Tianjin, starting with unorthodox methods to achieve immortality

Before us was a narrow passageway with oil lamps hanging on both walls, casting a dim yellow light.

The ground beneath our feet is paved with blue bricks, with fine sand filling the gaps between them, making almost no sound when we step on it.

A young man in a gray cloth jacket stood in front of him, nodded, and turned to leave.

Chen Mo didn't say anything and quietly followed.

The passageway wasn't straight; it had a bend every ten steps or so, winding and turning so much that it made it hard to tell which way was which.

He silently memorized the directions, first going east, then north, then east again, then south... After going around in circles four or five times, he was completely confused.

The design of this place is clearly intended to prevent visitors from remembering the way.

Chen Mo felt dizzy and walked for about the time it takes to brew a cup of tea. When he reached the end of the passage, the view suddenly opened up before him.

This is a huge hall.

From the outside, you would never guess that this hall is at least as big as two or three ordinary teahouses.

The dome hangs high, about four or five zhang above the ground, with three huge bronze chandeliers hanging from it, illuminating the entire hall as bright as day.

Chen Mo's gaze swept across the dome, and he paused slightly.

It was covered with runes.

The entire dome is densely covered, like a giant fishing net.

He recognized some of the runes: Soul Sealing, Soul Locking, and Spirit Suppression—all used to suppress something.

He looked away and glanced around.

On the four walls of the hall hung dozens of huge Thangkas, each taller than a person, depicting ferocious gods, Buddhas, and demons in bright, dazzling colors—red like blood, gold like fire—that gleamed dimly in the candlelight.

The most unique thing is the ground.

It wasn't made of ordinary blue bricks or wooden planks; it was paved with whole pieces of black stone, polished smooth as a mirror, so smooth that it reflected people's images.

Dozens of rosewood armchairs were placed under the auction table, with a tea table sandwiched between each pair of chairs.

At this time, there were already twenty or thirty people sitting in the room, some sitting alone, and others chatting in small groups.

Chen Mo's gaze swept across the crowd.

Four monks dressed in crimson robes sat in the front row.

The middle-aged monk at the head of the group had his eyes closed, a string of bone beads in his hand, and his lips moved slightly as if he were chanting sutras.

Behind him, three young monks kept their eyes open, their gazes sweeping across the crowd from time to time.

Three foreigners in suits, two men and one woman, sat next to the monk.

The woman was young, with blonde hair and blue eyes, holding a leather-bound notebook in her hands and writing something with her head down.

The two white men had neatly trimmed mustaches and wore gold-rimmed glasses; they looked like scholars or businessmen.

Further behind were several Chinese people wearing long gowns, some old and some young.

A plump old man wearing a melon-shaped hat was drinking tea from a teacup, while a tall, thin middle-aged man was resting with his eyes closed, twirling a pair of walnuts in his hand.

There was also a woman in a cheongsam with her legs crossed, waving a round fan in her hand, the fan embroidered with a peach blossom.

These are the only people in the arena who are not masked. They are probably either highly capable and have something to rely on, or they have powerful backers, which is why they dare to be so unscrupulous.

The rest of the people were mostly wrapped in black cloaks or wearing masks and veils to cover their faces.

Chen Mo walked in from the door and chose a seat on the side.

A waiter brought over tea, with a slip of paper underneath the teacup listing tonight's auction items.

He picked up his teacup, about to look down at the note, when he suddenly noticed a gaze falling on him.

I looked up.

It was those monks.

The middle-aged monk at the head of the group opened his eyes at some point and was staring at him.

His eyes were flat, as flat as a stagnant pool, but the hairs on the back of Chen Mo's neck stood up instantly.

Fortunately, the middle-aged monk looked at him for a few seconds and then looked away, continuing to twirl the bone beads.

A young monk behind him leaned close to his ear and whispered something.

Chen Mo channeled the Yin energy within his body, slowly suppressing the inexplicable unease, and calmly picked up the teacup and took a sip.

The tea is top-quality Longjing, with a wonderfully fragrant aroma.

Just as I put down my teacup, I suddenly heard whispers from the table next to me.

One was wearing a dark blue long gown, and the other was wearing a gray cloth short jacket; both of them had their faces covered.

"...See that guy over there wearing a melon-shaped hat?" The man in the long robe gestured with his chin.

Chen Mo also curiously followed his gaze.

It was that plump old man drinking tea from his teacup; he looked kind and gentle, like an ordinary wealthy man.

"I saw it, so what?"

"That's the second son of the Ding family." The voice in the long robe was even lower. "Have you heard of the four great families of the Yin Sect? The Ding family ranks second. They specialize in raising ghosts. This gentleman has at least a dozen fierce ghosts under his care."

The man in shorts gasped, "That fat old man?"

"Fat?" The man in the long robe scoffed. "Take a closer look at his hands as he drinks tea."

Chen Mo looked over without showing any emotion.

The fat old man's hands, which held the teacup, were clean and white, but there was a faint bluish-black tinge under his fingernails, as if they had been stained by something that couldn't be washed off.

"People who raise ghosts deal with the spirits all year round, and their hands are always covered in the aura of death," said the man in the long robe. "The second son of the Ding family is second in the clan, and he is very capable. I heard that the ghost he raised was fed little by little over ten years."

"Feeding them?"

"Feeding with the yang energy of living people," the man in the long robe said casually. "Of course, no one dares to ask openly."

Chen Mo picked up his teacup and took another sip, glancing at the fat old man out of the corner of his eye.

The latter seemed to sense something, glanced up in this direction, then lowered his head again and continued drinking his tea.

"Who are those monks?" the man in shorts asked again.

"I don't know, I heard they came from the Western Regions." The man in the long robe spoke with a hint of apprehension. "I don't know their exact origins, but I've heard they're very ruthless."

"A few days ago, someone offended them, and the next day that person's body was hung at the city gate, his tongue was pulled out, his eyes were gouged out, and his body was covered with scriptures."

"So fierce?"

"There's someone even fiercer." The man in the long robe glanced over there. "That guy with the bone beads, that's their leader. Do you know what those beads are made of?"

He shook his head, wearing shorts.

"Human finger bones, and they must be removed one by one while the person is still alive."

Chen Mo's neck hairs stood on end again.

He looked at the middle-aged monk again. The man still had his eyes closed, fiddling with bone beads, his lips moving as if he were chanting sutras to help someone pass on.

The string of beads on his hand gleamed a pale white under the light.

"Where are those foreigners?" the man in shorts asked again. "The two men in suits, and that woman."

"The Truth Society," said the man in the long gown. "It's a foreign organization that specializes in collecting old items from here. I've heard they have a lot of influence in Europe and collect all sorts of strange and unusual things."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Who knows?" The man in the long robe shrugged. "Anyway, they can afford it. Look at those two men, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. They look refined, but their hands are stained with a lot of blood."

"Last year, an ancient tomb in the north was robbed. It was later discovered that everything had been sold to them, and the tomb owner's remains were dismantled into pieces, packed into boxes, and transported away."

The man in shorts gasped: "Even the corpses?"

"Yes, the older you get, the more we want her," said the man in the long robe. "Don't let her youth fool you, that woman is said to be a genius. She speaks seven or eight languages ​​and is specifically in charge of dealing with people from our side."

"Brother," the man in shorts suddenly lowered his voice, "what exactly is this piece of ancient god's flesh that we're bidding on tonight? What's so special about it that can gather so many ruthless people together?"