Chapter Thirty-Six: The Spotless Chair

Like the pyramids, the ancients of China also created countless structures that defy belief, including the colossal mountain before me that Zha Wenbin has named the “sacrificial altar.” I can only describe this so-called altar as a “mountain”—if it truly is what he claims, then this must be the largest altar the world has ever known.

This altar lies deep within a dense jungle, impossible to discern with the naked eye. Cloaked in moss and tangled vines, it’s not so surprising that it remained undiscovered for centuries if it truly was left here by ancient hands. The stones are festooned with hanging vines; I imagine that, hundreds or thousands of years ago, a lush green canopy and a thick layer of earth had already settled atop it.

“Do you really want to climb up there? Maybe we should just give it up?” I was deeply uneasy. The slope was greater than ninety degrees—a classic inverted trapezoid, narrow below, wide above. If it were only a few meters high, a fall would at worst leave us bruised or with a broken bone. But this was dozens of meters tall, and who could say which of those vines were already brittle with age and which were newly sprouted? The past few days had been fraught with peril; to lose our lives here would be a grave matter indeed.

But if Zha Wenbin ever listened to my counsel, he wouldn’t be Zha Wenbin.

“I have to go. You all wait here. I’ll try.”

Fatty grabbed a vine in one hand and said, “Zha, I’ll go with you!”

“None of you are to come. Wait here. You’re heavier, it’s even more dangerous for you.”

Shi Gandang, dissatisfied, muttered as he returned to the side, “Fatty’s not welcome anywhere, just as I thought!”

Zha Wenbin scrambled upward, using both hands and feet, constantly switching from one vine to the next. Each time, he spent a moment testing whether the next vine was sturdy enough. Never mind his climbing—just watching him made our hearts clench with anxiety. The stones were slick with moss, and in those days, all we wore were standard-issue military shoes with smooth soles—making every step a slippery misstep.

What made him remarkable was his unwavering determination. Once he set his mind to something, nothing could dissuade him—not even a mountain of blades or a sea of fire. An hour later, slipping and sliding all the way, he actually made it to the top. He waved down at us, then, due to the angle, he vanished from sight.

After reaching the summit, Zha Wenbin discovered that this place was truly extraordinary. The top was as large as a football field. Though there was vegetation along the cliff’s edge, at the center, the staircase leading higher was still clearly visible, flanked by seven or eight pillars as thick as several men embracing together.

Some of these columns had toppled and split into segments; others still stood upright. The stairs between the pillars rose about seven or eight meters. Zha Wenbin counted forty-nine steps in all, and at the top sat a structure resembling an ancient beacon tower. The marvel of these constructions was that they were carved as a single whole—it was as if someone had taken this mountain as raw material and, through techniques of both relief and intaglio, shaped the entire complex.

In those days, information was scarce. In Zha Wenbin’s eyes, the place was merely a bit ruined, a bit desolate, and possessed a heavy, chilling presence.

Sunlight never touched this place. That it might be haunted seemed only natural. Abandoned structures deep in ancient forests have always been linked to such things. Zha Wenbin closed his eyes slightly, slowed his breathing to a calm rhythm, gradually relaxing his entire body, attempting to blend into this unfamiliar environment.

Everyone possesses a sixth sense, to varying degrees. Zha Wenbin’s was innately strong. He never needed divination—just a moment to feel. I had witnessed his gift for foresight since I was young. He carefully discerned the atmosphere here, the direction of the wind, and the strange, restless current in the air.

Suddenly, his left brow twitched and the corner of his eye lifted. In the instant he opened his eyes, something seemed to flicker past. He knew that, at this very moment, not far from him, a pair of eyes was fixed upon him. The presence was overwhelming, as if a powerful force was drawing him forward—yet this was something entirely unlike the ghostly aura that had clung to that woman.

The staircase! His heart compelled his gaze to fix there, but in his mind a voice echoed, again and again: Don’t go, Zha Wenbin, don’t go!

Human beings have a natural curiosity about the unknown—a desire to peer into that which is hidden. Zha Wenbin was no exception; he was no deity, just a teenager barely past his adolescence. In front of us, his reason may have seemed mature, but faced with the supernatural, he too would choose to push open that door.

Take the first step, and the second will follow. One misstep leads to another; a single error can bring utter ruin.

He walked slowly toward the stairs. In that instant, time seemed to stall. In the next, it seemed to flow backward. Everything around him retreated; broken pillars pieced themselves together, fallen stones returned to their places. The sacrificial altar, once covered with vines and wild grass, now gleamed as though newly built, ready for a grand ceremony.

A distant, haunting chant rose—a song from an era lost to memory. Out of the corner of his eye, Zha Wenbin saw people appear around him, dressed in black robes, barefooted, hands raised above their heads. On the altar, a woman lay upon a long stone bench, clad in flowing white, her face veiled in mist. Her exquisite figure was accentuated by the song.

The woman slowly sat up, reaching out and curling a finger towards Zha Wenbin. In his ear, a voice murmured, “Come, come…” so soft and alluring that it seemed to melt the very bones.

Meanwhile, we below grew ever more anxious—especially me. I had a gnawing feeling that letting him climb alone was a mistake. It had been two full hours since he vanished above.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I’d felt uneasy since we set out that morning. As I waited, I paced restlessly back and forth.

“Fatty, I can’t take it anymore. I think I have to go up.”

“You?” Fatty stared at me in surprise. “Little Yi, if you’re really worried, let me do it. With your build, I’m afraid you’ll tire halfway and fall.”

“You’re even less suited. Wenbin was right; no one knows if these vines can take your weight. I’ll go. I climbed plenty of trees as a kid.” I took off my shoes, tied the laces together, and slung them around my neck. Barefoot, I’d have a better grip.

Yuan Xiaobai, seeing my resolve, could only say, “Be careful, then.”

Of the three of us, my climbing skills were the best. The slope was far steeper than I’d imagined; I dared not look down, only pressed onward, head lowered and focused. Because of this, I managed to reach the summit in under twenty minutes. Calling Zha Wenbin’s name, I searched the area—though we’d been shouting from below, there had never been any reply. The summit could be taken in at a glance; Zha Wenbin couldn’t have flown away. He had to still be up here.

The stairs, too, drew me in, filling me with an uncontrollable urge to ascend. So, I climbed them.

But it was only a bunch of ruins. I wandered to the top and found nothing unusual—except for a broad stone chair at the summit, reminiscent of the dragon thrones of ancient emperors. I planned to sit and rest, instinctively reaching out to brush off the dust. The moment my hand was about to touch the chair, I suddenly recoiled.

Something was wrong.

Everywhere else was dilapidated—fallen larch needles formed a thick carpet, the stones were overgrown with ivy and moss, the wild grass reached my knees.

But this chair—this chair was spotless, as if it had just been carved and placed here.

And there was another reason my hand drew back: the backrest was not carved with a dragon or a phoenix, but with a fox—a fox with an enormous tail, fanned out like a peacock’s plumage, nine strands in all. I counted: not one too many, not one too few. The fox’s eyes were red, slightly smaller than a fingernail, not inlaid but naturally formed.

Anywhere else, this might not be remarkable, but this “mountain”—this whole mountain was black as night, without a hint of other color. Yet the fox on this chair was pure white, and with those eyes, if this was merely the work of nature, it was too exquisite to believe.

The “chair” was rectangular, about two meters long and half a meter wide, with carved armrests on either side. I brushed it with my hand; a chill seeped into my fingers. Looking closely, there wasn’t a speck of dust on my skin.

Had I encountered this place when I was younger, I might have thought it was just a curious oddity. But now, after what I’d been through, my first instinct was to flee.

And to flee as fast as I could.

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