I couldn't take it anymore; when I went home for Chinese New Year, the family genealogy book ha

"Stop talking nonsense and come down with me."

The old man pulled a large, powerful flashlight from under the altar.

With a "click," it was turned on.

The bright white beam of light shone straight into the dark passage, illuminating the top few steps—all made of large blue stones, each step worn smooth and slippery, so smooth that stepping on them probably wouldn't even produce an echo.

The old man held the flashlight in his left hand and used his copper pipe as a cane in his right hand as he stepped inside first.

The 78-year-old man's steps were much more steady than I had imagined.

Jiang Chen followed closely behind, turning sideways and walking down the stone steps.

The passage was very narrow, and Jiang Chen's shoulders almost got stuck between the walls.

As he walked, he reached out and touched the walls on both sides—the walls were made of rough stone, which felt cold and rough to the touch, and he could feel the mortar joints between the stones with his fingertips.

The air was getting increasingly stuffy.

The strong smell of camphor balls mixed with the fishy smell of old soil filled my nostrils and made my head ache.

Jiang Chen wrinkled his nose and covered it with his sleeve.

"Great-Grandpa, how many years has it been since this smell was ventilated?"

The old man didn't turn his head; his voice came from the front.

"The last time the door was opened was six or seven years ago, before your great-grandfather passed away. Before that, it was when he was young."

Six or seven years plus several decades.

No wonder it smells almost like an archaeological excavation site.

Jiang Chen silently counted about seventeen or eighteen steps down the stairs.

The slope isn't very steep, but the drop between each step is quite significant, about a foot deep.

Based on this depth, they are currently at least three meters below the floor of the ancestral hall.

A bright light flashed in front of us.

The old man stopped in his tracks.

The beam of the flashlight shone on a door.

door.

To be precise, it was an old-fashioned tin-covered wooden door.

The door panel was about two inches thick, covered with a layer of sheet metal. The sheet metal was rusty, and in some places, the rust had corroded holes the size of a finger.

There was a lock on the door.

The old-fashioned brass padlock was larger than an adult man's fist. The lock was engraved with patterns, but due to its age, the patterns had become blurred and indistinct from oxidation.

The old man turned sideways in the secret passage, making room for him.

He tucked the flashlight under his arm, took the brass key from Jiang Chen, and handed it back.

"You drive."

Jiang Chen took the key and went to the door.

The beam of the flashlight swayed back and forth in the cramped space, making the shadows on the wall seem alive.

He aligned the key with the lock of the brass lock and inserted it.

It's a bit astringent.

The lock cylinder, unused for decades, was filled with rust and dust, and made a hissing metallic scraping sound when the key was inserted.

Jiang Chen put in more effort and twisted.

"Click—!"

The latch popped open.

The sound was amplified several times in the dark passage, echoing muffledly.

Jiang Chen removed the copper lock, then pushed hard against the door with one arm.

"Squeak—"

The screeching sound of the door hinges was extremely grating, like someone scratching glass with a steel nail.

The sound bounced back and forth in the enclosed underground space, making Jiang Chen's teeth ache.

The door opened.

An even stronger smell of mold and camphor hit Jiang Chen, making him sneeze twice.

He wiped his nose with his sleeve, took the flashlight from the old man, and shone it into the doorway.

A white light swept across.

Jiang Chen was completely stunned.

The space inside was much larger than he had imagined.

The beam of the flashlight couldn't reach the opposite wall.

He held up his flashlight and walked around in a wide circle, scanning the entire space roughly.

Roughly estimated, it is over ten meters long and wide, and more than two meters high – enough for an adult man to stand inside without bending over.

It's about half the size of a basketball court.

The ground was compacted mud, hard to the touch. The walls were built with large stones and glutinous rice mortar, and although they were old, there were no obvious signs of collapse or water seepage.

In the very center was an old elm wood eight-immortal table.

A thick layer of dust covered the tabletop, at least an inch thick. The table legs were sturdy and robust, constructed with mortise and tenon joints, without a single nail.

Next to the octagonal table, several long benches of the same material were placed haphazardly.

In the corner, there were several large metal boxes piled up.

The box was rusty, but the lid was tightly closed. Next to it were some chipped earthenware jars and several wooden shelves that were about to fall apart.

Jiang Chen walked to the octagonal table and wiped the surface with his hand.

Five fingers swept across, pushing the dust aside and revealing the dark red wooden tabletop underneath.

The tabletop is engraved with many patterns, and you can feel the raised and recessed textures when you touch it with your fingers.

He crouched down again and held the flashlight closer to examine it—it wasn't just ordinary decorative patterns. It was writing.

The densely packed words were carved into the tabletop with a knife, stroke by stroke.

However, due to its age, many strokes have been blurred by dust and the natural aging of the wood.

Jiang Chen straightened up and turned to look at the old man who was slowly walking in behind him.

"Great-Grandpa, we have such a big basement in our house?"

He looked around and sighed.

"I used to run around in the ancestral hall when I was little, playing hide-and-seek with Shi Tou and the others. I even lifted the roof tiles off, but I never knew there was such a hole under my feet."

The old man walked to the wall and patted the stone wall.

"This isn't some kind of basement."

The old man's voice lowered, and the flashlight beam shone on his face, casting deep shadows on his deeply furrowed wrinkles.

"This is a life-saving kiln that our ancestors dug at great risk to defend against bandits and escape war!"

A kiln for saving lives.

Three words.

Jiang Chen sensed the weight of those three words.

He held a flashlight and shone it on the wall, following the old man's gaze.

The moment the beam of light struck the wall, Jiang Chen's pupils contracted sharply.

On the wall.

It was covered with words.

It wasn't written; it was carved out stroke by stroke with a knife, chisel, or even the tip of a stone.

Some characters were carved very deeply, and dark red traces remained in the grooves of the strokes—it was unclear whether it was cinnabar or something else.

Some characters were carved very shallowly, as if the carver was out of strength or short on time and only managed a few strokes before stopping.

The handwriting varied in size and was arranged haphazardly. Some characters were next to each other, while others were separated by large blank spaces.

But all the words face the same direction—from left to right, from top to bottom.

It's as if one person, or many people, in different eras and under different circumstances, walked up to this wall, picked up whatever tools they could find, and carved their words on it.

Jiang Chen's flashlight stopped on the top line of text.

The handwriting is the deepest and clearest.

He took two steps closer and stared at the line of text for a few seconds.

"Great-grandfather... what are these words?"