Chapter 325: The Divine Tomb of the Underground Palace (12)
Yan Shixun had imagined countless possible truths behind the yizhuang, but he had never expected that the truth would be the cruelest of them all.
The slip of paper that had been hidden in the sleeve of the nameless corpse before death, and later passed into Yan Shixun’s hands, became the key to unlocking all secrets. It led him, within this now-abandoned yizhuang, to witness a truth buried for over a hundred years.
When Yan Shixun followed the King of Hell to a thin coffin and looked at the crooked, jagged lines scratched into the inner walls with fingernails, when he saw the blackened traces of dried blood and the mutilated, flesh-torn hand of the headless corpse, even his long, elegant fingers trembled as they reached for the coffin.
Yan Shixun closed his eyes briefly, letting his fingertips rest on the surface of the coffin.
The rough, uneven scratches were the dead’s wordless cries of blood and tears—a protest etched into the wood.
Perhaps the village chief had not meant to deceive Yan Shixun about any of this. It was just that the story passed down from their ancestors had, over time, become twisted in ways that served their own interests. By the time it reached the ears of the younger generation, all the cruelty had been stripped away, leaving only a fabricated tale.
Over a hundred years ago, there had indeed been a massive wave of death here—an outbreak that spread across more than ten villages.
Some villages, after suffering large-scale casualties, saw the few survivors flee into the night, overcome with guilt and fear, desperate to find a way to survive.
But they were never heard from again.
The villages left behind, emptied of life, slowly turned into heaps of abandoned ruins swallowed by the mountains.
Even the few villages that barely managed to hold on kept tight-lipped about the truth of that year’s deaths. No one dared to express grief or anger over the loss of their loved ones.
Because deep down, they all knew—
The deaths were their own doing.
They had brought upon themselves the vengeance of the dead.
The root cause, just as Yan Shixun had suspected, lay in the village that once stood where the yizhuang now sat.
It had been a deeply isolated village, self-sufficient and barely interacting with the outside world. Rarely did they share anything about what went on inside.
Other nearby villages found them strange, but never thought much of it. They only mocked them quietly behind their backs.
The turning point came with a child.
A child who had begged and pleaded with his father to be taken to the market. Once there, unwilling to lose face, he started comparing with children from other villages, boasting about how wealthy his family was and how they knew powerful people.
The boy, face flushed with pride and defiance, shouted, “My family has a treasure map!”
Startled, his father snatched him up and began beating him, hurriedly apologizing to everyone around, saying it was just childish nonsense.
But the boy, crying uncontrollably from the beating, insisted he wasn’t lying. To prove it, he said that not only did his family have the treasure map—everyone in the village knew about it. The treasure had been passed down for generations and was guarded by them all.
The boy had spoken thoughtlessly, but some listeners took it to heart.
The father kept apologizing, and others at the market chimed in, saying the child was just being silly and making things up, nothing to worry about.
They even tried to stop the father from hitting the boy further.
But in their hearts, they had already committed the story to memory.
The market was full of all kinds of people. Almost every villager in the surrounding areas came to trade there. And once this story spread, it didn’t take long for everyone nearby to hear the tale of the hidden treasure.
No wonder that village was so reclusive and unfriendly, they thought. Turns out they were guarding something valuable and didn’t want us to find out.
With this in mind, the villagers began to murmur.
Then, on a night when everyone was sound asleep, torches lit up the secluded village.
Over a hundred masked intruders stormed the village, ruthlessly interrogating the villagers and demanding to know where the treasure was.
The villagers were stunned. They tried to explain that there was no treasure in the village…
But suddenly, they realized that perhaps the place they had guarded for generations had been misunderstood by outsiders as a treasure trove—though the truth was entirely different.
So, the villagers clammed up, refusing to reveal anything to these bandits.
Women and children were dragged out and slaughtered one by one in front of the entire village, their killers demanding that the villagers give up the treasure’s location.
One of the children, crying and struggling, accidentally yanked off the bandana covering one of the mountain bandits’ faces.
Then, the villagers gasped in shock when they recognized the face—not some mountain bandit.
It was someone from a neighboring village.
In an instant, everything became clear.
The people from nearby villages had been blinded by the rumors of treasure, their hearts swayed by fantasies of riches. They had joined forces to attack this isolated village, planning to split the loot once they got their hands on it.
The villagers erupted in fury, shouting and accusing the others of shamelessness.
Enraged by the exposure, the attackers decided to leave no one alive.
Anyone who clenched their jaws and refused to reveal the treasure’s location had their skulls crushed by sledgehammers, dying in pools of blood.
Women screamed in anguish. Children wailed in terror. Villagers sobbed with tears running down their faces, biting down on their lips to muffle their cries.
All of it—cries, flames, black smoke—merged into the bloodstained nightmare of this night.
Someone howled desperately, begging fellow villagers to reveal everything—treasure, tomb, whatever it was—just to save the children.
But others, their eyes bloodshot, simply stared as their children and loved ones were slaughtered before them. They didn’t say a word.
They couldn’t speak.
The old village chief, his face soaked with tears, raised his trembling head to the full moon high in the sky. Despite his heartbreak, he remained steadfast.
They couldn’t speak. Because… that was… that was the benefactor of their ancestors.
If not for those warriors—if not for that person—centuries ago, their ancestors would’ve died in war. There would’ve been no descendants, no peaceful lives passed down for hundreds of years.
People must understand gratitude.
They saved us, so we must guard their peace in death. We must never let others break into their tomb, disturb their rest.
Some villagers looked to the old chief, pleading, but he only bowed his head low, silently preparing for death.
He smiled—but the expression was uglier than crying.
“It was the souls of the warriors that blessed us with good harvests and fair weather. It was the warriors who built homes for our ancestors, gave them food, seeds, and wealth—so we could raise our children for generations and pass down the tales of these heroic souls.”
“We are the last tomb guardians of Ye City, guarding… the long-dead Ye City preserving this land for the heroic souls of Ye City.”
“Even in death, we will not allow Ye City to suffer harm.”
“With my death, I honor Ye City!”
The blade rose and fell. Blood splattered.
His eyes remained wide open in death, his head thudding and rolling across the ground.
The villagers watched the old chief die. Grief flooded their hearts. They glared hatefully at the “bandits” surrounding them and spat out each word through clenched teeth: “Even if we die, we’ll return as vengeful spirits, devour your flesh, drink your blood, and bring furious retribution to every last one of you who took part in this.”
The villagers from other places, who had disguised themselves as bandits, only laughed mockingly. They didn’t take the threat seriously.
No one said a word more. Not a single extra detail was revealed.
The other villagers went mad with rage. Eyes bloodshot, they slaughtered every last person in the isolated village.
When they finally left, they had gained nothing.
Their blades, caked with blood and chunks of flesh, had gone dull from overuse.
The heavy hammers were so deeply stained with blood that no amount of washing could clean them.
Just like the murders they had committed—the sin would forever flow in their blood, cling to their souls.
The village ground was drenched in blood. Corpses of the villagers lay sprawled in disarray.
The cold wind blew through—no breath left in the air.
Only the silvery moonlight blanketed the bodies of the dead villagers, like a mother gently cradling her children in her arms, singing them a lullaby.
Letting the dead finally rest.
No one in the world knew that a massacre had turned the land crimson that night.
But Heaven and the Great Dao watched in silence.
Karma… never escapes the cycle.
When the villagers from the other villages returned home, they quickly pushed the memory aside. Even if some were haunted by the last words of the dying, losing sleep, others brushed it off, drunkenly boasting that even if ghosts came for them, they’d kill them again.
But soon, a strange illness began spreading through the surrounding villages.
And the first to fall ill were not the frail children, but the strong pillars of the households—the young and able-bodied men.
One by one, they fell ill. Their bodies were covered in dark red marks that spread upwards from the soles of their feet.
It looked as though blood had splattered across their skin.
Any area where those crimson marks appeared would rot away in large patches, the flesh turning to a festering, foul-smelling mess, oozing pus. The pain and itching were unbearable, driving the afflicted to wail in agony.
Even after bringing in the best doctor from the city, he simply shook his head after examining them, saying there was no cure. Rather than seeking medical treatment, he suggested they beg the gods and buddhas for forgiveness.
A great master they called in only sighed, saying it was the result of too much evil. The dead had turned into vengeful ghosts and returned for revenge.
As every household’s laborers fell sick, panic spread through the villages.
Not only because there would be no one left to tend the fields, but because they realized something terrifying: those who first fell ill were all people who had visited the isolated village that night. The next to become infected were all their family members.
And most frightening of all—after these infected people died, if their bodies were kept at home, then after dusk, they would reanimate. Their corpses would appear in the village again, tearing and biting passersby, just like the zombies from old tales.
Terrified, the villagers rushed back to the slaughtered village. Trembling, they lit incense and burned joss paper, begging the restless souls for forgiveness. They swore it had only been a moment of madness, not something they did on purpose. They pleaded with the dead to spare them, saying they still had elders and children to care for.
But a strong gust of wind overturned the incense burner, snapping all three incense sticks in half. The joss paper wouldn’t even catch fire.
The spirits of the village remained silent—but their refusal to forgive was unmistakable.
The villagers, helpless, had no choice but to follow the master’s instructions. Though afraid, they entered the village to collect the corpses of those who had died tragically. They placed them in thin coffins, doing it partly as an act of redemption.
To prevent further revenge by the dead, they beheaded every single corpse. The heads were thrown far away by the master.
They drew talismans in cinnabar on both ends of the bones—head and feet—and drove long nails through the remains, pinning the souls firmly to the corpses, forbidding them from rising again or seeking revenge.
The slaughtered village was turned into a yizhuang—a mortuary used to temporarily house corpses—now filled with the dead from nearby villages.
But after all this, the strange illness really did stop spreading. No more villagers died. So the people changed their minds.
They felt that since the danger had passed, they didn’t want to spend more money dealing with the dead.
They simply left the corpses in the yizhuang, out of sight, pretending nothing had ever happened.
As life returned to normal, people became relaxed again. Occasionally, they even mocked that slaughtered village for being foolish and scoffed at the ghosts for being powerless.
When curious children came asking questions, the adults, feeling guilty, hid the truth about the massacre and the treasure. They only said it was some kind of illness.
But the matter didn’t end there.
One night, at midnight, everyone in the surrounding villages heard the howling of wolves echoing from behind the mountains.
The sound was low and mournful, like a lament for the dead. It reverberated through the mountains—hazy and ghostly—sending chills down the spines of those with guilty consciences. No one dared make a sound. They sat through the night, clutching sticks, tense and uneasy.
When the first ray of sunlight broke through the darkness, villagers opened their doors thinking the danger had passed—but what they saw made them scream in terror.
On the hillside, wolves stood in a dense, unbroken line. Their cold, glowing green eyes stared straight at the villagers, as if they could see into their very souls and clearly perceive every sin they had ever committed.
But what terrified the villagers even more was this: in the sharp teeth of every wolf…
Hung a skull—rotten down to the bare bone.
Those empty, dark eye sockets stared directly at the villagers, as if silently saying:
“We’ve returned.
To take revenge on our enemies.”
The skulls were the very ones the people had asked the master to take away and discard during the original deaths.
They had believed that separating the villagers’ heads from their bodies would confuse their souls, make them forget their enemies, and prevent them from reporting their grievances to the King of Hell.
That was why they had been able to sleep soundly all this time.
But they had never expected that even wolves had spirit and intelligence.
The wolves had traveled across vast distances, picking up each scattered skull and bringing them back one by one—as if returning wandering souls home.
Everyone who witnessed that scene was chilled to the bone.
Some of the survivors from that year were even scared to death on the spot.
The wolves merely cast a cold glance at the villagers, then turned and ran toward the now-abandoned yizhuang.
From that day on, the wolves guarded the village and the bones, not letting anyone come close.
It was as if these loyal and grateful wolves had taken on the role of gravekeepers—for the dead.
And from that day forward, those who knew the truth of the past could never sleep peacefully again. Their dreams were filled with ghosts chasing them, waking them in cold sweats and screaming.
The abandoned yizhuang became a forbidden place to all nearby villages.
No one dared go up the mountain again—for fear of provoking the wolves who guarded the graves.
The villagers, unable to make a living from the forested mountains, had turned to ambushing travelers. They survived by extorting passing drivers, making a decent living from it.
It wasn’t until Yan Shixun and his group were guided by the Great Dao into the remote and isolated mountains that the truth, long buried in the past, finally came to light.
A yellowed piece of paper slipped from someone’s hand, drifting slowly to the ground.
Yan Shixun held the thin coffin with both hands, his shoulders trembling.
His head was bowed low, loose strands of hair casting a shadow over his face, making his expression unreadable and somber.
But everyone could see his hands clutching the coffin tightly, his grip so forceful that his knuckles turned white.
When the tragic truth of what had once happened in the village was fully revealed, even the ghost deities fell silent.
Because it spoke of the darkness of human nature.
And also, the goodness of it.
Ye Li silently lowered his eyes, slowly bent down, and extended his distinct, bony hand to gently pick up the fallen piece of paper.
Though it was light as a feather, Ye Li treated it with utmost reverence, as if it bore the weight of the heavens and the earth.
Everyone finally understood why none of them had been able to see through the past of these corpses, why the truth of this place remained hidden.
Because the villagers who had been massacred over a hundred years ago… were the descendants of the villagers from a thousand years ago who had gathered the corpses of soldiers from the battlefield of Ye.
The so-called “treasure” was never wealth or riches.
It was the burial ground the villagers had protected for generations.
They had, of their own will, served as the guardians of the soldiers’ graves—those who had died in battle on the land of Ye.
Even Ye Li, who had long lost faith in the human world, could not help but be shaken at that moment, his cold heart stirred into speechlessness, his eyes filled with awe.
The general closed his eyes and let out a long, soft sigh.
Ye Li had never imagined that something like this had taken place in a corner he had never paid attention to.
Someone had remembered his help, regarded him as a benefactor, and because of the life-saving grace he had once given, they had devoted hundreds of years—their lives and those of their descendants—to protecting this place.
Though Ye Li’s initial anger had been for the people of Ye City, for the unjust deaths and the grievances that had no place to be heard, he had never expected anyone to respond to him.
He had done it not for gratitude, but because it was the principle he upheld, and later, it had become his Dao.
Yet Ye Li never expected that the things he had once done would be remembered, and even repaid without regard for the cost.
They had gathered the remains of a hundred thousand fallen soldiers from the battlefield of Ye, guarded their graves for centuries, and prayed for their peace in death.
Even if it meant dying in the process.
Ye Li stood there in silence for a long time.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked at the fragile, thin piece of paper in his hand, but he felt that no words in the human world could capture his thoughts at that moment.
They had died… for Ye.
His past persistence and obsession had not been without response.
Ye Li slowly clenched his hand, gripping the paper tightly in his palm, as if he wanted to reach out and touch the souls of those who had died so tragically.
The King of Hell lowered his gaze to the headless corpse lying peacefully in the coffin and was the first to break the heavy silence.
“Resentment lingers, the corpse does not decay, the soul does not leave…”
The King of Hell sighed lightly and said, “The exorcist who nailed down these corpses a hundred years ago truly had some power. Nine-inch nails, a hundred years—it has severely damaged their souls.”
“For the underworld, even if I personally escorted them, I still couldn’t guarantee that these severely wounded and weakened souls would be able to reincarnate smoothly. Unless…”
As he spoke, the King of Hell turned his gaze to Ye Li, locking eyes with him, and slowly enunciated each word: “Unless the ghost deity tied to their karmic fate, the one who holds the power over life, personally escorts them to reincarnation.”
With these words, everyone present understood what the King of Hell meant.
Though Ye Li was a ghost deity, even ghost deities had their own domains—just as the King of Hell wouldn’t meddle in matchmaking, and the duties of Shing Wong’s temple differed from those of Fengdu.
Fengdu governed death and judgment.
But not life.
If Ye Li were to take charge of life, there was only one possibility—
He would have to recover his own corpse, accept his past, and become one with the Great Dao.
Then, in the cycle of life and death, the vitality that corresponded to death would fall into his hands, granting him the authority to govern both realms.
Only then could the injured and weakened souls be safely sent to reincarnation.
Yan Shixun slowly raised his head to look at Ye Li, his eyes still filled with lingering anger and grief.
Ye Li didn’t hesitate for even a second before nodding firmly. “Alright.”
“This Great Dao…”
I’ll carry it.
Even if only for those who had gathered the bones of the hundred thousand soldiers for his sake, for those who gave their lives to guard the burial grounds of the fallen.
The hope he once had for the mortal world…
Had found its echo a thousand years later.
The solemn words of the ghost deity were witnessed by the heavens and the earth—irreversible and binding.
Ye Li’s wavering eyes steadied once more, and when he met Yan Shixun’s gaze, they both held a resolute determination.
Yan Shixun understood Ye Li’s resolve, and a soft smile rose on his face.
Ye Li wished to help those souls leave and reincarnate. And he, too, wanted to take on their lingering rage and obsession, so those people could pass on in peace, with no regrets, into their next life.
“They never did anything wrong. They shouldn’t have ended up like this.”
Yan Shixun’s voice was quiet, but it rang with unwavering strength—as though it could pierce the heavens and crack the earth: “The broken Great Dao… it’s time to be set right again.”
At that time, all resentment would be laid to rest. All injustices would be redressed. Those with hatred would have vengeance, and those with sins would atone.
Cause and effect would cycle, and heaven’s justice would shine clear.
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