Chapter 27: The Sword Suspended in the Tomb

Digging up ancestral graves and breaking the flow of feng shui—such acts are among the most vicious in the underworld. They are far more terrifying than simply killing a person or two. The death of Niu Ercheng merely meant the loss of a wastrel in the Niu family; but if the feng shui is ruined, disaster will fall upon the entire clan, and on all descendants.

Lu Xin seemed to avoid killing, seemed weak; yet what he was about to do was the most ruthless revenge he could inflict on Niu Ercheng. For a noble house with a hundred years of foundation, unless one exterminates all nine generations, there is hardly any way to bring swift ruin upon them. But the ancient arts of feng shui can accomplish precisely this. In the Tang Dynasty, the term “feng shui” was the bedrock of a family, even the empire itself. It was perfectly normal for commoners to seek a blessed spot for burial, and for emperors to desire a dragon vein after death. The ancients believed that burial in a feng shui treasure site would bestow blessings upon their descendants.

Lu Xin did not know whether the records in “The Sutra of Auspicious Burial” were true, but he had to try, for nothing else could quell the hatred burning in his heart.

The carriage bumped along the mountain road, moonlight spilling from the heavens and illuminating the distant, pitch-black hills. In such wild, desolate places, even the rustle of wind through leaves could evoke terror. Niu Ercheng was extremely frightened, cowering in the corner, trembling, not daring to glance outside. He feared the young man in the carriage might kill him and throw his corpse to the wilds, to be devoured by beasts—a most dreadful end.

“Young Master, we’re only three li from Tianfeng Mountain now. Will you go up alone, or do you want the old servant to accompany you?”

The driver, a man past fifty, had been summoned from the stables by Niu Ercheng himself. Though he had no idea why his young master wanted to visit Tianfeng Mountain in the dead of night, he was too old to question it, even if it seemed strange.

“Sir... How should I answer?”

“If you wish to die, I don’t mind adding another corpse.”

“I understand, I understand. Old Liu, I’ll go up the mountain myself; you wait for me at the foot.”

Niu Ercheng glanced at Lu Xin and the corpse cradled in his arms, shuddering and nodding rapidly. It was only now he realized that he had traveled all this way alongside a dead woman. Tian Yu’er’s body, wrapped in a bright red bridal gown, merged with the endless darkness, making the scene bone-chilling.

“Sir, what are we doing at the ancestral tomb? You did say you wouldn’t kill me...”

“I won’t go back on my word. As long as you swear before your ancestors never to commit evil again, and bury Sister Yu’er in the ancestral tomb, the score between us will be settled.”

“That’s all?”

Niu Ercheng was still ignorant of Lu Xin’s true purpose at Tianfeng Mountain, but after confirming again and again that his life was safe, his demeanor relaxed. To him, so long as he survived, nothing else mattered: feng shui, family, all paled before his own life. As for Tian Yu’er, she had been married into the Niu family with a grand bridal procession, albeit as a concubine; still, she was considered a Niu. As long as it wasn’t made public, burying her in the ancestral tomb was not much of an issue.

Three li passed in less than a quarter of an hour; the coachman stopped at the mountain’s base. The path up had been specially paved with stone steps, given the mountain was home to Jiuyang Temple, so it was quite convenient. Niu Ercheng led the way, Lu Xin following close behind with Tian Yu’er’s corpse in his arms. It was late, and the wilds deserted; Lu Xin had no fear that Niu Ercheng would try anything.

They climbed the stone steps for half an hour before a narrow path appeared to their right. Niu Ercheng turned onto it; it was a typical mountain trail, less than three feet wide and covered in fallen leaves. The left side rose steeply with the mountain, while the right dropped off into a cliff. Clearly, few people used this route.

Lu Xin looked out over the cliff; they were at about the mid-slope of Tianfeng Mountain. Niu Ercheng had said that to reach Jiuyang Temple above the slopes, one must take a side path from the mountainside; this, however, was the opposite direction. Lu Xin observed the scenery as they walked: Tianfeng Mountain faced east, toward the sunrise, with a roaring river below plunging into the sea, and bustling ancient towns on all sides.

At an altitude of roughly eight hundred meters, Lu Xin followed Niu Ercheng along the narrow path for another half hour before a downward slope appeared ahead. Night made visibility poor; from above, one could barely see that the slope ended at a pond. The gentle murmur of water echoed through the valley, adding a sense of deep mountain tranquility.

“Our Niu family’s ancestral tomb lies in the cave beyond that pond. There are twenty-three graves, spanning nine generations. But opening the tomb door is a bit complex; I’ll need your help, sir.”

“Enough with the chatter. Keep moving.”

Lu Xin sneered, urging Niu Ercheng onwards. When they reached the pond, it was nearly midnight. The moon was bright, the world silent. The pond itself was small, shaped like a moon disc, no more than seven or eight yards across. Yet the water was alive, flowing in from all directions into the valley on the wind. Standing by the pond, one could smell an intense floral fragrance. It was spring, and at night, the mountain should have felt cold and damp, especially by the pond, where the chill rose. Yet Lu Xin felt no discomfort; instead, a special warmth seemed to envelop them.

“Uncle Wu once said, when forging swords, masters prefer spring water from cold mountain ponds to temper the blade. There exists a kind of water, warm to the touch, but instantly freezing when exposed to fire—a divine water for forging weapons. Could this pond be the legendary…”

Lu Xin was awed. He crouched and dipped his hand into the pond—it was indeed warm, perhaps fifty degrees. He concluded it must be a hot spring fed by geothermal heat, though whether it was the legendary sword-tempering water, he could not say. Regardless, the ancestral tomb’s location was most certainly a feng shui treasure.

Opening the tomb required two people. Niu Ercheng instructed Lu Xin to press a hidden mechanism in the stone, while he took a key from his neck and inserted it into the lock on the other side. The tomb door was enormous, two stories high. As it slowly opened, the entire mountain seemed to tremble.

“For the Niu family to build such a grand tomb in a famous mountain—how much more, then, for emperors and ministers. Dragon veins... ha, always the privilege of those in power. This world has never been fair. Fortunately, a thousand years hence, China will no longer cling to these superstitions.”

Inside, Niu Ercheng lit the oil lamps. Before them was a vast chamber, entirely carved from rock. More than twenty stone tombs lay scattered throughout, seemingly chaotic yet all encircling a central stone coffin.

The coffin was positioned directly under the peak of the cave ceiling. It was massive—three meters tall, dark blue, made of some unknown stone. It was both a coffin and a tomb.

“Inside that stone coffin—”

“Is your family’s earliest ancestor?”

“Correct. That is the ancestor from nine generations ago, said to be a joint burial. Among them was our only forebear who served as an official, achieving the highest rank. Afterward, the ancestor decreed that no Niu descendant would ever serve in court.”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson. Get some sleep.”

Lu Xin snorted and abruptly struck Niu Ercheng from behind, knocking him out. Now that they had arrived, Niu Ercheng was no longer needed, and what Lu Xin was about to do must not be witnessed by anyone of the Niu clan.

He carried Tian Yu’er’s corpse to the stone coffin and began searching for a way to open it. The enormous stone lid was so heavy that not even several strong men could lift it. Lu Xin knew there must be a mechanism; after circling the coffin twice, he found a recess at the foot.

With a thunderous rumble, the lid opened slowly. Lu Xin climbed atop the lid and peered inside; his calm expression froze instantly. The coffin was filled with gold and jewels, and within lay the bodies of a man and a woman. Yet what shocked Lu Xin was not the treasure, but the two unmoving corpses—or rather, two people seemingly asleep. Not a hint of decay marred their bodies; their faces were rosy, lifelike. The woman’s makeup was still intact.

But there was no heartbeat, no breath—they were dead. The man’s official robes suggested the Southern Dynasties. Lu Xin could not fathom how the Niu ancestor’s body had remained incorrupt for a hundred years.

Suddenly, the female corpse’s head moved. Then her whole body lifted, as if about to sit up. Lu Xin held his breath, forcing himself not to cry out. Next, he saw a sword rise from the woman’s back and hang suspended in midair, emitting a gentle, jade-like glow. Within that glow, flickering scenes appeared, as if a movie were playing, though the images were indistinct, hazy. The sword itself was about a foot and seven inches long, dark yellow, its blade thin as a cicada’s wing, and its hilt carved with the image of a qilin.

Lu Xin gasped; the sight was utterly astonishing, beyond comprehension. A sword, hanging in midair, emerging from a coffin. He had followed Silent Wu for two years learning swordsmanship, and had heard tales of legendary blades, but never had Wu told him of a sword that could fly on its own.

Watching the sword tremble in the air, Lu Xin felt as though it breathed, possessed a mind of its own. Instinctively, he sensed a bond with it.

He reached out to grasp the hilt, but at the moment his hand nearly touched it, a cold wind blew across the back of his neck. A mysterious force pressed down on his back, so heavy he nearly fell into the coffin.