, making it look like night within the funnel. Now, the rising geothermal energy had torn a fissure in the black cloud cover. The celestial spectacle stunned us into silence. This was exactly the scene of the sky collapsing depicted in the Buried King's Heavenly Talisman Chart!

I had never seen the real "Muchen Pearl." I had only seen a fake in the ruins of Jingjue in the sand sea—it was made of rare ancient jade, several sizes smaller than a human head, with textures and contours identical to a human eye. I didn't know the true size or if it could even be held in the hand.

But there was no time for detailed examination. I immediately took out the corpse-binding rope and fashioned a loop around the neck of the Buried King’s corpse, intending to yank him out of the inner coffin for Fatty to drag up. However, after tugging and pulling the rope twice while keeping a firm grip, the corpse didn't budge in the slightest.

I was puzzled, wondering what new strangeness had arisen. I raised my hand and slapped the Buried King’s corpse a few times, then pulled again; still nothing.

Having no other recourse and no time to investigate, I decided to solve the problem locally. I fished a peach-wood nail from my satchel and drove it straight into the center of the corpse’s chest. Then, with my arms outstretched, I ran my hands over the body from head to toe. When I reached his left hand, I found it, like the right, tightly clenched into a fist. There was clearly something in his grip.

I took out two more peach-wood nails, pinned the Buried King’s arms to his sides, and forced his fingers open, silently praying that the "Phoenix Gall" was there. But when the fingers finally parted, I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me.

In the Buried King’s left hand was a decomposed peach pit. While unexpected, it wasn't entirely strange. Chinese culture holds a special reverence for the "peach," viewing it as a divine object warding off evil, disaster, and granting longevity. Consequently, many ancient artifacts are shaped like peaches. Legend says Emperor Wu of Han, the longest-reigning emperor of the Western Han, grew obsessed with immortality as his reign lengthened. He frequently dispatched massive expeditions to worship at the Three Mountains and Five Peaks and sent people across the land searching for the elixir of everlasting life. This earnest effort finally moved the Queen Mother of the West on Kunlun Mountain. On the night of Qixi in the first year of Yuánfēng, she arrived at the Weiyang Palace in a chariot drawn by purple clouds to meet Emperor Wu. During their banquet, the Queen Mother gave Liu Che four immortal peaches. The Emperor found their taste exquisitely sweet and fragrant, utterly distinct from mundane fruits, and resolved to keep the pits to plant them in the mortal realm. He was deeply disappointed to learn that such divine fruit could not survive on Earth. Although Emperor Wu ultimately failed to achieve immortality, living into his seventies was rare in ancient times, perhaps thanks to those immortal peaches. This is merely folklore, but the custom of interring emperors holding peach pits has a long history, being quite common even in the Eastern Zhou period. However, peach pits are organic matter and decompose easily, which is why they are rarely found when tombs are opened in later dynasties.

I paused for a moment, recalling the legend, and inwardly cursed. I then turned to pry open the Buried King’s right hand. It held numerous rings made of dark jade, interspersed with some black impurities. In my haste, I didn't have time to analyze them and shoved them all into my satchel.

Fatty yelled from above, "Commander Hu, no time left! Go, go, go!"

I knew Fatty’s urgency meant the situation was critical, yet the vital "Muchen Pearl" remained unfound. A sudden flash of inspiration struck me: perhaps the pearl was what the King held in his mouth, causing his head to become so bizarrely preserved. Throwing caution to the wind, I decided to take the King’s severed head back for study.

I shouted back to Fatty, "Throw down the entrenching tool! Just hold on for ten more seconds!" After catching the tool Fatty tossed down, I reached for the Buried King's neck; it hadn't petrified like his face. I located the spot and began hacking furiously with the serrated edge of the American entrenching tool, using my paratrooper knife to cut through tougher spots.

Just then, the corpse whose head I was about to sever shook violently. A wave of cold sweat broke out on me; I knew this was bad. I snatched the head and scrambled upward quickly. The cold smoke at the bottom of the hole had died out. I didn't need to look down to know—the headless body of the Buried King was pursuing me.