Two days later, Shen Gun returned to Cloud Dream Peak.

During these two days, he had implored the Bamei sorcerer to try two more times, but the sorcerer truly couldn’t discern anything further. Finally, they reached a compromise—Ma Juanhong told Shen Gun that the sorcerer would hang the embroidered pattern in his home and contemplate it daily. If he discovered anything new, he would notify them immediately.

Seeing the sorcerer’s worried expression, Ma Juanhong almost felt sorry for him.

So instead, she persuaded Shen Gun: “Uncle Gun, our continued presence puts pressure on him—it’s like solving a math problem; the more you push, the harder it is to solve. Let’s ease off for now. Perhaps unexpectedly, when he’s in a better mood, he might interpret another sentence or two?”

Shen Wangu chimed in from the side: “Uncle Gun, health is the foundation of everything. There should be limits to your obsession with any matter. Look at you now, entranced like someone possessed—when people talk to you, you respond half a beat too slow. This won’t do. You can’t fatten a pig in one day; we need to take it slow.”

Easing off, taking it slow—it seemed there was no other choice.

It was evening when they arrived.

The entire Cloud Dream Peak was eerily quiet. Even the upper guest rooms had no lights on, giving the impression that nobody was staying there. Shen Gun was puzzled as he crossed the threshold, walked through the small courtyard, and entered the front hall.

The light in the front hall was dim. Liu Guanguo and a man of similar age were sitting on small stools around a low square table, drinking alcohol. The table was laden with several appetizers: chopped pepper fish head, blood cake duck, pickled jar radish, artemisia cakes, and the like.

Looking up to see the visitor, Liu Guanguo nearly choked on his drink and hurriedly stood to greet him: “Oh, Brother Gun… you’re back! Have you eaten?”

Shen Gun replied: “Not yet.”

Shen Wangu and the others all had homes in this area and didn’t need to stay at the inn. They had originally planned to have dinner together before sending him back to Cloud Dream Peak—but over the past couple of days, they had been eating in large, noisy groups, which Shen Gun disliked, so he had declined.

Liu Guanguo quickly brought over another small stool: “Brother Gun, come, come, we just started drinking. The dishes are barely touched, not leftovers. This is my drinking buddy, Wang Qingliang, who works as a security guard at the Yuling Mountain scenic area.”

He then introduced Shen Gun to Wang Qingliang, merely describing him as a scholar researching folk customs and ancient cultural legends.

Hearing he was a cultural figure, Wang Qingliang rose in respect and followed Liu Guanguo in calling him “Brother Gun.”

Shen Gun sat down, looked around, and asked: “Where is everyone?”

During his days in the Yao village, he hadn’t given much thought to people outside. As usual, he had immersed himself completely in his affairs. Or perhaps, as Shen Wangu suggested, his reactions had been somewhat sluggish these past days.

Liu Guanguo said, “They’ve all left. Everything’s finished. Why would anyone stay? Brother Jiang and his group left several days ago, saying there was an urgent matter at home. Miss Meng and her party left yesterday. Finally, all these gods and Buddhas have departed, and I can finally relax. That’s why I’m taking it easy, not even open for business yet.”

After thinking for a moment, he added: “But don’t worry, Uncle Gun. When Miss Meng left, she instructed me to coordinate with you and facilitate whatever you need. For any issues, just find me. If there’s something I can’t handle, I can call Meng’s assistant directly.”

Shen Gun made a sound of acknowledgment and reached with his chopsticks for the blood cake duck.

He was so accustomed to friends gathering and dispersing that he never saw anyone’s departure as a problem. In this day and age, how could people lose touch? With transportation and communication so convenient, meeting up only depended on whether people had the heart for it; everything else was trivial.

Shen Gun bit into the duck meat and, noticing the table was quite clean, hesitated with the duck bone in his mouth, unsure where to spit it.

Originally, there had been a trash bin between Wang Qingliang and Liu Guanguo’s seats, but with an additional person, it was inadequate. Liu Guanguo instructed Wang Qingliang: “Go get some paper to lay down.”

Wang Qingliang, knowing his way around, first went to the copy machine. Next to the machine was a desk with a waste paper basket where printouts left behind by guests were collected for later disposal.

Wang Qingliang grabbed about ten sheets and distributed them to everyone. He had already placed the sheets he was holding on the table, but then picked up the top one to look at it.

As he looked, he suddenly chuckled: “Oh, isn’t this the Great Benefactor Yan?”

Then he muttered: “No, no, how would the Great Benefactor Yan be wearing a Republican-era outfit? Is this cosplay?”

Liu Guanguo glanced at him sideways: “You even know about cosplay? And who is this Great Benefactor Yan anyway?”

Wang Qingliang replied with surprise: “Why wouldn’t I know? Nowadays, those young people always come to the scenic area dressed in ancient costumes, taking photos and livestreaming, waving around little swords—I’ve seen plenty of them… You don’t know the Great Benefactor Yan? That’s Yan Jinguo, Old Seven Yan.”

Shen Gun was extending his chopsticks but paused upon hearing this, then withdrew them.

He felt like he had heard the name “Old Seven Yan” somewhere before.

Liu Guanguo took the copy paper from Wang Qingliang’s hand. It showed a half-body portrait of a person. He examined it carefully: “How is this similar?”

Of course, Liu Guanguo knew Old Seven Yan.

In earlier years, when the legal system wasn’t as robust and the crackdown on criminal organizations wasn’t as severe, the man surnamed Yan had been known as the overlord of Western Hunan. He had committed numerous acts of bullying and sexual assault. When people cursed that he would face retribution someday, word reached his ears, and he coldly laughed, saying that he was the living King of Hell himself, believing in neither ghosts nor gods, and fearing no retribution.

Unexpectedly, about seven or eight years ago, after returning from a trip abroad, he suddenly changed his ways. Of course, one couldn’t say he began abstaining from meat and reciting Buddhist scriptures, but he did indeed withdraw from various illegal businesses. Gradually, he stopped committing those despicable acts and instead began resolving old grudges and doing good deeds. He repaired many roads and bridges, and even donated to schools. When the Yuling Mountain scenic area was being built, he contributed a significant amount of money. He was even invited to the ribbon-cutting ceremony when the scenic area opened, and the group photo from that event still hung on the wall of the staff activity room.

No wonder Wang Qingliang recognized him at a glance.

Seeing that Liu Guanguo still didn’t recognize him, Wang Qingliang grew impatient: “You can’t just look at the nose. When Old Seven Yan was younger, his nose bridge was broken by someone, disfiguring him. The plastic surgery wasn’t done well, so his nose always looked strange. You should look at his face, as well as his short neck and the back of his head—they’re like they were cast from the same mold.”

Upon hearing the words “nose bridge was broken by someone,” Shen Gun felt as if he’d been enlightened.

He finally remembered—Yan Jinguo, Old Seven Yan!

How could he not recall? His best friend, Little Feng Feng, had once broken a local tyrant’s nose bridge in Western Hunan to save someone. Later, to prevent future trouble, he had sought out people in the underworld to apologize and reconcile, not only paying 20,000 yuan in medical expenses but also receiving a lifetime ban: he could never set foot in Western Hunan again.

Shen Gun suddenly became excited, forgetting all the worries of recent days: “Hey, hey, let me see!”

Liu Guanguo hurriedly passed the copy paper to Shen Gun.

Wang Qingliang continued to sigh with emotion: “I’d say Old Seven Yan is quite fortunate. If he had continued down that dark path, he would have faced a bullet long ago. Now, he’s become the Great Benefactor Yan, a respected entrepreneur.”

Indeed fortunate. Two or three years after Old Seven Yan reformed, a new round of severe crackdowns began, specifically targeting criminal organizations protected by local shields. Many of Old Seven Yan’s former companions ended up behind bars, yet he alone escaped that fate because old grudges had been resolved and he had done many good deeds, so nobody dug into his past accounts.

So this was what Old Seven Yan looked like! But why was he wearing a Republican-era outfit?

As Shen Gun looked at it, he recognized it as a printed copy of a pencil sketch, and the sketching technique…

He exclaimed in surprise: “Was this drawn by our Little Lian Lian?”

It must be. He had looked at Little Lian Lian’s knotted-rope record drawing countless times and was very familiar with his technique. Besides, who else had been drawing around this inn lately?

Liu Guanguo also remembered: “Yes, yes, Kuang Meiying asked me to make copies that day. That’s right, she made these copies. Oh my, that poor girl, afflicted with some strange disease…”

Shen Gun responded casually: Jiang Lian had mentioned this to him, though not in detail, only saying that for several consecutive generations they had suffered from a strange disease, dying miserably with skin tearing open from the inside, their entire bodies a bloody mess when they breathed their last.

Wang Qingliang was curious. He popped a peanut into his mouth and asked indistinctly: “What disease is it? Can’t it be treated?”

Liu Guanguo replied: “I don’t know the details. Some rare blood disease, I suppose. I later searched online but couldn’t find similar symptoms—you should have seen it when she was cut by a knife. Her blood was like it was boiling, splashing, and bubbling…”

He picked up a piece of fish and chewed vigorously, spitting the fine bones onto the paper beneath. As he was eating, his words were muffled: “In short, it was terrifying.”

Her blood was like it was boiling…

Suddenly, a sentence popped into Shen Gun’s mind—

Fierce fire rolling over boiling blood can open the mechanism’s knot.

Kuang Meiying’s blood was like it was boiling, splashing and bubbling explosively—isn’t that… boiling blood?

This was a drawing by Jiang Lian. Jiang Lian didn’t seem to draw regularly, only when applying the spirit eye. The day before Shen Gun left for the Yao village, Jiang Lian had told him he would go with Miss Meng to see the mirage. Yes, he must have returned from seeing the mirage and applied the spirit eye once more. Also, what did Shen Gun reply at the time?

—Let’s each go our own way, each find our box…

Shen Gun’s mind was buzzing. His hand holding the drawing trembled slightly, making the paper rustle. He stammered: “This drawing… is this the only one? Are there more? Huh? Are there more?”

By the end, he was practically shouting.

Wang Qingliang and Liu Guanguo froze for a moment, then both reacted simultaneously: one rushed back to the waste paper basket by the copy machine, while the other frantically searched through the papers on the table.

They found four more sheets, all depicting the box.

Moreover, they showed the top, bottom, front, and back of the box—Jiang Lian’s drawing style, even when focusing on one side, always used extending lines to create a three-dimensional effect, making it clear that this was a box.

Kuang Meiying had organized the papers according to the order in which Jiang Lian had drawn them: the woman in white clothes holding little Yunnan, the left and right sides of the box, the top, bottom, front, and back of the box, and Yama.

Eight sheets in total.

During copying, they had run out of paper. For the final set, Wei Biao had only taken the sheets showing the woman and the left and right sides of the box. The remaining five sheets were produced later when paper was reloaded into the copier, which then spat them out.

Fortunately, these sheets hadn’t been discarded yet, although one had been stained by spit-out fish bones. Still, it didn’t affect viewing.

Shen Gun repeatedly examined the images. The more he looked, the paler his face became, and the more rapid his breathing. Wang Qingliang and Liu Guanguo, not understanding what was happening, also crowded around to look from different angles.

Wasn’t it just an exquisitely carved box with some ancient mythological scenes?

Looking wasn’t enough. Shen Gun asked Liu Guanguo and Wang Qingliang to help, actually holding the four sheets of paper above the table surface, assembling them into a box shape. He looked while sitting, stood up to look, bent down to look, and even stepped back to look.

As he continued observing, not only did sweat form on his forehead, but he became so excited that his eyes reddened. With trembling hands, he picked up the bottle of alcohol from the table, intending to take a hearty drink to express his emotions, but suddenly remembered his one-drink limit—and now, the most crucial thing was to stay clear-headed and maintain a cool mind.

So he put it back down.

Liu Guanguo was still holding his arms up, feeling somewhat ridiculous: “Brother Gun, have you… made some discovery?”

He had wanted to ask, “Can we put our arms down now?” but seeing Shen Gun staring unblinkingly at the “box,” he didn’t dare mention it. After all, this man had a different status—he was a triple lotus petal, after all.

Shen Gun asked: “Have you noticed anything special about this box?”

Wang Qingliang wanted to scratch his head but had no free hand: “It has mythological images, promoting… traditional culture?”

Shen Gun shook his head: “No, this box has no seams.”

Liu Guanguo wasn’t convinced: “Maybe it has seams, but they’re closed so tightly they aren’t shown in the drawing?”

Shen Gun spoke with certainty: “No, it definitely has no seams, because… look at the division of the images.”

The ancient mythological scenes on the box surface were arranged in separate panels, but they weren’t divided into square frames. Instead, they were separated by the forms and postures of birds and beasts, making the arrangement very harmonious with natural transitions—the vertical dividing lines were slender phoenix birds, the horizontal ones were robust beasts.

If there was anything strange, it was that the beasts were quite small, while the phoenix birds were exceptionally elegant and elongated. Their elaborate tail feathers even extended from one side of the box to another.

Shen Gun pointed only at the phoenix birds: “What are these?”

Wang Qingliang answered: “Phoenixes, of course.”

Did this even need to be asked? Small head, small body, extremely long trailing tail feathers, elegant posture—the head and body on the front of the box, with the tail feathers extending to the bottom.

“How many in total?”

Liu Guanguo mentally estimated: “Four, I suppose.”

Four sides of the box, one on each side, so there should be four.

Shen Gun said, “Incorrect. I just counted them; count again.”

His tone was very serious. Liu Guanguo didn’t dare to treat it casually and, together with Wang Qingliang, coordinated by changing the position of the papers in their hands to examine each side of the box.

There were only three, and these three were connected head to tail: that is, one’s beak held another’s tail, one after another, eventually forming a closed circle—or rather, a closed frame—that precisely encircled the box.

So what did this prove? That the carver was ingenious, arranging the patterns with hidden mysteries everywhere?

Shen Gun saw Liu Guanguo’s confusion and said: “You may not understand, but I do. These three aren’t all phoenixes.”

Saying this, he extended his finger, pointing to one: “Feng.”

Then he moved his position, pointing to another: “Huang.”

Then, half-bending down, he pointed to the one on the bottom: “Luan.”

Liu Guanguo still felt completely bewildered. Shen Gun sat down on the stool: “You can all put them down now. It’s tiring to hold them up… Have you heard the legend of the Seven Ominous Slips?”

Legend has it that the world’s earliest recorded seven murder cases were inscribed either on tortoise shells or animal bones. Being the earliest recorded, they possessed the power to bewitch people’s minds, subsequently generating seven inauspicious violent energies.

Anyone who came into contact with them would undergo a dramatic change in character and commit similar atrocities, which contemporaries called inauspicious. People filled with fear made sacrifices to hundreds of gods, prayers to heaven, hoping to seek the hand of great power to dispel these energies. The divination result finally obtained was that in later generations, a person of great virtue would appear to seal these seven violent energies.

As time passed, by the end of the Zhou Dynasty, when the royal house was declining, the person of great virtue, Laozi, decided to retreat from the world, riding a blue ox through Hangu Pass.

The official guarding Hangu Pass, Yin Xi, was quite knowledgeable about celestial phenomena. Vaguely seeing purple air coming from the east, he guessed that a noble person must be passing through. So he waited early at the narrow passage and indeed intercepted Laozi, who intended to leave. After failing to persuade him to stay, Yin Xi said: “Sir, with such great knowledge, will you not leave something behind for this world?”

History records that, moved by Yin Xi’s sincerity, Laozi lingered at Hangu Pass for three months, leaving behind the “Tao Te Ching,” a work of about five thousand characters.

But in another version of the legend, it is mentioned that what Laozi left behind wasn’t just the “Tao Te Ching.”

He was determined to rid the world of a great evil, so he drew those seven inauspicious energies originating from tortoise shells and animal bones into seven wooden slips, sealing them with bronze clasps shaped like Feng, Huang, and Luan, and instructed Yin Xi: The Five Elements create the world—the entire world is composed of metal, wood, water, fire, and earth. Each can temporarily subdue the seven violent energies, but none is a fundamental solution.

So his approach was to set up an array: the wooden slips belonged to wood; wood grows from earth and absorbs water, secretly corresponding to “wood, earth, water”; “Feng, Huang, Luan” were divine birds of that era, their nature belonging to fire; and the bronze clasps secretly corresponded to “metal.” Thus, all Five Elements were complete, drawing on the auspicious energy of divine birds to seal the seven violent energies.

Those wooden slips were part of the restraint against the violent energies and weren’t evil in themselves. But because the violent energies were attached to them, over time, people called them the Seven “Ominous Slips.”

Yin Xi respectfully accepted them and asked Laozi: “Why doesn’t the master destroy the ominous slips?”

Laozi sighed and said: Even though they are perverse and malevolent, they are indeed records of crimes committed by humans. Whether by glossing over or destroying them, one cannot erase their existence.

Yin Xi asked again: What if one day the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps were opened? Wouldn’t the Seven Ominous Slips bring disaster to the world again?

Laozi laughed heartily, flicked his dust whisk, mounted his blue ox, and departed, saying: Rest assured, in this world, no one can open the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps.

Wang Qingliang truly thought he was listening to a scholar tell a story and listened with great interest. He couldn’t help commenting: “Actually, Laozi couldn’t destroy the ominous slips, right? The seven violent energies are invisible and intangible—how could they be destroyed?”

Shen Gun made a sound of agreement: “Later, we came to believe the same.”

Liu Guanguo, however, was concerned about another matter: “So later, were the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps opened?”

He instinctively felt that one shouldn’t casually set flags. Laozi’s assertion that “no one can open the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps” sounded so certain that it made one’s heart uneasy, lacking confidence.

Indeed.

Shen Gun nodded: “They were opened. In the thousands of years since then, they have been repeatedly opened and resealed, never knowing peace.”

At this point, he gradually became lost in thought.

The last time the Seven Ominous Slips were sealed was four years ago, and he had been involved in the matter almost from start to finish.

At that time, he had five friends.

Mu Dai, the closed-door disciple of Plum Blossom Nine Ladies and the true inheritor of the “Gecko Walks on Walls” technique, borrowed the large mansion where Shen Gun stayed in Foggy Town was borrowed from Mu Dai.

Mu Dai’s lover, Luo Ren, who had a background as an overseas mercenary; Yan Hongsha from a family of treasure hunters; Yi Wansan, a descendant of pearl divers from Hepu; and Cao Yanhua, who initially engaged in petty thievery around Liberation Monument before becoming Mu Dai’s disciple and the grand-disciple of Plum Blossom Nine Ladies.

These five people, through a twist of fate, were drawn into that incident. When they reached a dead end with no way out, they simultaneously channeled the energy of the ominous slips and the power of the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps into their bodies, turning their mortal flesh into vessels to seal the ominous slips once again.

In recent years, he has often visited these friends. Each time, everyone only spoke of happy matters, never touching on this topic.

But everyone knew in their hearts that this wasn’t a long-term solution: mortal bodies eventually die. When that time came, what would they do?

Shen Gun’s concerns ran even deeper: to use an analogy, it was like five thin porcelain bottles containing ferocious beasts. To prevent the bottles from breaking, layers upon layers of wire had to be bound around them for reinforcement.

The ferocious beasts were the ominous slips; the reinforcing wires were the power of the Feng-Huang-Luan clasps; the five people were those five porcelain bottles. While the ferocious beasts were temporarily unable to escape and the wire bindings remained strong, what about the bottles? They would be shattered by the brutal colliding forces of this confinement.

Every time Shen Gun met with them, he couldn’t help feeling sad, thinking their lives were being consumed and flowing away at a faster rate than normal people’s because they bore too much.

So he had been constantly searching for a better solution, but despite seeking in all directions, he had found no clues.

Until today, suddenly, as if heaven had opened its eyes and revealed the dawn, or perhaps because he had never given up his quest, opportunity eventually comes to those who are prepared.

Why couldn’t those wooden slips and Feng-Huang-Luan clasps permanently seal the seven violent energies?

Because they weren’t the original equipment, those seven violent energies had an earlier source.

Those seven earliest murder cases were they inscribed on tortoise shells or animal bones?

Animal bones. Bones.

The terrifying bones that the Bamei sorcerer spoke of, terrifying bones that could devour people.

When the sorcerer looked at the embroidery, he relied on a kind of intuition and perception, not seeing bones opening bloody maws and biting people with a crunch.

What he spoke of might have been those seven most primitive beast bones, attached with violent energies, which could indeed devour people, devour people’s lives, consume people’s original hearts.

Moreover, this box had Feng, Huang, and Luan connected head to tail.

Shen Gun’s vision gradually blurred, his nose tingled, and he vaguely felt that the matter that had been weighing on his heart might soon have hope.

He began to believe that perhaps there truly was a will of heaven meandering through his dreams, guiding him toward mountain gall, toward the box, guiding him toward the fate of those he cared about and even his own.

Shen Gun’s lips trembled, and he suddenly threw his head back and shouted: “Little Lian Lian… where is Little Lian Lian? Who was so inconsiderate as to let him leave?!”

In the middle of the night, Jiang Lian was sound asleep when he suddenly woke up.

He was awakened by an incoming message notification.

After a dazed two seconds, he swiftly rolled out of bed to retrieve his phone from the table, nearly tripping over the blanket wrapped around his legs.

These days, he had been paying close attention to unknown calls and new messages, even canceling the do-not-disturb setting he had always used during sleep. However, the calls were either trying to sell him real estate, notifying him he had won a prize, or sternly informing him that his bank card was involved in criminal activity and he needed to click a link to confirm his identity.

The style of new messages wasn’t much higher: either promoting Macau gambling or notifications of new items from Taobao merchants.

But at night, he had never received messages before, because whether scammers or salespeople, they all needed to sleep too.

He instinctively felt this message was different.

Jiang Lian grabbed his phone, took several steps back to sit on the bed, exhaled deeply, and looked at the small “1” in the message notification bar. His heart was beating rather intensely—in those pulsations were both anticipation and nervousness.

He opened the message. It contained just one sentence.

It was a sentence he hadn’t expected at all, seemingly out of nowhere.

“We’re looking for the same box.”

(End of Volume Five)