This would be the second time the doctor had seen the owner cough up blood. Yet this time, the sight was far more harrowing. Blood welled from the owner’s lips even as he spoke, bright red against his deathly pale skin, yet his expression remained unchanged, that perfect smile still lingering on his face. The scene was so chilling that it could rival a horror film played in the dead of night.

The doctor was overwhelmed with regret. He should have dragged the owner straight to the hospital the moment they left the mansion, but after taking a nap, the matter had completely slipped his mind.

That negligence now gnawed at him. Then again, could he really be blamed?

After all, the owner had always looked sickly pale, living year-round in Ya She, where sunlight never reached. There had been no symptoms, no sign of weakness, nothing that would’ve hinted at illness, which made it all too easy to overlook.

“Come on, let’s get you checked out! The hospital’s just around the corner,” the doctor said urgently, too panicked to make excuses for himself, his heart racing as he reached for the owner and attempted to lead him outside.

But the owner didn’t budge. He gently pulled his hand back, took out a handkerchief, and wiped away the blood at the corner of his lips. His voice was calm as he said, “I can’t go to the hospital.”

“Why not?” The doctor froze, turning back to see the bitter smile in the owner’s eyes. He cursed himself inwardly for being so slow. It took him a moment to find his voice again. “You… How are you still alive after all these years? This kind of blood loss will it affect your body?”

He asked hesitantly, unsure how to phrase something so absurd.

Though he had seen all manner of strange things in the Ya She—like the candle that had supposedly burned for centuries without extinguishing, the Classic of Mountains and Seas sealed with mythical beasts, and the White Snake spirit he had just encountered—not once had he thought the man standing before him, someone he had known for years, might not be human.

He remembered the rare instances they had made physical contact. The owner’s body temperature had always been unnaturally cold.

A cold draft snaked through the poorly sealed door, making the wick of the Changxin Palace lantern flicker wildly, and the shadows of antique furniture on the wall danced in its wake. Watching the owner’s mercurial expression, the doctor felt no fear.

He didn’t retreat. Instead, he took a single, deliberate step towards him.

The concern in the doctor’s eyes was unmistakable, and for the briefest moment, surprise flickered across the owner’s usually impassive face. Even in his master’s clan, whose ties with him spanned three generations, they always maintained a respectful distance, wary of the man who hadn’t aged a day in over a century. Yet this doctor, who had only known him for two or three years, grew increasingly worried after learning he might be a being who had lived for over 2,000 years.

When the owner didn’t answer right away, the doctor grew even more anxious. “It’s alright if you can’t tell me everything… But I am a doctor. Maybe… I can help, at least a little.”

Perhaps it was the weight of everything he had said today, the confessions he had poured out—whatever the reason, the burden the owner had carried for so long suddenly felt lighter. For the first time in ages, it seemed as though it would not matter if he shared the rest with the doctor.

After all… he wouldn’t be staying much longer.

He placed the now-lukewarm kettle back on the small red clay stove and lit the fire. “My master… was an elixir-refining master,” he began, voice soft and distant. Steam soon began to rise again, spiraling out of the spout and vanishing into the cold air.

The doctor, never a patient listener and always quick to interject, could not help himself. “So when the whole burning of books and burying of scholars, or rather, the execution of fangshi, thing happened… was your master caught up in it too?”

The owner shook his head. “My master was a renowned elixir-refining master. He refused to associate with those charlatan occultists in the palace. He ‘embarked on a celestial journey’ barely a year after entering the palace.”

Seeing the owner lost in thought, his eyes distant with memories, the doctor fought the urge to interrupt. He remained still and waited quietly.

After a while, the kettle began to boil. The owner returned to himself, emptied the cooled tea, and steeped a fresh pot. The scent of tea quickly filled Ya She, driving out the lingering chill and refreshing the air.

“After the test servant’s sudden death, the First Emperor didn’t give up on immortality. But from that point on, any new pills had to be tested by the elixir-refining masters themselves,” he said, holding a cup of tea in his hands—not to drink, but to turn over slowly, as though weighing the memory in his palms. “Before he left for his journey, my master left behind two pills. Since he could no longer be found, it fell to me—his disciple—to test them.”

The doctor froze, his hand still raised mid-air, the teacup poised in disbelief. He could scarcely believe what he had just heard. “You’re telling me… You actually took an elixir of immortality? That’s impossible! How could something like that even exist in this world?”

He grew more agitated by the second, so much so that he didn’t even notice the scalding tea spilling from his brimming cup onto his hand. The burning pain failed to register as he waved his arms in disbelief.

The owner remained composed as he gently reached out and took the teacup from the doctor’s trembling hand, setting it carefully aside to keep the precious Song dynasty white-glazed porcelain from being accidentally shattered into useless shards.

“This is impossible… How can it be…” The doctor kept muttering the same phrase to himself like a broken record. He had once thought the owner might be some kind of ancient spirit or creature in human form. But the truth was far more difficult to accept.

Just a pill?

What kind of substance could possibly grant immortality?

The doctor, rooted in modern science, simply couldn’t reconcile the idea that an elixir-refining master from 2,000 years ago could achieve what modern medicine still deemed impossible.

The owner was well aware of how unbelievable it all sounded, but he had, undeniably, lived through 2,000 years. As he stroked the smooth, glazed surface of the Song porcelain in his palm, he couldn’t help but think—perhaps he himself had long become one of the antiques in Ya She… one of the oldest pieces, at that.

The doctor gradually collected himself, shaking off the moment of hysteria. A rare glimpse into the secrets of human existence stood before him. He suppressed the surge of excitement in his chest, tipped the remainder of the tea into his mouth, and calmed his nerves before asking, “Boss, could you tell me the whole story?”

Why not?

The owner felt the comforting warmth of the scalding tea in his palm, allowing his thoughts to drift slowly away.

“After Fusu’s death, General Meng Tian refused to accept the verdict. He attempted to march back to Xianyang and confront Huhai for answers. What happened to him afterward, I don’t know. The historical records say he took poison and died—but I suspect he was assassinated.”

“What about you?” the doctor blurted. As Fusu’s closest companion, surely Huhai wouldn’t have let him go.

“Me?” The owner’s thin lips curled into a frosty smile. “Though my father held no noble title, as the scion of one of the Qin dynasty’s most ancient families, he could still discern the faintest tremors within the imperial court. Before Huhai’s envoys even reached the frontier, he’d sent me a coded letter claiming critical illness. I rushed back to Xianyang—only to be locked in his secret chamber the moment I crossed the threshold. He didn’t release me until the First Emperor’s funeral rites. That was when I learned… Fusu had already taken his own life.”

The doctor remained silent. Though the owner spoke in a tone as calm as still water, one could still discern the underlying sorrow and regret in his words. If he had delayed his return to Xianyang by just a few more days, maybe… just maybe, Fusu wouldn’t have died like that.

Perhaps history would have taken a different course.

The tea in the owner’s cup had long gone cold. He raised it to his lips and took a sip; the altered taste of the cool tea lingered between his lips and teeth, much like the complex, interwoven feelings in his heart.

No one knew just how stunned and furious he had been when he saw who now wore the crown and sat on the imperial throne.

He had imagined, countless times, that the sacred headdress symbolizing sovereignty would grace Fusu’s brow. He had envisioned himself by his side forever, watching him rise as a wise and powerful ruler. They would have built a grand, unified empire together—a Great Qin that would last for all eternity.

The owner’s fingers clenched suddenly around the cup, causing the tea inside to ripple outward in concentric waves, only to calm again moments later.

But those dreams had long since turned to dust.

That crown, that Heirloom Seal of the Realm—he had hidden them both deep within Ya She, sealed away with care. Yet to this day, not a single person worthy of them had appeared.

Silence hung heavy in Ya She, thick enough to drown a man. At last, the owner broke it with a quiet voice, “On the day they held the state funeral for the First Emperor, all the court ministers were summoned to Mount Li. Only a few had ever returned—I wasn’t one of them.”

“A mass burial? A purge disguised as honor? Huhai was truly ruthless…” the doctor muttered. Seeing the owner instinctively raise a hand to his neck, the doctor suddenly understood the origin of that terrible scar.

The owner nodded. “When I woke again, I was already inside the Mausoleum of Emperor Qin Shi Huang. The gash at my throat had stopped bleeding, but around me were nothing but corpses. It was as if I had awoken in hell. Most of the bodies were those who had opposed Huhai. My father… was among them. He had spent his entire life swallowing humiliation, yet he died here without explanation or justice. I carried his body out and buried him in our ancestral plot. Even in death, I knew he wouldn’t wish to rest anywhere near the Ying clan.”

He paused, refilled their cups with warm tea, and continued.

After burying his father, he went to search for Fusu’s grave. Of course, Zhao Gao’s men would never have buried him with proper rites. The owner wandered far under a false identity until he finally found a desolate mound near the borderlands.

He would not let Fusu lie there, alone and forgotten. He dug up the body with his own hands and brought Fusu back to Mount Li.

The First Emperor was never buried in the magnificent mausoleum he built during his lifetime—his remains vanished without a trace. All because his son, Huhai, coveted that colossal tomb for himself.

Before his death, the First Emperor had showered his youngest son with every imaginable favor, wishing to offer him nothing but the best. But had he ever considered that the very empire he had forged with his own hands would one day rest entirely in that very son’s grasp?

Even the resting place he had commissioned for himself—Huhai took it without hesitation, as though it were rightfully his.

The owner let out a bitter chuckle. “So, I buried Fusu in Mount Li. Since he couldn’t rule the Qin Empire in life, I would let him command the terracotta army of 100,000 men in death.”

His words rang out like a vow etched in stone. The doctor couldn’t help but look up at him again, seeing, perhaps for the first time, how the weight of centuries had shaped a man who bore the face of youth but spoke with the voice of history. That blood-stirring declaration lent his features a rare vitality, making it easy to imagine just how formidable a figure he must have been when he strode through the tides of history.

The doctor had long noticed the reverence the owner held for Emperor Qin Shi Huang. It was no surprise that he had once dreamed of achieving something great alongside Fusu—reviving the might of the Qin dynasty with his own hands.

Throughout history, the wise have walked a solitary path. For a person with grand ambitions and exceptional talent, to find a discerning ruler at the right moment in their era was an exceedingly rare fortune.

It was thus a profound stroke of destiny that Gan Luo, 2,000 years ago, met Fusu.

Fusu, with his innate warmth, benevolence, and keen intellect, promised to be a sagely emperor given the right cultivation.

Coupled with Gan Luo’s extraordinary genius as his aide, the two were destined to forge a magnificent legacy.

But all of it had been destroyed so easily by Huhai.

The doctor could picture it now—the owner, driven by unrelenting devotion after Fusu’s death, beginning his search for Fusu’s reincarnation with obsessive resolve. What began as hope likely morphed into obligation, then into an endless cycle, trapping him for over 2,000 years in a relentless pursuit.

Composing himself once more, the owner chose not to speak further about Fusu. He knew the doctor’s real curiosity was now fixed on the elixir of immortality.

So he began to explain calmly and deliberately, “It wasn’t until a few years later that I noticed my body had begun to change. Not only did my appearance remain the same, but even injuries healed with unusual speed. Only after much time did I realize that it must have been my master’s elixir that had caused this transformation.”

The doctor instantly perked up and leaned forward eagerly. “Any unusual symptoms? Do you lose hair? Any signs of organ dysfunction? God, if you’d just let me run some tests—just a physical exam, even—I swear everything would stay completely confidential!”

The owner chuckled. “I know you would keep it to yourself. But I’ve spent many years studying my own condition. I don’t need machines to find the answer.”

“Then tell me already!” The doctor was practically beside himself with impatience, his forehead damp with sweat.

The owner somehow enjoyed the suspense, though he wasn’t trying to be deliberately evasive. It simply took time to sift through centuries of accumulated knowledge and render it into a coherent explanation. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “What causes human aging?”

“Cellular senescence,” the doctor replied without missing a beat. He hesitated briefly, about to explain what a cell was, but the owner had already continued.

“The human body is like an individual cell. It divides, replenishes, and grows. But once cell division slows and becomes outpaced by cellular death, the body enters old age. Isn’t that correct?” the owner said, weighing his words carefully.

“Yes.” The doctor nodded, though a strange dissonance rose within him. Hearing modern medical terms spoken so fluently by the owner felt utterly surreal, as if finding a brand-new MacBook displayed among the relics of Ya She.

“But there are exceptions… cells that can divide indefinitely. Cells that become immortal.”

“You mean… cancer cells!” the doctor blurted out, eyes going wide in disbelief. “You’re saying the elixir made you cancerous? But that should have killed you even faster!”

He was right. Normal cells have a limit to how many times they can divide—typically between 50 and 60 divisions in a lifetime. But cancer cells defy that limit; they replicate endlessly. Of course, no living body could survive such unchecked growth.

“That’s where my crimson dragon robe comes in. Its purpose is to regulate the division of the cancer cells. It keeps the balance and prevents my organs from shutting down or deteriorating.” He touched the fabric that had stayed with him for 2,000 years.

“Since ancient times, it’s been said that ‘gold and jade exude chill’ to preserve the dead from decay. This fabric was woven from strands of archaic black gold and dark jade, originally prepared for Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s burial. During his reign, he collected many artifacts from the Mythic Age. Later dynasties had nothing like them. Most were mere imitations. For example, the famous jade burial suit with gold thread found in the Tombs of the Han dynasty. They were but pale counterfeits of the originals.”

“Can… can I touch it?” The doctor swallowed hard. When the owner nodded, he reached out eagerly.

The fabric felt both soft and unyielding beneath his fingers, and its chill bit into his skin like the touch of metal left in snow. He guessed the material must contain some rare metal—perhaps one that emitted faint radiation to inhibit decay. In the past, he would have scoffed at such an idea, but after all he had witnessed… he no longer found it so impossible to believe. After all, the Classic of Mountains and Seas could seal mythical beasts and open other dimensions. If a single bamboo slip could cast spells, then a piece of preservative cloth hardly seemed far-fetched.

The doctor couldn’t begin to decipher the principle behind it, and he knew the owner was even less likely to understand the scientific mechanism, nor would he be willing to snip off a sample for lab testing. All he could do was let his hands wander over the fabric, asking curiously, “So, you haven’t taken this off in over 2,000 years?”

His eyes gleamed with excitement. To him, the owner was practically his holy grail of medical research test subject. He wanted nothing more than to strip that robe down, examine the material, and study the body that had worn it for thousands of years. If possible, he even wanted to touch the heart that had beaten for over 2,000 years.

“Wipe that look off your face,” the owner said dryly. He wagered that if the doctor had a scalpel right now, he would have dissected him on the spot without hesitation. “It’s fine to take it off for short periods. I don’t wear it when I sleep. As long as it’s nearby, it still works.” 

He found the doctor’s line of questioning amusing and couldn’t help but curve his lips into a smile. In more than 2,000 years, he had rarely allowed anyone to get this close. The heat of the doctor’s fingertips seemed to transmit their warmth even through the thin fabric, offering his uncomfortable body a rare moment of ease.

“This looks like a Zhongshan suit. That style didn’t exist 2,000 years ago, did it?” The doctor chuckled, pointing to the Mandarin collar.

“During the Republic of China, I saved the grandmother of the master. His grandfather was a renowned antiquities restorer at the time. He helped me tailor this robe into its current form. Ironically, a few years later, the style fell out of fashion.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Fortunately, it doesn’t look too out of place today—certainly better than walking around in Han robes.”

“This dragon… it moves, doesn’t it?” The doctor hesitated as his hand hovered near the embroidered creature. The dragon was so lifelike, he felt anxious just brushing against it.

“The fabric was damaged once during the Song dynasty. I had it mended by someone in the Imperial Embroidery Bureau. The fabric’s warp and weft threads follow a sacred alignment—to repair the tear, they embroidered this crimson dragon over the fissure. The silk threads weren’t ordinary either, but strands tempered with my own blood, hence the dragon’s deep crimson.”

He reminisced while gently stroking the dragon’s head, which lay curled over his shoulder. “But the tear was never perfectly mended. It used to shift every few years. Lately, it shifts position every single day. I suppose it hasn’t had enough of my blood, and it’s growing impatient.”

The doctor stared in silent alarm as a smear of blood from the owner’s earlier coughing fit soaked into the robe. The dragon’s head rippled ever so slightly, and its body seemed to swell. Only then did the doctor look down, his gaze drawn to the owner’s chest and abdomen.

The tear in the fabric was large. The chaotic and clumsy stitches clearly marked it as the master’s handiwork. The doctor thought of the owner’s recent bout of blood loss and gasped. “Is it… is this suit not supposed to be damaged at all? Even a disruption in the pattern could affect its function, couldn’t it?”

In simpler terms, the crimson dragon robe functioned like an extremely delicate circuit board. If even a few wires were out of place, the entire system would short out. Otherwise, the owner wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to mend the robe with that strange embroidered dragon after the last tear. He had said that taking the robe off briefly was fine, yet the speed at which he had begun to cough up blood could only mean one thing.

The owner gave a wry smile. He hadn’t planned on revealing this.

“If my body doesn’t decay too quickly after I die, I’ll let you do with it as you please.”

The doctor froze on the spot.

Sure, he had fantasized about dissecting the owner just moments ago, but that was nothing more than a passing fantasy. He hadn’t expected the man to say it out loud.

It took him a full half-minute to find his voice. “Can’t you… Can’t you find someone else to restore the embroidery?”

The owner toyed with the empty teacup in his hand and gave a faint smile. “The Song dynasty marked the pinnacle of Su embroidery—so much so that the court established the Imperial Embroidery Bureau exclusively for its practice. This crimson dragon on my robe was the work of the finest 37 embroiderers working day and night for two years. Do you think today’s world still holds craftsmen of such skill?”

No, of course there wasn’t.

The doctor stood up restlessly and began pacing around Ya She. “There has to be a way… What about machine weaving?”

“No need to worry.” The owner’s smile deepened, tinged with a quiet release. “I’ve lived long enough. Now that Fusu’s story has come to a close, it’s time for me to rest as well.”

The doctor halted in his tracks. Now he understood where the real problem lay.

The owner probably did have a way to survive. But he had lost the will to keep living. No matter how desperate others were, there was nothing they could do.

The doctor had seen this before at the hospital—patients who refused treatment, even when their condition had a 50% chance of recovery, whose conditions worsened simply because they had lost the will to fight.

The doctor stepped in front of the owner, grasped his shoulders, and looked him straight in the eye. “Were you and Fusu friends?”

“Yes,” the owner replied.

If they hadn’t been friends, he would never have endured over 2,000 years just to make sure Fusu’s reincarnations could live a normal life.

“Then what about me?” The doctor’s grip tightened on his shoulders.

The owner stared at him in confusion.

He knew perfectly well that the doctor was not Fusu—the distinction was clear. 

There were significant differences between them; they were two independent individuals. Their living environments were different, their growth experiences were different, their beliefs were different, and there wasn’t even a shred of similarity. Unlike the reincarnations of Huo Qubing or Xiang Yu, because the reincarnated Fusu lacked one hun and one po, no matter how strong the obsession, it could not influence the doctor’s life in the slightest.

[TL Note: hun (魂;hún), the ethereal soul (associated with consciousness, heaven, and Yang). po (魄;pò), the corporeal soul (linked to the body, earth, and Yin).]

The Fusu of his heart remained dead.

He had to admit—when he glimpsed the doctor’s steady expression in those flickering visions of the past, a cold emptiness had taken hold of his heart.

So be it. He had succeeded. Though Fusu himself could never be reborn, his reincarnations would no longer be burdened by the tragedy of 2,000 years ago.

That was more than enough.

If their roles were reversed, Fusu might have waited just as long for him.

But the owner was so truly exhausted. After witnessing countless cycles of life and death, he knew lingering like this was a defiance of fate. His end likely wouldn’t be much different than that of the White Snake spirit.

“Are we not friends?” the doctor demanded again, agitated by the silence. “If we aren’t, then why did you risk your life to save me? If you hadn’t saved me, the crimson dragon robe wouldn’t have torn. You wouldn’t be dying. I was foolish to think I mattered to you. Clearly, it’s only because I’m Fusu’s reincarnation—”

“We are friends,” the owner interrupted, silencing his self-pity.

He tilted his head back and looked at the doctor. The candlelight reflected against his glasses, making it impossible to see the emotions hidden behind them.

Over the past few years, despite his constant chatter, his endless talking, and his habit of forcing him to share food, they had become friends.

A genuine smile touched the corner of the owner’s lips as he said softly, “When I saved you, I saved only you, and no one else. You’re a good doctor. If you live, you’ll save many more lives.”

The doctor blinked, his eyes stinging from the sharp candlelight. “Then you have to live too. There are so many artifacts here in Ya She. Can you really leave them all behind?”

He knew how much the owner cherished the items in the shop. That only made him feel more guilty. If the crimson dragon robe hadn’t been damaged, the owner would have continued quietly guarding Ya She as an antique shop owner.

The heat of the doctor’s hands on his shoulders was almost too much to bear. Using the excuse of refilling the kettle, the owner gently shrugged off the grasp and rose. With a breezy smile, he said, “The director is always an option. He’ll take good care of them.”

True, that old man would probably have a heart attack from sheer excitement if he found out Ya She was being entrusted to him.

The doctor chastised himself silently even as he desperately tried to conjure a thread of connection, anything that would compel the owner to live.

As the sound of pouring water reached his ears, a sudden spark ignited in his mind. “Boss, you said there were two elixirs of immortality back then. You took one, so what about the other? Did Emperor Qin Shi Huang eat it? No, that can’t be right. If he did, he shouldn’t have died, should he?”

The pouring stopped abruptly.

The doctor glanced over and saw the owner’s expression darken. He knew, by sheer accident, he had hit upon something critical. Hastily, he added, “Don’t hide anything from me anymore. We’re friends now, you know!”

“Was letting you dissect my corpse not enough? Now you want the other pill for research?” the owner shot back with a glare. With a disgruntled glance, the owner silently labeled the doctor as someone who always pushed his luck.

The doctor just grinned broadly, offering no defense, instead finding that this mutual banter was the true essence of friendship.

After refilling the kettle, the owner returned to the table and poured fresh tea for them both. “Remember the days I was around?”

“Yeah. The day after you left, I bumped into the director. He said he had traded with you for a Warring States period Elixir-Refining Cauldron. Warring States? Don’t tell me… You knew that cauldron?” 

The doctor’s detective instincts lit up. When the owner raised an eyebrow, he knew he was spot on.

“Yes. That Elixir-Refining Cauldron belonged to my master. There’s a hidden compartment at the base. The second elixir of immortality was supposedly kept there, meant to be given to the First Emperor after he returned from his eastern tour, once it was clear that I was still alive. But ironically, he died during that very journey,” the owner said with a bitter smile, “

“Supposedly? That means… the second pill is gone?”

The doctor could easily guess why the owner had disappeared for days. He must have gone to investigate the excavation site of that cauldron.

The owner nodded, then let out a long sigh. “The inner chamber of that Elixir-Refining Cauldron is completely covered in verdigris. That means it hasn’t been opened for at least 2,000 years. That means the second pill was already taken back then.”

He and the doctor exchanged a glance—both saw the same shock in each other’s eyes.

If someone else had taken the second elixir of immortality, that meant there might be another person in this world, like the owner, who had lived for over 2,000 years…

“Then… who else would’ve known how to open that hidden chamber?” the doctor asked, voice tight with unease.

“The attendants who managed the elixirs would’ve known. But they wouldn’t have dared tamper with anything meant for the Emperor…” the owner answered, his throat feeling dry, swallowing back the blood rising once again.

“This means after Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s death… There was only one person who could’ve taken that pill in broad daylight…” The doctor swallowed hard.

“Huhai…” the owner exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, lifting his gaze to the dim ceiling of Ya She.

The doctor said nothing. He knew all too well that for every ounce of admiration the owner had once held for Fusu, there was an equal depth of hatred for Huhai.

Even if the odds of Huhai still being alive were less than 1%, the possibility alone was enough to keep the owner from resting in peace.

At least, the doctor thought, he didn’t have to worry about the owner giving up the will to live anytime soon.

They sat in silence as the dark gradually softened. Dawn broke in the east, and the sound of the city’s morning markets drifted through the streets.

“Thank you.” The owner’s voice broke the silence just as the first beam of sunlight slipped through the crack in the door.

The doctor hadn’t slept all night, but those two simple words filled him with a rush of exhilaration, his grin stretching nearly to his ears. He knew what the owner meant by those two simple words.

“For what? You saved me, and I haven’t even said it yet! Real friends don’t need to say thank you.”

The owner straightened, looking at the doctor’s radiant grin. His own mood lifted with it. “Oh? And what exactly is a ‘real friend’?”

“A real friend shares both joy and sorrow. They face danger and hardships together. When one of them loses their way, the other slaps them back to their senses. And once a decision is made, they support it without question.” The doctor pushed his glasses up with a sudden seriousness. “Now, tell me your decision.”

The owner was momentarily stunned by the force of the doctor’s words. It took him a while to exhale and finally respond, “I… I think I have to go to Mount Li.”

The doctor shot up at once and clapped a hand on the owner’s shoulder. “I’m taking annual leave and going with you! Don’t even try to talk me out of it. I may not always be free, but this time, I’m definitely going.”

Before the owner could protest, the doctor was already halfway out the door, striding out of Ya She in determined steps.

The owner managed only to catch a glimpse of his back, bathed in golden light from the morning sun. It framed him in a soft halo, so radiant it was almost blinding. The words of protest caught in his throat and refused to come out.

He smiled and closed his eyes.

A friend… huh?

“Luoyang shovel, tomb-raider talisman, grave-digger’s seal, black donkey hoof… Where did you buy all these things?” The owner stared in growing disbelief as the doctor pulled item after item from his backpack.

What kind of tomb-raiding novel corrupted this man?

“Taobao, of course! Shipped straight to the hotel we’re staying at. Super convenient.” The doctor looked proud as he laid out the essential tools of a tomb raider’s kit one by one. He had done his research. They were staying at a hot spring inn near Mount Li, and he had timed the delivery to arrive there directly. Honestly, he doubted any of this would’ve gotten past airport security if he had tried to carry it onto the plane.

However, the doctor was still in disbelief that the owner had actually managed to produce an ID to buy a plane ticket. A part of him had really wanted to sneak a peek at the birthdate, just to see if it read something like “200 B.C.”

But he didn’t quite have that much courage to do so.

The owner gave him a sidelong glance as he watched the doctor haul out ground-penetrating radar, metal detector, gas analyzers—all manner of flashy equipment.

“You bought these from online too?” he asked with a raised brow. This guy had clearly poured his wallet into it.

“No, no! I borrowed these from the director,” the doctor replied, wiping the sweat from his face with a sheepish grin. “I just gave him a quick call—don’t worry, I didn’t tell him too much. The moment he heard I was going with you, he immediately express-shipped everything over. Honestly, if he weren’t in a conference in Beijing, I’m pretty sure he would’ve packed himself in a box and mailed that too.”

The owner shut his eyes with a quiet sigh. Even though the doctor had refrained from giving details, the fact that this kind of equipment had been delivered to Mount Li made their intentions painfully obvious.

Even an idiot would have guessed which tomb they were trying to covet.

Was there even a need to ask?

“So, what do we need? When do we move?” the doctor asked eagerly.

They actually had a fierce argument before this trip.

The doctor, of course, had won—he had convinced the owner to take him to the underground palace of the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang.

As in the famous Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang!

Its total area equals 78 Forbidden Cities combined. Even the world-famous Terracotta Army was merely the outermost guard detail for this necropolis. If the Egyptian pyramids were the largest above-ground royal tombs, then China’s Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang was the grandest subterranean imperial tomb.

An unexcavated “Ninth Wonder of the World”!

Though rebels like Xiang Yu and Huang Chao attempted to plunder it, Xiang Yu only managed to burn the surface structures and dig two shallow “Hegemon-King’s Ditches.” But they couldn’t find the underground palace’s entrance.

To this day, no one has ever truly breached the underground palace of Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s eternal fortress…

No one, except the person standing before him.

The owner looked at the doctor’s sparkling eyes and sighed. “It’ll be a clear night tonight. Get some rest while you can. It’s not the time yet. Once night falls, we’ll start moving.”

Looking at the array of tools filling the room, the doctor scratched his head. “Do we really need to bring all this? I don’t think I can carry it…”

“If these could get you into the First Emperor’s mausoleum, it would’ve been robbed long ago,” the owner said casually.

The doctor deflated at that, but when he thought it through, it made sense.

This equipment might be good for an ordinary tomb, but the world-renowned Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang naturally couldn’t be approached with conventional methods. The doctor dutifully packed the equipment away again, then glanced at the owner’s backpack in the corner.

If the owner had surely brought all the essentials, does that mean he could sneak in a digital camera or something? Hehehe…

As night fell, the owner slung his backpack over his shoulder, while the doctor did the same with his own. Despite being told that most of his tools were unnecessary, the doctor had still packed a few practical supplies like a flashlight, water, and some compressed biscuits.

Unlike the owner, who could go without food and drink for days, the doctor was very much a mortal.

Mount Li had been famed since ancient times for its hot springs—the illustrious Huaqin Hot Spring was located there, and countless spa resorts dotted its slopes. They were staying at a private hot spring inn, so slipping out at night wouldn’t draw attention. The doctor followed the owner deep into the mountains. At first, the journey seemed uneventful, but gradually, the distant lights faded, leaving only the moon and stars to guide them.

The doctor had initially worried whether the owner, having been absent for 2,000 years, might no longer recognize the way. But seeing him adjust their path by celestial navigation, his concerns eased. Though 2,000 years could turn seas into mulberry fields, the stars above remained nearly unchanged.

Reluctant to draw attention, the doctor had left his flashlight off. He tried watching his step at first, but soon gave up, choosing instead to stumble after the owner in blind faith. After more than three grueling hours of hiking through the winter woods, the owner finally stopped.

The doctor, soaked in sweat despite the season, eagerly gulped from his water bottle and looked around. The landscape seemed no different from where they had walked earlier—thickets of trees, rocky terrain, all equally unremarkable—except for a few curious stone mounds nearby. Roughly piled, devoid of grass, and scattered without pattern, they stood out oddly against the natural slope.

“We’ve arrived,” said the owner at last, his voice calm, though his complexion had grown even paler. “But we’ll have to wait until midnight. Only then will the entrance reveal itself.”

“Okay,” the doctor said, dropping onto a nearby stone and stretching out his legs, already sore and cramping. After a pause, he asked, “So… we’re going in through one of the side entrances? I thought the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang was full of traps. Isn’t that dangerous?”

He bent to tighten the laces of his boots.

“The sealing stone on the main entrance was lowered long ago. Huhai had to maintain the illusion that the First Emperor was already interred. But the underground palace still had several hidden passages. I knew he would return to the tomb eventually, so after burying Fusu within, I sealed all remaining entrances.”

Hands clasped behind his back, he stood at the edge of the clearing, gazing out toward the imperial tomb that loomed in the distance. The massive burial mound formed a perfect arc against the skyline, resembling a man-made hill with its summit sheared flat, as if it were just another empty rise on the mountain’s slope.

But the owner knew that although this place looked desolate now, over 2,000 years ago, this had been filled with sprawling palaces, dazzling towers, and elaborately adorned burial halls that were breathtaking to behold. However, it was all burned to the ground by Xiang Yu.

As if with a blink of an eye, he could still see those magnificent palaces engulfed in a sea of rearing flames.

As if with a single breath, the acrid stench of scorched wood and charred lacquer still clung to the air.

As if with a tilt of the ear, the heart-wrenching wails of the doomed still echoed through the night…

The doctor raised his head and gazed at the lonely figure before him.

A sharp mountain wind swept through the ridge, snapping at the hem of the owner’s coat. The crimson dragon robe, once perfectly tailored to his form, now hung loose from his shoulders, for he had grown alarmingly thin in just a few days. The crimson dragon embroidered across his Zhongshan suit had expanded monstrously, now covering nearly half the garment.

Under the moonlight, each scale shimmered with a cold gleam, its claws fierce and lifelike. With every gust of wind, it seemed to ripple and twist, threatening to rip through the fabric and devour the owner at any moment.

It felt like, in the next breath, the man standing before him might vanish from his sight.

A wave of unease welled up in the doctor’s chest. He rose and stepped to the owner’s side, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Clearing his throat, he asked, “You said all the entrances to the underground palace are sealed. So, how do we get in?”

The owner had stood lost in thought beneath the night wind for quite some time before finally snapping out of his daze. With a detached indifference, he said, “After the First Emperor’s death, the mausoleum construction continued under Huhai’s orders. When Chen Sheng and Wu Guang rebelled, it was indeed due to unbearable oppression under Huhai’s rule. The craftsman, knowing they would ultimately be sacrificed, secretly dug an escape tunnel in preparation. Unfortunately, the sacrifices weren’t buried alive after all. The tunnel was dug for nothing.”

The doctor shivered. He knew how many thousands had died on this soil. What if some had turned into… he instinctively glanced down, half-expecting a skeletal hand to reach up from beneath the earth and seize his ankle.

The owner gave him a sidelong glance. “Too many horror films aren’t good for you.”

A bead of cold sweat slid down the doctor’s temple. He still hadn’t adapted to the owner’s habit of making jokes with such a serious face.

The owner lifted his gaze to the moonlight, then stepped toward one of the piles of irregular stones nearby. From his robe, he pulled out a ping-pong-ball-sized bead of mottled glass and fitted it into a crevice between two rocks. The doctor watched in astonishment as the oddly shaped bead nestled into place like it had been sculpted for the exact spot.

He circled to the other side of the stones and spotted a narrow pinhole no wider than a fingertip.

“What is this?” he asked, returning to the front with his eyes fixed on the glass orb now embedded in the stone. Under the moonlight, it glimmered in a riot of colors—clearly not an ordinary item.

“As the Huainanzi(淮南子) records—’The one who possesses the Marquis of Sui’s pearl or the jade of Bian He gains wealth; the one who loses them falls into poverty.’ The jade of Bian He refers to the legendary Mr. He’s Jade, while the Marquis of Sui’s pearl is its equally famed counterpart. Together, they were known as the Two Treasures of the Spring and Autumn Period. The world hailed them as ‘The Pearl of Sui and the Jade of Bian He.’“

[TL Notes: Extra meaning behind the words ‘The Pearl of Sui and the Jade of Bian He'(随珠和璧). 随珠和璧 was also a commonly used idiom to emphasize irreplaceable value or peerless excellence.

Also, Huainanzi(淮南子) is an ancient Chinese text made up of essays from scholarly debates held at the court of Liu An, Prince of Huainan, before 139 BCE. So far, I haven’t found a translation that clearly captures the meaning of the texts(most of them are literal translations that are hard for non-Chinese speakers to understand). Therefore, I will translate it using my own wording. Hopefully, it’s accurate enough.]

The owner cupped his hand over the Marquis of Sui’s pearl’s iridescent glow, ensuring its radiance wouldn’t betray them in the darkness.

“The Marquis of Sui’s pearl? That legendary treasure ranked even above the Mr. He’s Jade? But I’ve barely heard of it…” The doctor blinked rapidly, dazzled by the pearl’s brilliance.

“That’s because the Mr. He’s Jade was later carved into the Heirloom Seal of the Realm and passed down through dynasties. The Marquis of Sui’s pearl, on the other hand, vanished from historical records after the time of the First Emperor.” The owner looked up at the sky and added calmly, “It’s almost time.”

As he lifted his palm, moonlight filtered perfectly through the pinhole behind the stone, threading through the narrow hole on the other side, and entering the Marquis of Sui’s pearl crystalline core. Within the bead, the light refracted and bounced around before casting a narrow beam of pale light in a single direction.

The glow was faint. But with no other light in the area, it stood out starkly against the darkness.

The doctor suddenly understood. This was why they had to wait for a clear night. This was why the pearl vanished from the world after the Qin dynasty, because it was a timeless treasure created solely to serve the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang.

“That is the emergency entrance to the underground palace. From there, we go 53 paces west, then 39 paces north. There, you’ll find the hidden passage. It was the escape route left by the craftsmen.”

The owner committed the direction to memory, then gently pried the Marquis of Sui’s pearl from the rock and tucked it back into his robe. Long ago, he wouldn’t have needed the pearl to find the path, but after 2,000 years, even he needed confirmation. 

Otherwise, with Mount Li being so vast, where would he go to find such a tiny entrance?

As he tightened his brow, he recalled the phone call he had made to the museum director before this trip to confirm that the Warring States Elixir-Refining Cauldron had been passed to the museum by a young man who insisted it be traded at Ya She.

Was it Huhai?

Could it be that he had deliberately lured the owner out?

Had he still not given up on entering the underground palace of the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang?

“Boss?” The doctor turned his head and called out in confusion.

The owner suppressed the thoughts and replied mildly, “Let’s go.”

Not long after the two had departed, a shadow silently emerged from behind the stone pile and began following them.

Within the hidden tunnel that had remained sealed for more than 2,000 years, an unbearable stench hung heavy in the air.

Though the doctor was no stranger to all manner of pungent chemical reagents used in medicine, the sickly mix of decay and centuries-old mildew hit him like a brick. Just imagining the source of that smell made him want to turn back.

Of course, that was only a fleeting thought. After making it all the way here, how could he back down over something like this?

Still, when the owner reached out of the darkness and handed him something, he was momentarily stunned.

“A gas mask. Wearing it will help,” the owner had already worn the mask, as his voice was muffled by it. “This one’s specifically for mercury vapor, and the deeper we go, the more necessary it becomes.”

The doctor quickly put on the mask, and the stench eased a little. He couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed, considering how he had prepared a whole arsenal of modern tools, yet not a single one had proved useful. In the end, he still had to rely on the owner.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault to blame. He was an outsider to this aspect. Naturally, he didn’t know what would be needed and what wouldn’t. As for the equipment the director had lent him, most of it was meant for geological surveying. Even the director, who held the owner in the highest esteem, could never have imagined they would truly enter the underground palace of the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang. At most, he thought they might inspect the periphery.

Seeing the complexion still hadn’t fully returned to the doctor’s face, the owner reached into his backpack and handed him several portable oxygen bags. “Carry these. The underground palace had been sealed for centuries, and the air was heavy with foul vapors. If it becomes unbearable, you can use this.”

Only then did the doctor understand why the owner’s backpack was so heavy. He quickly stowed the oxygen bags into his own backpack while keeping one in hand. These were portable oxygen pouches, he had seen many times in the hospital, so he naturally knew how to use them.

Seeing that the owner showed no sign of needing oxygen, the doctor concluded that the air mustn’t be an issue for him. 

He often felt the owner was almost some kind of superhero; his physical condition was far beyond that of an ordinary human. Once they got back, he made a mental note to discreetly acquire a strand of the owner’s hair and a sample of his blood for testing.

With his thoughts drifting elsewhere, the doctor found the cramped tunnel crawl slightly more bearable. The tunnel, dug in haste by the craftsman as an escape route, was crude and narrow—just wide enough for one person to pass—and sloped steeply downward.

In the pitch darkness, following the owner by sound and instinct alone, the descent was almost torturous. Fortunately, a few breaths of oxygen helped steady him. Before long, he heard the sound of some mechanism being triggered up ahead.

He scrambled forward a few more paces and saw the owner leap down into a pit. Realizing what lay ahead, the doctor followed suit and jumped down.

“That tunnel was dug by the craftsmen to escape, so naturally, there are no traps. But from here onward, we’re on the path that leads directly to the underground palace. Stay close and watch my steps.” The owner’s voice echoed through the darkness. It was so clear that it carried a faint reverberation, indicating they had reached the entrance to the underground.

Now that the space around them had widened somewhat, the doctor finally had room to retrieve his flashlight from his pack and switch it on.

A beam of white light pierced the depths of the tomb corridor, illuminating the ancient stone passage. It felt as if he were standing inside a tunnel through time itself.

The owner said with a faint smile, “You’ve finally brought something useful.”

Pleased by the compliment, the doctor grinned broadly. Now that there was light for them to see, everything suddenly felt so real. He was truly inside the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang. A wave of excitement and amazement washed over him. He carefully followed the owner’s footsteps, treading gingerly on the ancient blue bricks.

Though this passage had been built over 2,000 years ago, it was remarkably smooth, unmarred by the slightest wear, a testament to the painstaking craftsmanship of the workers who built it. And because it had remained sealed, untouched for over 2,000 years, the tomb retained the pristine condition it had been in when first closed off. Were it not for the stale air, the doctor might have thought he had stepped into a brand-new movie set.

The passage sloped downward, though not as steeply as the earlier tunnel they had crawled through. Fully focused on keeping pace with the owner, the doctor at first found the journey thrilling and full of danger. But after a time, the repetition dulled the excitement. Worried he might misstep out of fatigue, he struck up conversation to distract himself, asking about the underground palace.

The owner told him that the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang was immense. Aside from the main passage used during the burial, there were several secondary tunnels like the one they were in now. Emperor Qin Shi Huang adhered to the ritual principle of “Continue to serve the deceased as one would serve the living,” so his tomb complex was constructed on a scale mirroring his imperial palace. It boasted underground city walls and 10 massive gates leading to successive chambers.

The entire subterranean layout replicated his palace aboveground. At its center lay the central burial chamber, housing the First Emperor’s sarcophagus, while surrounding secondary halls were reserved for deceased concubines and other sacrificial companions.

However, since those destined for burial died at unpredictable times, only the main passage and central chamber were sealed after Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s funeral. The remaining tunnels were left accessible—precisely the loophole Huhai exploited to infiltrate the mausoleum.

The sheer scale of the underground palace was something the doctor had mentally prepared for. Even the outer perimeter of the mausoleum, now partially excavated, had revealed hundreds of burial pits—not just the world-famous Terracotta Army and bronze chariots and horses, but also pits containing stone armor, acrobat figurines, civil official statues, exotic animal remains, imperial stables, and sacrificial tombs. With so many accompaniments in just the periphery, the central underground palace was bound to be even more formidable.

Yet after walking for over an hour, the doctor realized the passageway remained unchanged, just as it had been when they first entered. Frustration crept in. If not for the certainty that the owner was leading them forward, he might have suspected they were going in circles.

Sensing his impatience, the owner halted and said mildly, “I’m taking you along a shortcut to the center of the underground palace. Along the way, many hidden side passages lead to individual tomb chambers, but they’re all more or less the same. There’s nothing worth seeing.”

As he spoke, he pressed a certain spot on the mausoleum wall. A deep rumble sounded, and the wall receded inward. When the dust settled, a dark, unlit tomb chamber was revealed.

The doctor quickly shone his flashlight inside and saw a stone coffin and a few burial objects scattered on the ground. He had never had much interest in antiques to begin with, and though he knew that each of these items had survived more than 2,000 years and was no doubt priceless, they looked no different from rubbish to his untrained eye. Interests differed—if the director had been here, he would have leapt upon these finds with a shriek of joy. But the doctor would much rather study the owner’s cellular structure.

The owner restored the tomb chamber to its original state, and the doctor calmed himself again. He hadn’t come here to sightsee, but to accompany the owner on this journey. Truthfully, his insistence on entering the underground palace wasn’t solely for the grandeur of witnessing this architectural marvel of the Qin dynasty. It was also because he feared the owner had lost all will to live and would choose to remain in the mausoleum with Fusu, buried forever beneath the earth.

At the very least, with him present, the owner would be compelled to return alive.

After pressing forward for what felt like an eternity, the doctor noticed the passageway gradually widening beneath his feet. The plain stone bricks gave way to intricately carved slabs, and the once-bare walls now gleamed with inlaid murals. At the end of the corridor loomed a massive stone door, its weight unmoved for over 2,000 years, and could naturally no longer be opened.

The owner led them around through a side chamber, skirting the sealed gate. When they rejoined the central axis of the mausoleum, the doctor noticed that the blue stones were inlaid with gold and jade, bearing the same intricate carvings as those he had seen in the mirage of the Qin palace. 

There was no doubt now. They were standing at the very center of the underground palace, the sanctum of Emperor Qin Shi Huang himself.

Just as he was about to follow the owner’s footsteps, a flicker of light from the opposite side startled him. It felt as though he were being watched from the shadows.

The doctor quickly swung his flashlight in that direction and discovered a towering terracotta figure standing in silence.

But this was unlike any terracotta army he had ever seen on TV. It was vividly painted in bright colors. Its attire was also different from that of the underground armies excavated outside the tomb.

This one clearly belonged to the palace guard.

The figure was slightly taller than the doctor, its head crowned with a tall headdress, expression calm and resolute. It wore a short tunic beneath a set of light but imposing armor, and its entire posture radiated elegance and strength. The sword at its waist wasn’t made of clay, but of genuine bronze. Its obsidian eyes, naturally rainbow-sheened, reflected the flashlight’s beam, making them seem startlingly lifelike.

This lifelike terracotta army was far from alone. Along the broad, carriage-worthy passage, flanking both sides at five-pace intervals, stood rows of identical statues, each frozen in silent vigil for over 2,000 years, their unblinking watch guarding the secrets of the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang.

Though uniform in armor and attire, every figure bore distinct facial features, as if each had been modeled after a real imperial guard. Had the doctor not known these were fired clay sculptures, just like those unearthed outside the tomb complex, he would have believed they were living men petrified by some dark sorcery, with their souls trapped eternally in earthen shells…

The more he thought about it, the more a chill crept over him. Even when he forced himself to stop glancing at the rows of statues, he could still feel the sensation of being watched, and it made his skin crawl.

Upon entering the actual underground palace and arriving at the grand plaza before the front hall, the doctor was struck by an eerie sense of familiarity. The subterranean city had been built as a replica of the ancient Qin palace—every detail faithfully reproduced without the slightest deviation. 

Fusu, having been raised in the palace since birth, had imprinted its every corner into his memory. Through the mist-shrouded visions earlier, the doctor had lived a fragment of that life, and now recognized the layout with unsettling clarity.

The black roof tiles, the vermilion pillars, the sharply angled ridges of the eaves, the towering watchtowers…

Even the flowers and trees in the plaza were shaped from painted clay. On one side, palace maids gathered blossoms; on the other, guards patrolled. Ministers lined up to enter the study for court meetings. It was exactly the same as the Qin palace he had seen.

But here, there was no light, nor was there any life. This was a city of the dead, sealed beneath the earth.

It was as though a breathing moment had been seized, permanently suspended in time at that precise instant…

“Weren’t there supposed to be eternal lamps in the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang, said to be fueled by mermaid fat and able to burn for a thousand years?” The doctor, unable to bear the stifling gloom any longer, stopped to change the battery in his flashlight. 

“There were,” came the owner’s calm voice from the darkness. “But I never believed that mermaid fat could truly burn for a thousand years. So before I left this place, I extinguished every last flame myself.”

As the doctor rummaged through his backpack, one of the spare batteries slipped through his fingers and rolled away. He cursed under his breath but dared not move to retrieve it. Here, every inch of ground could be riddled with traps, and any careless step could easily cost him his life.

Just as he was debating whether to use his phone for light, a faint yellow glow flickered from the owner’s direction.

He looked up and saw a candle encased in a glass hood. The owner removed the cover, and though the candlelight was dim by everyday standards, in this utter darkness, it seemed piercingly bright. It took the doctor a moment to adjust to the light, but when he did, he recognized the chipped base of the candle and exclaimed, “Isn’t that the mermaid candle?”

The owner nodded. “Yes. I made it long ago from the mermaid fat in this underground palace to be used for light. After my last visit, I blew it out and left it behind. Later, it fell into others’ hands, was melted down into an ordinary temple candle, and ended up in a monastery. After centuries of listening to sacred chants, it gradually developed a spirit. You’ve heard the rest of its story.”

The doctor remembered now. This candle, named Zhu, had once played a role in a story of doomed affection with a young monk.

No. Given the nature of the candle, it should have been a love story between a human and a spirit. There had even been an incident with Zhu Yuanzhang, the Hongwu Emperor’s floral arrangements, and in the end, the owner had taken the mermaid candle back to Ya She…

But—hold on! That wasn’t the point! The point was, wasn’t this candle supposed to be inextinguishable?

How on earth had the owner gotten it onto a plane?

A perpetually burning object?

That was basically smuggling! He could have been arrested! The doctor had unwittingly risked jail time just by tagging along with him!

His face twisted into a series of conflicted expressions, but he dared not ask. He feared he might not survive the answer. So he tactfully changed the subject. “Wasn’t her original wish to return to the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang and destroy it? Why would you bring her here?”

The final echo of his question still resonated in the expansive front hall plaza when, amidst the flickering candlelight, rising smoke started to coalesce into a translucent woman of ethereal beauty. Her luxurious robes and silk-like hair floated around her as if alive. However, her left sleeve was torn, as if something had bitten off a piece, instantly drawing attention.

The owner said casually, “Why wouldn’t I bring her? What can she possibly do?”

The doctor was stunned. Only now did he notice the deep, sultry gleam in Zhu’s beautiful eyes, though her elegant face burned with fury. And indeed, she could do nothing—at most, she could make the flame flicker violently, or use the smoky silhouette of her form to try and restrain the owner. But she couldn’t stop him from walking forward.

Watching her blazing eyes, the doctor could only sigh in pity. He had experienced the owner’s methods firsthand. Though he had to admit, the light from the mermaid candle was far superior to that of his flashlight. Unlike the narrow, directional beam of an electric torch, the candle cast a soft glow that radiated outward, illuminating the surroundings in all directions. What they could now see far surpassed what had been visible earlier.

The doctor followed the owner up to the massive front gate of the palace, but the owner made no move. He simply stood there silently before the heavy stone doors.

“Is there a mechanism here too?” the doctor asked.

But before the owner could respond, Zhu had already floated forward, her weightless form slipping effortlessly through the crack between the doors. All that remained of her was a wisp of fabric, and then only the trailing curl of blue smoke above the candle’s flame.

After a long pause, the owner replied, “No. I already dismantled the traps here. I even removed the wrought iron lock too. So that when he wakes, he won’t need to struggle…”

At first, the doctor didn’t fully register what he meant. But the moment it hit him, a chill raced down his spine. Did the owner still believe that Fusu might one day return?

As the reincarnation of Fusu, the doctor suddenly felt an unbearable weight on his shoulders.

But the owner didn’t linger in silence for long. He handed the mermaid candle to the doctor, then pressed both palms gently against the stone doors. With a heavy rumble, the dust-laden slabs began to shift. The colossal stone gates, which had been sealed for over 2,000 years, swung open with shocking ease.

The doctor knew the gates likely sat atop rolling spheres or pressure supports, so it wasn’t that the owner possessed some extraordinary strength. But he had no time to dwell on that, because what he saw next stunned him into stillness.

Above his head stretched an endless black sky. A full moon hung high, scattered stars twinkling in its company, and the Milky Way sprawled elegantly across the heavens.

For one brief instant, the doctor truly believed he had made his way out of the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang. But then he noticed the air remained stale and tomb-dry. Suspicion began prickling at him. 

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the moon and stars were all luminous pearls embedded in the ceiling. Arranged in perfect imitation of the night sky, their gentle glow mimicked celestial light so convincingly that it was almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

The doctor drew in a sharp breath. To think the vaulted ceiling of the underground palace could so convincingly mimic the night sky could only mean that the space above them was unimaginably vast.

Sensing the owner began moving forward, the doctor quickly followed. But after only a few steps, a drop of molten wax scorched his hand. He flinched, and the candle slipped from his grasp, tumbling toward the ground.

He dove forward and caught it just before it hit the floor. Relieved by his quick reflexes, he had only a moment to feel proud before his eyes widened when he noticed a tiny ember had splashed onto the floor.

In an instant, the flame ignited.

To his horror, he realized that beneath his feet lay a hidden trench filled with a strange salve-like substance that was neither solid nor liquid. That single spark had ignited it.

The fire didn’t explode dramatically. Instead, it crept forward in a deliberate, serpentine manner. It was as though some ancient mechanism had been triggered, and the entire underground world was now slowly awakening around them.

Mountains and rivers, cast in gold and silver, formed a precise topographical map of the Central Plains. The famed Five Sacred Peaks were sculpted in gleaming gold; rivers, lakes, and seas flowed with shimmering mercury. It was a miniature world, crafted to scale in staggering detail.

On closer inspection, the doctor could even see the mercury rivers flowing gently. The lustrous silver ripples and the radiant golden glow played off one another in a dazzling dance, a spectacle so gorgeously brilliant it was almost impossible to take in.

The doctor stood rooted in shock, finally understanding that the texts in Records of the Grand Historian about the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang were true.

“Using mercury to fashion the hundred rivers, the Yangtze and Yellow, and the great sea, installing machinery to make them flow and circulate; depicting the constellations of heaven above and the geography of earth below; employing whale oil for lamps, calculated to burn for a long time without going out…” 

The doctor’s murmured words drifted through the silence. All around them, flames traced their way through the chamber. Eventually, they converged in a translucent glass sphere suspended near the ceiling. Then, with a rush, burst into a massive fireball that flooded the entire scene in golden light.

It was the sun—or at least, what the mausoleum intended it to be.

As it blazed, the moon and stars formed from luminous pearls were gradually outshone, exactly as they would be beneath the real sky. It was as if the heavens themselves had been summoned into this underground world.

With the underground palace now fully illuminated, it was clear that there were no other legendary treasures here.

But the doctor could perfectly understand Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s intent. Seated upon this entire nation and flanked by his 100,000 terracotta army, what treasure could be more precious than the eternal illusion of his dominion?

This was the greatest treasure of all.

Then the doctor saw it.

A man-made structure looming at the heart of those golden mountains and mercury rivers, its outline barely visible through the shimmering haze.

He had barely taken it in when the owner began moving toward it. Not wanting to fall behind, the doctor hastened after him, one cautious step at a time across the gleaming mountaintops. His heart pounded intensely, not due to fear but because of wonder. 

He had never experienced such extravagance in his life!

“Rolling on a gold mountain”—this phrase truly wasn’t just some empty saying after all!

[TL Note: The phrase “rolling on a gold mountain”(在金山上打滚) is the same as Western “swimming in money”]

By the time he reached the summit of the central mountain, the owner had already arrived at a raised platform built precisely where Xianyang would lie on the ancient map. It was, by uncanny coincidence or design, the very location they stood in on the modern map as well.

From this perspective, the doctor had an unobstructed view of the platform. At its center was a finely crafted, almost sacred-looking coffin. The lid wasn’t sealed, and inside, a man lay in perfect stillness.

His features were as gentle and refined as they had been in life. He seemed only to be sleeping, as if he might open his eyes at any moment.

The doctor stood frozen, unable to take another step.

He had seen that face many times before, through the haze of the misty visions.

It was Fusu—the Crown Prince of the Qin Empire.

Although the doctor was well aware that the figure in the mausoleum wasn’t Emperor Qin Shi Huang himself, but Fusu. However, he had never imagined that Fusu, after 2,000 years, would be so perfectly preserved. His face was as unblemished as jade, just as it had appeared in his glimpse through the fog.

That was the very moment the doctor understood why the owner still harbored the belief that Fusu might one day awaken. For anyone who laid eyes on him, it would be impossible not to believe he was simply asleep.

The doctor stood frozen for a long moment before he noticed the owner still motionless by the coffin, silently gazing down at Fusu. Alarmed, he hurried forward, crossing the band of mercury that marked the Yellow River and stepping onto the platform. As he got closer, the strangeness struck him even more forcefully.

As a medical professional, he was naturally accustomed to seeing corpses. But who, after death, didn’t have a pale complexion and drained of all colors?

Fusu’s face, on the other hand, remained flushed with a lifelike warmth. If not for the stillness of his chest, the doctor could almost believe he was still breathing.

Puzzled, he bent over the coffin to examine Fusu more closely, only to notice that the fabric of his clothing seemed oddly familiar.

It took a glance at the owner’s crimson dragon robe to confirm the materials were indeed identical. The owner had once said that this black-gold, black-jade of the jade burial suit was an ancient relic designed to preserve corpses from decay.

If the owner truly wished to survive, he would need to discard his current robe and wear the one Fusu now had. But doing so would mean Fusu’s final remnants would be erased from the world.

No wonder the owner was hesitating.

The doctor understood how deep the owner’s attachment to Fusu ran. He had long feared that the man’s true purpose in returning to the mausoleum was to remain here forever, entombed beside Fusu. Now it seemed that fear hadn’t been unfounded.

“If you can’t do it, I will,” the doctor said, reaching toward Fusu. But before his hand could get far, a cold grip seized his wrist with startling strength.

He flinched, almost believing the corpse had come back to life, only to realize it was the owner who had leaned over the coffin to grab his hand.

“Wait a little longer…” the owner said softly.

The doctor glanced down and saw that the crimson dragon embroidered across the owner’s robe was beginning to shift. Its coiled body wrapped tightly around the man, as if the powerful spiritual energy saturating the mausoleum was giving it form and movement. The creature looked nearly alive, ready to consume the owner at any moment.

Alarmed, the doctor wrenched free. “How much longer can you wait? He’s been lying here for over 2,000 years. Are you sure it’s the longevity lock keeping his soul bound? What if it’s the body’s perfect preservation that’s stopping his spirit from passing on?”

The owner hesitated at the words, his grip loosening just enough. The doctor seized the chance and reached forward to brush his fingertips against Fusu’s cheek.

It was like watching a spell unravel. Fusu’s body disintegrated into ash before their eyes. The black jade burial suit, once so grand on him, now lay lightly and forlornly at the base of the coffin.

Neither of them moved. For a long while, they stood in stunned silence, the doctor still frozen in the pose of reaching out.

“I didn’t mean to…” he murmured at last. Straightening slowly, he stared down at his hand with disbelief written all over his face. 

He was certain that he had felt the warmth of skin under his fingers. How could the man have turned to dust the next second?

The owner let out a long breath. “It’s been more than 2,000 years. The suit may have kept the body intact, and the mercury vapor preserved his features, but in the end… he was still dead.”

The doctor saw the sorrow clouding the man’s expression and said nothing. Instead, he bent over the coffin and lifted the black jade burial suit, then walked around to the owner and draped it over his shoulders. “Put it on. He’s part of the suit now.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. Fusu had disintegrated into fine ash. Some of the remains rested at the bottom of the coffin, while the rest had infused into the jade burial suit, never to be separated again.

The owner had to admit that the doctor has a formidable talent in comforting others. He bowed his head and slipped on the long robe. The black jade burial suit, fashioned in the style of the Qin Dynasty, was a flowing black loose robe with wide sleeves gathered at the cuffs and hems of swirling gold-colored clouds. This ceremonial attire, once worn only by the highest-ranking nobles of the Qin Dynasty, had taken the imperial workshops decades to complete, making it a thousand times more exquisite than the simple version he had once stolen from the treasury.

The doctor could sense the emotion welling inside the man, but he also noticed the change. The moment the robe settled on his shoulders, the colors gradually returned to the owner’s face, and his breathing grew steady once more.

Knowing the owner was truly saved, a smile touched his lips as he joked, “This outfit would look even better if you grew your hair out a bit.”

Even as things stood now, the sight was already striking. The doctor found himself studying the man before him with unspoken amazement. For a fleeting moment, he recalled those images glimpsed within the mist, where the owner had been dressed in ancient robes just like this. Seeing him now, fully clad in ceremonial attire, felt uncannily natural, as though he had been born to wear such garments. Not a trace of incongruity remained.

It was a pity, though. This robe had been tailored for Emperor Qin Shi Huang himself. Compared to that towering and broad-shouldered figure, the owner appeared slender and lean. The jade burial suit hung loosely on him, ill-fitted to his frame.

With a complicated look in his eyes, the owner turned toward the coffin and said quietly, “Let’s close the lid.”

The doctor gave a small nod. He understood now why the owner had likely refrained from sealing the coffin earlier out of fear that Fusu might someday return to life, and that the heavy lid would be too difficult to remove alone. But now that Fusu’s body had turned to ash, such a hope no longer held sway.

Together, they carefully lifted the exquisitely crafted coffin lid and slowly brought it down. Just as it was about to close, the doctor reached into his pocket and took out two small objects, placing them gently inside with a solemn expression.

The owner saw clearly what they were. The broken halves of the longevity lock. He made no move to stop him. This was the doctor’s way of saying goodbye to Fusu.

They shared no real connection. Although the doctor was Fusu’s reincarnation, the two were entirely different people.

As the image of Fusu turning to ash resurfaced in his mind, the owner felt a deep sense of loss. And yet, he also understood that Fusu was finally free.

The heavy lid settled into place with a muffled thud.

The doctor, as if finally released from a burden, wiped the sweat from his brow. But when he lifted his head again, his expression changed at once. His eyes widened in alarm as he pointed at his employer’s left shoulder. “Boss… your robe…”

The owner followed his gaze. He immediately caught sight of a crimson claw taking shape across the fabric. Like a scene in slow motion, a crimson dragon’s body began to unfurl. Its scales shimmered, catching the light in sharp flashes.

Damn it! How had he forgotten?

If the crimson dragon could manifest on his original Zhongshan suit, it would, of course, appear on a robe made of the same fabric.

The doctor rushed forward, trying to help him remove the Zhongshan suit underneath. But when they opened the outer robe, they saw that the garments had already been fused by a web of silken threads, so tightly woven that the two layers could no longer be separated.

The owner chuckled bitterly. “I miscalculated. It seems I’ll never be rid of this crimson dragon.”

The doctor pulled out his Swiss Army knife and tried to cut through the threads, but it was like trying to slice through wire. When he applied more force, he thought he heard a faint dragon’s roar echoing beside his ear. He gritted his teeth and prepared to press harder, but the owner stopped him.

“Don’t waste your strength. Ordinary blades won’t cut through it.”

By now, the dragon’s head had fully emerged across the surface of the robe, flaring its claws and glaring at the doctor with eyes like bronze bells.

Just as the doctor considered switching to another method, the entire underground palace suddenly went dark. The blazing sun that had illuminated the underground sky was extinguished in an instant. The flames in the channels died away in wisps of smoke. Only the mermaid candle in the doctor’s hand continued to burn quietly.

“This can’t be right,” the doctor muttered. “Wasn’t it supposed to burn for a thousand years? What, did the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang get outfitted with counterfeit goods too?”

Floating back to them from elsewhere in the tomb, the candle spirit, Zhu, gave a light humph. “As if! I just saw someone use a blade to touch the fire trough, and all the flames were drawn into the blade.”

Her voice was as ethereal as her form, light and vaporous, but her words struck like a hammer in both their hearts.

“You mean… someone else is here?” The doctor looked around in disbelief, but all he saw was darkness. Above them, the night pearls in the underground palace resumed their soft glow. Stars and a full moon spread across the ceiling like a celestial canopy, stunning in their beauty. But the doctor had no mind to admire them now.

“There are no living souls in this mausoleum,” the owner said with his eyes narrowed. “But there is someone who can follow us in. Someone who knows the layout of the mausoleum and its mechanisms. Someone who wields the Minghong Blade. Aside from Huhai, there is no one else.”

“Minghong Blade?” The doctor thought he caught a glimmer of light in the distance, but could not be sure.

“Legend says that when the Yellow Emperor forged the Xuan-Yuan Sword, excess molten metal remained in the furnace. As the residual heat lingered, the liquid metal pooled at the bottom and cooled into the shape of a blade—one that hummed without wind, and so it was named the Minghong Blade.

The Yellow Emperor, fearing the blade’s ferocious will was strong enough to devour its wielder, and bring chaos to the mortal world. He attempted to destroy it with the Xuan-Yuan Sword, only for the Minghong Blade to transform into a crimson skylark in his grasp and flee into the heavens.”

Before the owner could finish speaking, a piercing birdsong echoed from the distance, rapidly closing in on their platform.

The doctor held up the mermaid candle, and in its light, he vividly saw a skylark the size of a hawk streaking toward them. Clutched in its talons was a human figure. As it reached the high platform, the bird transformed in an instant into a three-foot-long blade, and the man seized its hilt and swung it toward them without hesitation.

The blade caught the candlelight and reflected it directly onto the attacker’s face. The doctor saw a pale, terrifying visage he had seen before in the mist. It was none other than Qin Er Shi—Huhai.

His appearance was exactly as it had been 2,000 years ago. Only his hair had, for some reason, turned a silvery white, a color typically owned by the elderly. Yet on that youthful feature, it seemed strangely fitting. The narrow phoenix eyes held a faint reddish glow, and his ashen complexion with the deep, dark red lips gave him a decadent and haunted beauty.

In the blink of an eye, the doctor understood why Huhai had followed them.

It had to be for the robe the owner was wearing!

He had no idea how Huhai had managed to survive the passage of over 2,000 years without a jade burial suit, but one thing was certain—he couldn’t allow Huhai to succeed!

Seeing that the owner was still dazed, the doctor reached out and yanked him backward.

But the opponent’s strike was faster. The owner’s robe hadn’t been secured properly, and the force of the doctor’s pull sent the long ceremonial garment flying directly into the arc of the approaching Minghong Blade.

Riiiip—

The Minghong Blade was no ordinary weapon. It sliced the robe cleanly in two.

The doctor embraced the owner and leapt from the platform. In the flickering light of the mermaid candle, the owner’s expression was pale and drawn. Just as the doctor was bracing himself to charge back and face Huhai head-on, the owner spoke in a low voice, “Let’s go.”

The doctor followed the owner, scrambling over the golden peaks and mercury rivers, but no sounds of pursuit echoed behind them. Just before reaching the mausoleum’s entrance, the doctor couldn’t resist looking back. In the distant darkness, Huhai stood motionless on the platform, staring blankly at the coffin before him. The crimson skypark had shrunk to the size of a palm and now perched on his shoulder, calmly preening its feathers with its beak.

Something felt… off. Not as he had imagined…. Could it be that Huhai hadn’t yet given up his desire to slumber eternally in this place?

Questions filled the doctor’s mind, but of course, he couldn’t just turn around and ask that devil directly. As they passed once again through the long passage and returned to the hidden route dug by the craftsmen, the owner—who hadn’t spoken a single word the entire way—suddenly said, “Go ahead on your own. There are no more traps along the path. You should be safe.”

The doctor was taken aback. Instinctively, he reached for the owner’s sleeve, but the wide hem slipped through his fingers. In the next instant, the crimson dragon coiled once and vanished completely into the darkness.

The doctor was filled with regret. He should have known the owner would never allow Huhai to remain alone in this underground palace. But Huhai held the Minghong Blade, a weapon that could transform into a skylark.

Wasn’t he just a lamb to the slaughter?

Gritting his teeth, the doctor listened as the sound of the owner’s footsteps faded into the distance. He knew that if he let the man go now, they might never meet again. He drew a deep breath and, teeth gritted, took a blind step forward. The blue brick shifted beneath his foot with a soft click. A mechanism whirred, and the doctor instantly dodged a sharp arrow that shot from the wall. The arrowhead buried itself deep into the brick, its shaft still vibrating.

He knew that if the arrow had found its mark, it would have run him clean through.

“What are you doing?” the owner’s voice came from the darkness, tinged with anger.

The doctor’s heart leapt with joy as he realized the owner had turned back.

“Walk me out,” the doctor said as the owner approached. He seized the man’s wrist tightly and refused to let go.

The owner looked at him, and in that gaze, he understood what the doctor meant. His expression grew complicated, his thoughts turbulent.

The doctor licked his dry lips and tried to persuade him. “The robe may be torn in half, but the upper portion is still intact. You can keep living. Let it go. It’s been over 2,000 years.”

The owner’s gaze flickered, but he gave no reply.

Could he really forget the past and start anew?

He was nothing more than a ghost that had wandered the world for over 2,000 years. No one had ever truly cared whether he lived or died…

The flame of the mermaid candle flickered gently. Its yellowish light fell over the two of them, casting a quiet glow. Wisps of smoke curled upward as Zhu hovered silently above, watching the scene below in a daze, as if transported back to the days she had spent with the young monk, centuries ago.

How long do you think a human life truly is…

Life… is… between you and me…

The owner could feel the heat of the doctor’s palm against his own. That warmth traveled up his arm and spread slowly into his heart.

He parted his lips, just about to speak, when the ground beneath them suddenly trembled with violent force. The entire mausoleum shook as if the heavens themselves had shifted. Both men lost their balance, bracing against the wall of the passageway to steady themselves. When the tremor finally subsided, the doctor exclaimed in alarm, “Was that an earthquake?”

“I fear Huhai may have triggered some kind of mechanism.” The owner’s expression darkened, followed by a bitter smile. “It seems neither of us is getting out now.”

Following the direction of the owner’s gaze, the doctor noticed that while the main passage had been sturdily constructed and had withstood the shaking, the hidden tunnel carved out by the ancient craftsmen hadn’t. Loose sand and gravel had collapsed inward, completely sealing off their only known exit.

“Good thing you were concerned about him and hesitated earlier. If you had climbed in immediately, you would have been buried alive by now,” Zhu remarked casually, drifting in midair. “As the Buddha once said—’As you sow, so shall you reap. All phenomena are created by the mind.’ Looks like he was true…”

The doctor knew Zhu had likely spent too much time around the young monk. Now and then, she would quote Buddhist scripture, and though her tone was light, her words struck him with chilling clarity. If he really had entered that tunnel just moments before…

He stared at the sealed passage in horror, as a chill began to run down his spine.

“How do we get out now?” he asked the owner urgently.

The owner gave a bitter laugh. “The Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang is surrounded by a thick layer of sand—what legends call the ‘The Sea of Sand.’ This sea of sand serves as the underground palace’s first line of defense, making it impossible for grave robbers to tunnel into the underground palace. This secret passage was built by the craftsmen using ancient techniques, but the recent tremors have collapsed it completely, burying it once more under the shifting sands.”

[TL Note: 沙海 aka The Sea of Sand in this translation, is written as such in museum exhibits like the Terracotta Army Museum. While the second common writing would be “The Sand Barrier,” in archaeological papers like the Chinese Archaeology journal.

沙海 is also a well-known Chinese movie, “Tomb of the Sea”, featuring the famous China’s Little Brother, Leo Wu(吴磊). Hence, Google doesn’t really hold much info about the actual legend.]

In other words, they were trapped?

The reality of being sealed inside hadn’t yet fully settled when a low, rhythmic rumble echoed from deep within.

“What’s that sound?” the doctor asked.

“The terracotta army has been activated,” the owner said grimly, no longer able to even fake a bitter smile. “The army lining the walls of this corridor isn’t just lifeless statues. They’re mechanisms, designed to detect intruders and strike the moment they’re confirmed.”

The doctor fell speechless. No wonder he had noticed the swords they carried were real…

The thunderous footfalls drew closer, each one a death knell. For the first time, the doctor saw panic and regret flicker in the owner’s eyes. Yet, in that moment of extreme tension, the doctor himself found an odd calm washing over him.

He gave a carefree chuckle. “No need to feel sorry. Maybe I was never meant to live long in the first place. How many people get to die in such a grand and unforgettable way? Hey, tell me—when someone comes to excavate the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang a few thousand years from now and finds our remains, will they wonder who we were? Should I burn my ID card now so they never find out?”

The owner was speechless.

The doctor went on grumbling, showing no sign of being in danger. However, the instant the first terracotta army came into view, even he couldn’t hold back a sharp intake of breath. Instinctively, he grabbed the owner and stepped back.

They had already reached the very end of the passage. Behind them, the sealed passageway was blocked by massive stone slabs so thick that even explosives wouldn’t be able to blast through.

Yet the doctor didn’t appear especially despairing. Instead, he stepped in front of the owner, shielding him with his own body, and offered a faint smile. “Last time, you stood in front of me. This time, let me protect you.”

The owner knew he was referring to the incident with the White Snake umbrella. But in circumstances such as these, it hardly mattered who stood before whom. It was merely a question of who would die a second earlier, or who might hold out a moment longer. He could tell the doctor was forcing himself to be brave as his shoulders were visibly trembling.

The owner smiled. In that moment, he suddenly felt that the 2,000 years he had lived hadn’t been in vain.

Zhu floated expressionlessly midair above the passageway. To her, it mattered little who lived or died—such things were of no concern…

Neither the doctor nor the owner spoke another word. The army of the terracotta army advanced steadily toward them. Death seemed inevitable. But then, to their right, the wall of the mausoleum passage lit up with a soft white glow, and within that circle of light came the sweet, melodious cry of a bird.

“Isn’t that Sanqing? Wow, as expected from the bird that I raised. Even its call is more pleasant than that skylark’s.” He shook his head, basking in a moment of self-satisfaction before something occurred to him. “Wait a second. How could I be hearing Sanqing here?”

Sanqing, the freed Three-Legged Green Bird from the Classic of Mountains and Seas, had always been kept at Ya She.

How could it possibly be heard in this place?

Turning to the luminous ring, the doctor saw its glow spreading outward, revealing a clear image of Ya She within. Even the takeaway boxes he had left uncleaned on the counter were still there. Sanqing was flying around inside the shop, chirping incessantly.

The doctor knew it was trying to say something, but he couldn’t understand bird language!

“You better hurry. Xiaobai’s spatial rift won’t hold for long. And Sanqing’s noisy squawking is unbearable,” came the voice of a husky dog, its head lazily rising from a lounge chair in Ya She. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have bothered coming at all.”

“Meow you! Don’t call me Xiaobai!” A palm-sized white kitten sprang up onto the counter with its fur bristling in fury.

The doctor immediately understood. Without waiting for the owner’s approval, he grabbed him and bolted toward the glowing portal. The moment his feet touched the polished wooden floor of the shop, he finally felt a sense of reality settle over him. He had just begun to relax when a sudden gust of cold wind struck from behind, and something shoved him violently forward.

Sitting on the ground with a dizzy, pounding head, the doctor nearly dropped the mermaid candle. He quickly placed it down before looking up, just in time to see the scene of the mausoleum passage on the wall fading away. He then noticed a terracotta army standing right behind the owner, holding a bronze sword, its tip pinned between the owner’s fingers.

It seemed this army had followed them all the way into Ya She.

“Looks like we’ll have to clear out a room for our esteemed guest,” the owner muttered with a furrowed brow. He pressed his finger to a spot on the army’s chest. Instantly, the animated figure froze, returning to the lifeless state of a guardian statue.

“Heh, we could place him by the front door—for security…” The doctor, the tension finally breaking, found he had no strength left. He simply gave up and flopped onto the floor, his laughter echoing. Three-Legged Green Bird settled next to his head, affectionately brushing their feathers against his cheek.

On the side, Huán Gǒu and Qiongqi were already wrestling, as usual. The owner’s tense brow began to soften, and the corners of his lips curled upward against his will.

Perhaps… this wasn’t so bad after all…

After that, the master tailor fashioned the remaining half of the black jade burial suit into a shirt. The crimson dragon still lay coiled across the chest, though now it moved far more slowly, as if drifting into hibernation.

Sanqing continued to live well in Ya She, pampered with good food and drink.

Qiongqi and Huán Gǒu returned, as always, to stay at Fang Qiu’s home. To Fang Qiu, who knew nothing of their true nature, they were simply an adorable cat and a handsome husky.

The doctor made another trip to Xi’an to retrieve the equipment from the motel and mailed it back to the museum, along with his thanks. When the director pressed him for details, he said nothing of their true venture into the Mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang.

The mysterious tremors that occurred on the outskirts of Xi’an that night sparked wild speculation online. Some claimed it was an earthquake, but the seismological bureau never issued an official report. Others suggested tomb raiders had triggered the mausoleum’s mechanisms, though no evidence could support such a claim.

The only one who found the matter truly suspicious was the director himself. But seeing both the doctor and the owner return unharmed, even he was forced to abandon his doubts.

The doctor never told the owner that he had revisited the hidden entrance where they had descended into the underground palace. He had found no sign that anyone had come out.

Was Huhai truly trapped within the mausoleum?

He recalled the faded red irises and doubted it.

Still, whatever part he had to play in this story was over.

After the annual leave, he returned to the hospital, continuing his work of healing the sick and saving lives.

Life carried on, and Ya She remained open.

Every time he stepped through that door, there would always be someone waiting with a cup of freshly brewed Longjing tea, ready to listen to his endless complaints, smiling gently beneath the drifting fragrance of steam.

The doctor often thought that perhaps the owner himself was just another antique within Ya She. 

Every item here has its own story, one that has been carried through the years but remains unheard.

Because it is impossible for them to talk…