A Life of Attributes Starting as a Nobleman in the Republic of China Era

The nineteenth day of the twelfth lunar month.

Chen Che stood on the edge of the pit and glanced down. The wind rushed in from the opening, carrying the earthy smell and an indescribable acrid, burnt odor, as if someone were burning bones underground. The pit had collapsed three days ago—the foundation of the neighboring cloth factory suddenly sank in the night, revealing a dark gap, like the earth opening an eye that had been closed for a thousand years.

"Young master, the rope is tied."

The speaker was Chen San, who held a three-strand hemp rope twisted together in his hand, wrapped it around his wrist twice, and handed Chen Che a lantern.

"I'll get off first," Chen Che said.

Without waiting for anyone to respond, he put the lantern in his mouth, gripped the rope, and rolled over, disappearing into the cave entrance.

The earthy smell hit him. His back rubbed against the pit wall, and he could feel the sharp edges of the bricks and stones—not naturally collapsed soil, but traces of human construction. He counted his breaths, one, two, and after about thirty-seven, his feet touched solid ground.

Chen Che loosened the rope and raised the lantern high.

He stood in a passageway. The passageway was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The walls were made of bluish-gray bricks, the gaps filled with a whitish mortar that remained as firm as ever after a thousand years. The dome was inlaid with bronze stars, long since rusted into a dark green, but in the halo of the lantern, those stars still faintly reflected a ghostly light, like the sky that someone saw for the last time before their death.

"Young Master!" Chen San's voice came from above.

"Get down. Be careful."

The ropes rustled. First down was Zhou Banxian—though called a "half-sage," he was actually a surveying school dropout, wearing round-framed glasses covered in dust. He stumbled upon landing, bracing himself against the wall, his fingers touching the engravings on the brick surface, and immediately peering closer.

"Warring States period...this is the script of the Warring States period." Zhou Banxian's voice trembled, whether from cold or excitement, it was hard to tell. "Young Master, this is the Qi script. Look at this character '墨' (mo)—"

"Let's look back later." Chen Che shone the lantern deeper into the passageway. "Let's get everyone here first."

The third person to come down was Old Sun, a stonemason in his early sixties who had spent his whole life working with stones. The calluses on his palms were as thick as armor. He had a bag of tools hanging from his waist, which jingled as he came down. He didn't say anything after coming down, but just squatted down, touched the stone slabs on the ground, rubbed the mortar between the stones with his thumb, and smelled it under his nose.

"Glutinous rice paste mixed with lime and tung oil," Old Sun said. "It's very strong, no worse than cement."

Last to come down were Chen San and Company Commander Zheng. Company Commander Zheng's real name was Zheng Debiao. He was a platoon leader in the nearby garrison, ordered by his superiors to "cooperate in the reconnaissance"—in other words, to supervise the troops. He was wearing a gray cloth military uniform with a Mauser pistol tucked into his waistband. He came down looking very reluctant, muttering, "What kind of treasure could there be in this godforsaken place?"

"Young Master," Zheng Debiao stomped his foot on the ground, "Are you sure there's something down there? Don't waste all that time digging up just a few broken bricks and tiles."

Chen Che did not answer. He took out a piece of paper from his pocket. On the paper was a rubbing, the ink of which varied in shade. It had been found three months ago in an ancient well in Zhabei. The rubbing depicted a picture: a passageway leading underground, at the end of which was a burning lamp, above which was written the character "命" (fate).

"Let's go." Chen Che put away the rubbings, picked up the lantern, and walked into the passageway first.

He took seven steps and then suddenly stopped.

On the floor of the passageway, there was a shallow groove running from the left wall to the right, like a dried-up riverbed. Chen Che squatted down and touched the inner wall of the groove with his fingertip—smooth, exceptionally smooth, not a smoothness carved out, but a smoothness eroded by some kind of liquid flowing out over the years.

"A canal?" Chen San asked.

Chen Che shook his head. He lowered the lantern, letting the light shine close to the ground. At the boundary between light and shadow, he saw a dark red luster on the inner wall of the groove, like rust, or perhaps—

"Blood," Old Sun said in a low voice, "This is the blood tank."

A moment of silence fell over the passageway. A gust of wind blew down from the pit, causing the flame of the lantern to flicker, and the shadows on the wall to writhe as if alive.

"Don't scare yourself." Zheng Debiao drew his pistol, cocked it with a click, and said, "It's normal for people in ancient times to be a little mysterious. Let's go."

Chen Che didn't move. His gaze fell on the walls on both sides of the passageway—those bluish-gray brick surfaces were covered with tiny inscriptions. He raised the lantern and looked closer; the characters were very small, smaller than a fly's head, but carved extremely deeply, as if afraid that time would wear something away.

"In the thirtieth year of the reign, Qin general Bai Qi captured Ying, and the people of Chu migrated eastward. Three hundred Mohists, following the dying wish of their ancestor, carried fire southward. Upon arriving in this land, they dug holes in the ground and hid fire to await—"

"Young Master," Zhou Banxian interrupted him, his voice strangely tense, "look behind you."

Chen Che looked down. The inscription at the end suddenly changed handwriting; it was no longer the neat seal script, but a hurried, crooked carving, as if the carver's hand was trembling.

"An earthquake struck. The tunnel collapsed, and food supplies ran out. One hundred and twenty people were trapped in the cave and could not get out. The fire was still burning, but people could not—"

The inscription ends abruptly here. A large blank space remains on the wall. After the blank space, new characters appear, but they are no longer carved; instead, they are written on with something black, which has seeped into the cracks between the bricks.

Chen Che spent a long time trying to identify it.

"Do not open this hole. As long as the fire exists, life exists; if the fire goes out, the world will perish."

The passageway was longer than anyone had anticipated.

Chen Che estimated their direction; they were heading northeast, diagonally crossing the underground of Zhabei, roughly pointing towards the heart of the old city. The air was getting increasingly polluted, and the flame of the kerosene lamp shrank to the size of a bean, its dim yellow light barely illuminating a three-foot square area beneath their feet. Strangely, the flame never went out—this indicated the presence of underground ventilation channels, whether pre-existing by the builders a thousand years ago or later formed by a collapse and crack.

The blood groove stretched out beneath their feet. Every ten steps, a small copper valve would appear at the bottom of the groove; the valve opening was rusted, but its shape was well preserved. Chen Che counted nine in total.

"What's this for?" Chen San couldn't help but ask.

"Distribute the fuel," Chen Che said. "If this is a fuel transport channel, a valve is needed at intervals to control the flow. Nine is the ultimate number; nine valves indicate the scale of this channel—"

He didn't finish speaking. Because he suddenly heard another voice.

It wasn't the wind, nor the subtle cracks in the earth and stone, but footsteps. Not the footsteps of the five of them, but more numerous, heavier footsteps, accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against metal, coming from ahead in the passageway.

Chen Che suddenly raised his hand, signaling everyone to stop.