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

At the end of the slope was a stone gate, half-open, with a warm orange light shining through the crack. There were pry marks on the stone gate—not recently, but a long time ago, perhaps at the end of the Yuan Dynasty or the beginning of the Ming Dynasty, when someone went in through here and then closed the gate from the inside, but not properly.

Akutagawa pushed open the stone door.

The stone door slid open silently, as if the mechanism on the hinges was still functioning perfectly. The space behind the door was exposed to everyone—

It was a stone chamber much smaller than the tomb of Qin Huali, no more than three zhang in circumference. In the center of the chamber stood a stone pillar, rising from the ground to about chest height. At the top of the pillar was a concave stone bowl, filled to the brim—

It is neither oil nor water, but a kind of light.

A solidified, liquid, slowly flowing light. Its color is not a single golden yellow or orange-red, but constantly changing: sometimes like the horizon at dawn, sometimes like the sunset at dusk, sometimes like the midday sun compressed into a drop of dew. It has no flame, no wick, but it is indeed burning—not the burning of matter, but something more essential slowly releasing energy.

A lamp that burns eternally.

The stone chamber was utterly silent. Everyone was captivated by the lamp; even the Japanese soldiers forgot to grip their rifles, their muzzles drooping.

Akutagawa slowly walked towards the stone pillar, each step slow and light, as if afraid to disturb something slumbering. He reached the pillar, stretched out his hand, and wanted to touch the bowl of light—

"Don't touch it," Chen Che said.

Akutagawa's hand froze in mid-air.

"The temperature of this lamp," Chen Che said, "is not the temperature of a hand. The Mo family has maintained it for two thousand years with blood tanks and a geothermal system. Its core temperature is probably higher than molten iron. If you put your hand in, your fingers will instantly vaporize."

Akutagawa withdrew his hand. He turned around and looked at Chen Che. The fanatical light in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by something more complex—like awe, or perhaps a deep, unspeakable weariness.

"Young master," he said, "do you know why this lamp is still burning?"

Chen Che did not answer.

"After the Qing Dynasty entered the Central Plains, they found the descendants of the Mohists and forced them to reveal the location of this underground palace. They reduced the wick size of the lamp—but they didn't extinguish it. Why?"

He asked himself the question and answered it.

"Because they dared not. The Mohists told them that once this lamp is completely extinguished, it can never be lit again. It's not a matter of technology, it's—" He paused, "it's a matter of life and death. The lamp oil is the blood of the Mohist leaders of all generations, and every drop of blood contains the life of a person. Once the lamp goes out, those lives are scattered. No amount of blood can bring them back."

He looked at the flowing light in the bowl, and his voice became very low.

"Therefore, the Qing Dynasty only dared to flicker a small wick, not to extinguish it completely. They wanted China's national fortune, but they were also afraid that China's national fortune would be too strong. What they wanted was a China that was half-dead—big enough, old enough, big enough for them to sit on the dragon throne and collect taxes, but not strong enough to drive them out."

He was silent for a while.

"Then the Qing Dynasty fell. The Republic of China was established. This lamp—"

He looked at the stone pillar again.

"—The wick was turned down for over two hundred years. But it didn't go out. It was waiting. Waiting for an opportunity, waiting for someone, waiting—"

"Waiting for what?" Chen San asked.

Akutagawa did not answer. He turned around and said something in Japanese to the Japanese soldiers behind him. The four Japanese soldiers immediately raised their rifles and pointed them at Chen Che and his group.

"Wait for me," Akutagawa said.

He took something out of his suit pocket—a small copper kettle with a wax-sealed spout and Japanese inscriptions engraved all over its body. He held the kettle up to the light, examined it, and then walked toward the stone pillar.

"What is that?" Zheng Debiao asked sternly.

"Liquid nitrogen produced by the Physics Laboratory of Tokyo Imperial University," Akutagawa said calmly. "It's over two hundred degrees below zero. The core temperature of this lamp is extremely high, but the outer shell is made of stone. When liquid nitrogen is poured on it, the stone bowl instantly cools, shrinks, and cracks, causing the lamp oil to leak out and solidify at the extremely low temperature. Then—"

He walked to the stone pillar and unscrewed the lid of the bronze kettle.

"—It went out."

"Stop!" Zheng Debiao raised his pistol.

A shot rang out.

It wasn't Zheng Debiao who fired the shot. A Japanese soldier fired first—the bullet grazed Zheng Debiao's ear, struck the stone wall behind him, and sparked. Zheng Debiao rolled to the side and pulled the trigger at the same time. The Mauser pistol bullet flew around in the narrow stone chamber and hit a second Japanese soldier in the shoulder. The man screamed and dropped his rifle.

Chen San made a move.

His movements were as swift as a snake—a short knife was drawn from his waist, its blade flashing coldly in the orange light. He lunged at the nearest Japanese soldier, the blade slicing across the man's wrist holding his rifle, blood splattering, the rifle falling to the ground. Without pausing, he turned and kicked another Japanese soldier in the back of the knee. The man fell to one knee, the back of Chen San's knife striking the back of his neck, and he collapsed to the ground like a wet sandbag.

Four Japanese soldiers, two were subdued, one was shot in the shoulder, and the other—

There was another one holding a rifle, the muzzle pointed directly at the back of Chen San's head.

"Bang!"

A shot rang out. But it wasn't a Japanese soldier's gun—it was Zheng Debiao's Mauser pistol, the second bullet. The bullet grazed the side of the Japanese soldier's helmet, shearing off a piece of metal. The man's head snapped to one side, he staggered a couple of steps, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ceiling, sending rubble crashing down.

Chen San turned around and kicked the rifle out of his hand.

The battle ended in ten seconds. All four Japanese soldiers lay on the ground, some groaning, some bleeding, and some unconscious.

But Akutagawa did not move.

He stood before the stone pillar, the bronze pot held aloft, its spout tilted, aimed at the ever-burning lamp in the stone bowl. He didn't even look back at the chaos behind him—his entire attention was on the lamp, as if performing some kind of ritual; the external strife was no longer his concern.

"Mr. Akutagawa." Chen Che stepped forward and stood to the side of Akutagawa, maintaining a distance of three steps. "Put down the pot."

Akutagawa didn't look at him. His eyes reflected the light of the eternal lamp, and what was in those eyes was more complex than before—there was fanaticism, weariness, a kind of almost religious piety, and a trace of extremely subtle, almost imperceptible sorrow.

"Young master," Akutagawa said, "do you know how many years I've been in China?"

Chen Che did not answer.

"Six years," Akutagawa said. "In those six years, I traveled all over China. I saw the oracle bones of Yin Ruins, the scriptures of Dunhuang, the grottoes of Yungang, and the eaves of the Forbidden City. Each time, I asked myself the same question—why China? Why has this country been conquered, ravaged, and partitioned time and time again, yet never perished?"

He finally turned his head and looked at Chen Che.

"Now I have the answer. Because of this lamp."

He looked back at the ever-burning lamp, his voice becoming very soft, as if he were saying a final goodbye to a dying person.