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

Jiang Chen raised the flashlight high, shining the beam onto the top line of text on the wall.

The characters are in traditional Chinese, with thick and powerful strokes, clearly carved with an iron tool.

He opened his mouth and read it aloud.

"In the fifteenth year of the Chongzhen reign of the Ming Dynasty, a severe drought struck, leading to cannibalism. The Jiang family fled south with thirty elderly and infirm members..."

Jiang Chen paused for a moment when he read the words "exchanging children to eat".

He knew what those four words meant.

They exchanged children to eat.

Because you can't kill your own child with your own hands.

"Let's continue reading."

The old man's voice came from behind, but his emotions were unreadable.

He squatted down on an old bench in the corner, took out some tobacco from his pocket, and slowly stuffed it into his copper pipe.

With a "snap," the match was struck.

The flame flickered twice in the dark room, the tobacco started to burn, and a pungent smell of dry tobacco spread.

Jiang Chen didn't turn around, and continued looking down along the wall.

The second line was written in a different handwriting, much more hastily than the first, with some strokes connected together, as if it were written in a hurry.

"On their way south, they were pursued by bandits. Fourteen able-bodied men from the clan covered their retreat with machetes, but none of them survived. The rest of them crossed the mountains and entered the forest. The old mother died on the way and was buried under a pile of rocks by the roadside, with a blank tombstone erected for her."

Jiang Chen moved his flashlight to the side.

Third line.

The handwriting had changed hands again; the characters were neater, but frighteningly so—each stroke was so forceful that it seemed to chisel out white powder from the stone.

"In the second year of the Shunzhi reign of the Qing Dynasty, bandits passed through the area and abducted eleven women and children. The men of the clan chased after them with hoes and wooden clubs to the river mouth, where seven of them died in battle. The rest retreated to their cave dwellings and sealed the doors for three months without venturing out."

Fourth line.

"In the spring of the sixth year of the Shunzhi reign, a plague struck. Seventeen people died. Their bodies were not allowed to be buried in the village, but were thrown into a deep ravine in the southern mountains. Only thirteen members of the clan survived, half old and half young."

Fifth line.

"In the thirty-first year of the Kangxi Emperor's reign, there was a flood. The fields were completely destroyed. The clan chief led his people north to beg for food. On the way, he sold three of his daughters in exchange for two bushels of sorghum, which saved the entire clan's lives."

Jiang Chen's throat tightened.

He didn't stop; he continued to move the flashlight downwards.

The handwriting in those few lines from the early years of the Republic of China is noticeably newer than the previous ones, and they use a simplified font.

"In the seventh year of the Republic of China, there was a famine, and the whole village went without food for forty days. The clan chief decided to sell fifteen girls under the age of twelve in exchange for six bags of sorghum flour and two catties of salt."

"The buyer is a wealthy family from the neighboring county, and they offered two silver dollars per bite."

Two silver dollars can save a life.

Jiang Chen looked at the words, and the beam of his flashlight flickered on the wall.

It wasn't that his hand was shaking.

It was the hand that was gripping the flashlight; the knuckles were clenched so tightly that the muscles were stretched to their limit, creating an instinctive reaction.

The money he spent, the billions he squandered, seem insignificant compared to these words.

The cars he bought, the buildings he built, and the railways he repaired—these things seem like another world in comparison to these words.

"Great-grandfather." Jiang Chen's voice was a little hoarse.

"Hmm." The old man took a puff of his pipe from behind, the cigarette butt flickering briefly.

"Look closely. Every line is an account book that our Jiang family risked our lives to earn."

The old man spoke in a very calm tone, as if he were talking about something that had happened a very long time ago.

But the knuckles of the hand that held the copper pipe were slightly white.

Jiang Chen looked down.

The further down you go, the newer the handwriting and the more detailed the content.

"In 1937, when the Japanese army crossed the border, the men of the Jiang family organized a self-defense force and resisted with homemade guns and machetes. Nine were killed and thirteen were wounded. The Japanese army burned down the ancestral hall. The rest of the men took the elderly and the weak and fled into the mountains to hide, where they lived in caves for four years."

"In 1949, the People's Republic of China was founded. The Jiang clan returned from the mountains and rebuilt the ancestral hall. When the kiln was built, the clan chief ordered a stone to be carved to record the event and instruct future generations."

Next, continue.

These are some of the most recent lines of text, written neatly, carved on a lime wall with a hard object.

Jiang Chen could tell at a glance that it was the old man's handwriting.

"In 1962, after the three years of hardship, only 37 members of the clan survived. When the clan ran out of food, I distributed the last remaining grain from my life-saving kiln to the entire clan, thus preserving the last bloodline."

"This kiln is the lifeblood of the Jiang family. It must not be opened except in a life-or-death situation. The key is passed down to the eldest son, generation after generation."

Signed: Jiang Wanshan.

Date: Winter of 1983.

Jiang Chen finished reading it.

He slowly put down the flashlight, turned around, and looked at the old man sitting on the bench.

Amidst the swirling smoke, the old man's face appeared exceptionally aged.

Those deep wrinkles are not etched with the passage of time, but with every line of words written on this wall.

"No wonder you were so unwilling to sell the village's land to the Chu family."

Jiang Chen lowered his voice.

"This is the foundation that our ancestors risked their lives to build."

The old man did not respond.

He tapped his pipe, knocked the ash to the ground, and looked up.

There was something indescribable in those cloudy old eyes.

It's not sadness, it's not sentimentality.

It is hatred.

"Those bastards, Jiang Jianwen and his gang!"

The old man suddenly raised his voice, and his copper pipe banged loudly on the bench.

"They're only thinking about that fifty million! They have no idea about the significance of what's underground!"

"The land our ancestors risked their lives to acquire, and they're selling it to outsiders!"

"They deserved to be kicked out! They don't even deserve to be buried in the ancestral graveyard!"

After the old man finished cursing, he took a few deep breaths.

Jiang Chen walked over and squatted down next to the old man.

He reached out and patted the wall, his knuckles striking the rough stone surface with a "thump-thump" sound.

"Don't worry."

His tone returned to its usual calm and unhurried manner, but every word carried an unyielding fierceness.

"Those guys are gone. From now on, Jiangjia Village will only have our own people."

The old man looked at him, remained silent for a few seconds, and then slowly nodded.

"The old man showed you this wall not only to let you know the suffering of your ancestors."

The old man stood up, leaning on his copper pipe, and walked towards the corner of the wall.

"This is to remind you—the Jiang family has guarded this for five hundred years, and it cannot be broken when it comes to you. No matter how big your business becomes or how much money you make in the future, you cannot lose this foundation."

Jiang Chen stood up as well.

"I've got it."

The two remained silent for a while.

The room was so quiet that only the occasional rustling sound from above could be heard, whether from insects or mice.

Just then.

Jiang Chen's gaze inadvertently swept over the few tin boxes in the corner.

He had noticed it when he came in earlier, but hadn't had a chance to look at it closely.

Now that he got closer, he noticed that the boxes were quite large, each about half a person's height, with heavily rusted metal surfaces, but the clasps on the lids were still intact.

Next to the box were several large, rough pottery jars, their mouths sealed with wax, which had turned a dark yellow and was covered with a thick layer of ash.

Jiang Chen shone the flashlight on the box and then turned to ask the old man.

"Great-Grandpa, we've finished reading the inscription. Those boxes aren't filled with ashes, are they?"

The old man glared angrily, nearly throwing his copper pipe at him.

Stop talking nonsense!

The old man cursed, but after he finished, a barely perceptible smile appeared in the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.

"That's what my grandfather left behind."

He gestured for Jiang Chen to come over.

"Go open it and see for yourself."

Jiang Chen bent down and picked up the iron rod he had brought with him when he came in, and walked to the metal boxes in the corner.

He tucked the flashlight under his arm and aimed the iron bar at the buckle of the first box.

The tip of the stick was inserted into the gap of the buckle, and then pried it open with force.