Fighting two opponents at once was still too dangerous. Just as Yan Tuo was about to rush over to help, Xing Shen’s voice suddenly came from behind.
“Head left two, hand diagonal up, cut three.”
Yan Tuo didn’t understand these instructions, but from the darkness came Lin Xiru’s pained grunt, followed by the cracking sound of a clay figure being knocked down.
“Release grip, body back, elbow strike, down four!”
Someone had been hit—Yan Tuo distinctly heard the sound of bones breaking.
“Right step two, right thousand-jin drop, down!”
Before the words faded, Yan Tuo heard the sound of a gun bolt, followed by a muffled “pop”—the sound was quiet, likely due to a silencer.
Someone crashed to the ground with a suppressed cry of pain. From the voice, it seemed to be Feng Mi.
Yan Tuo couldn’t see anything, his heart racing faster with each moment. He sensed Xing Shen passing by his side, and then, presumably, knocked someone unconscious as the painful cries immediately ceased.
Nie Jiuluo was likely unharmed, her voice revealing both surprise and lightness: “Why did you come?”
Xing Shen: “I figured you couldn’t see and wouldn’t dare to light up. After finishing things on that end, I came to check on you.”
He continued: “Your reactions are still quick. I was worried that after so many years, you might have forgotten the code words.”
Nie Jiuluo: “I thought so too, but when I heard them, my body reacted before my mind could even process it.”
There was a pause of one or two seconds after this exchange.
The silence in the darkness seemed to heighten one’s sensory awareness. Yan Tuo suddenly realized that Nie Jiuluo and Xing Shen must be quite familiar with each other.
While lost in thought, he heard Nie Jiuluo call out: “Yan Tuo, come help carry these people back.”
Both Lin Xiru and Feng Mi were unconscious and injured. Lin Xiru had her ribs broken by Nie Jiuluo before being knocked out, while Feng Mi was shot by Xing Shen before being rendered unconscious.
Yan Tuo fumbled his way closer, hearing the soft rustling of ropes being pulled and tightened—likely Xing Shen binding their hands and feet.
Xing Shen’s eyes were truly terrifying. In this almost pitch-black chaos of battle, he could guide Nie Jiuluo’s moves and still manage to provide covering fire from the sidelines…
Yan Tuo couldn’t help but comment: “Compared to you, we’re practically blind down here.”
Xing Shen’s hands paused briefly before responding: “It’s nothing special. Up there, I’m just as blind as anyone else.”
Of course, Xing Shen led the way back. Yan Tuo was quite uncomfortable following verbal directions like “turn left” and “go straight.” The lack of light made him feel insecure, but fortunately, Nie Jiuluo was at his side guiding him, so he just needed to follow her lead.
Finding an opportunity, he quietly asked Nie Jiuluo: “Those things Xing Shen said, like ‘cut three’ and ‘down four’—why couldn’t I understand them?”
Nie Jiuluo burst out laughing: “It would be strange if you did understand. When we were young… during our early training years, we developed these codes together. Nobody else understands them.”
Yan Tuo made a sound of acknowledgment and fell silent. After walking for a while, he suddenly felt something was off: “Aren’t we there yet? Did I run out this far?”
Xing Shen answered: “I had them change locations.”
What good place could there be among the terracotta warriors? Yan Tuo couldn’t imagine until they arrived and he finally understood.
Here stood a structure like a beacon tower.
Xing Shen explained: “Since this is the boundary of the terracotta warriors, it has elements of the border wall and Great Wall. During the Qin Dynasty, they would build beacon towers along with the Great Wall, so there was one of these every long stretch among the warriors. They’re usually built by hollowing out existing mounds, reinforcing them, or constructing them from local stone. There’s another more important reason—since they needed to create the terracotta warriors, it would have been too inconvenient to fire them outside and bring them in. Many warriors were fired on-site using local clay, so they needed places like this where people could rest and work.”
The beacon tower before them was built by hollowing out an earthen mound. Probably to prevent the earthen walls from collapsing, wooden supports had been installed inside, supplemented with stone slabs. Though it looked far from “impregnable,” it at least had a roof and four walls, providing some sense of security in this underground space where the wind seemed to come from all directions.
There was no door panel, just a doorway. Following Xing Shen’s instructions, Da Tou and the others had already blocked half the height of the doorway with stone blocks.
Entry required climbing. Xing Shen first had them bring Lin Xiru and Feng Mi inside.
Upon entering, they found it wasn’t very spacious, about the size of a room. Both side walls had holes the size of square plates high up, probably for surveillance.
Yan Tuo felt mixed emotions. In this kind of place, fighting a defensive battle would depend entirely on luck: with good luck they might hold out, with bad luck they’d be like turtles in a jar, waiting to be caught.
Xing Shen made simple arrangements: Macha would keep watch on the perimeter, he and Da Tou would be responsible for the observation holes, two guns would always be mounted at the entrance, and everyone else should rest and eat their dry rations where they were.
They needed to conserve strength to face all the unknowns ahead.
Inside the beacon tower, they only lit one light stick. The bluish-dim light cast an eerie pallor on everyone’s faces. In this light, Yan Tuo saw Feng Mi slumped in a corner, shot in the abdomen with a large bloodstain spreading around her.
Feng Mi had always treated him fairly well. Yan Tuo recalled her words, “If we ever face each other in battle, for the sake of our acquaintance, let’s not make it too hard on each other,” and felt somewhat melancholic.
He got up, took some bandages from his bag, and quietly said to Nie Jiuluo: “I’ll go bandage her wounds.”
Nie Jiuluo was puzzled, not understanding why Yan Tuo felt the need to tell her this, then realized—was he asking for her permission?
Did he think she wouldn’t allow it? She couldn’t help but smile: “Just go ahead, why are you asking me?”
Dressing wounds inevitably involved pulling and touching. When Feng Mi’s wound was disturbed, she couldn’t help but moan softly in pain and soon regained consciousness.
Her eyes were confused when she first opened them, but upon seeing Yan Tuo and their surroundings, she instantly understood what had happened.
She laughed self-mockingly: “We Di Xiao were originally most adept at operating in darkness. Who would have thought that after becoming human, our senses would degenerate so much that we’d end up being tripped up in the dark?”
Xing Shen, who was keeping watch at the observation hole, heard that Feng Mi was awake and eagerly asked: “What’s the story with those white-eyed ghosts?”
Feng Mi glanced at him sideways, her tone bitter and sharp: “What are you to me? Why should I tell you anything?”
Xing Shen was taken aback, genuinely at a loss for words. Nearby, Shan Qiang flew into a rage, his finger nearly jabbing Feng Mi’s face: “You fucking—don’t you understand your situation? Are you trying to die?”
Feng Mi sneered: “Then just kill me. If you want me to beg, I’ll call you daddy!”
Shan Qiang hadn’t expected such a retort and was left speechless: damn, someone who neither fears death nor cares about face—who could deal with that?
Nie Jiuluo found it amusing and cleared her throat: “Why are you all interrupting? You don’t even know her.”
There was a hidden meaning in these words. Xing Shen understood first: there was no need to rush the questions, Yan Tuo would ask, and they would get their answers. He just needed to listen.
Shan Qiang also caught on and sat back down grudgingly, slowly chewing on a piece of beef jerky.
Yan Tuo remained silent, continuing with the bandaging. Finally, after cutting the bandage and securing the adhesive tape, he spoke: “Just now when we tried to return the same way, we had to change direction twice and encountered white-eyed ghosts. These things attacked us—it didn’t feel good.”
The surroundings were already quiet, but at these words, it grew even quieter: those chewing stopped chewing, those drinking stopped swallowing, and all ears perked up to hear what would follow.
Feng Mi certainly knew what these people were thinking, but she was willing to give Yan Tuo a face. If he asked, she would tell him.
Yan Tuo was good, and he treated her well. At least, when she was bleeding out, he came to bandage her wounds, didn’t he? He treated her differently.
She even felt it was a pity—if it weren’t for their different species if it weren’t for the irreconcilable grudge between Yan Tuo’s family and the Di Xiao…
She made a sound of acknowledgment.
Seeing she was willing to talk, Yan Tuo felt relieved: “Lin Xiru said earlier that the white-eyed ghosts were created by humans. What does that mean?”
Feng Mi counter-questioned: “Have you seen the white-eyed ghosts?”
“Yes.”
“Do they look human?”
“Except for their eyes, they look quite human in other aspects. As for the rest… I haven’t had close contact, so I don’t know.”
Feng Mi replied flatly: “Except for our tongues, we look quite human too.”
Yan Tuo’s heart jolted. He felt there was some hidden meaning in Feng Mi’s words, but he couldn’t figure it out at the moment.
Fortunately, Feng Mi didn’t intend to beat around the bush: “Once in Black and White Ravine, Di Xiao become human demons, humans become Xiao ghosts. From human demons to Xiao ghosts, all are monsters. It’s a one-to-one correspondence—Di Xiao like us corresponds to the white-eyed ghosts.”
One-to-one correspondence?
Yan Tuo’s ears rang, his throat dry: “You are Di Xiao who became human, and the white-eyed ghosts are… Xiao ghosts who became human? Then those beast-like things following them… are the Xiao ghosts?”
Feng Mi watched him for a moment before giggling: “Are you surprised? I told you, it’s a one-to-one correspondence, symmetrical. The Kuafu Clan sees white-eyed ghosts the same way you see Di Xiao like us—we’re all nightmares to each other.”
Yan Tuo’s mind was in chaos: “The Kuafu Clan… are they human?”
Lin Xiru’s voice drifted eerily from nearby: “Yes, just like you, they’re human.”
Yan Tuo turned to her as if electrified. Lin Xiru had awakened at some unknown time and was struggling to sit up, seemingly determined to maintain her usual dignity even in this awkward moment with her limbs bound.
Yan Tuo found it incomprehensible: “They’re humans like us? Then how did they end up underground?”
Lin Xiru sneered: “Isn’t this all because of what you did? You’ve heard of Nuwa creating humans, haven’t you?”
Yan Tuo: “I’ve heard of it, but isn’t that just mythology?”
Lin Xiru snorted: “When Nuwa created humans, she didn’t create just one type. In your biology, you classify things into family, genus, and species. I’ve researched this—the great apes have three genera and six species, canids have thirteen genera and thirty-six species, but the human family has only one genus and one species, Homo sapiens. Why is that?”
Yan Tuo wasn’t very familiar with biological classification concepts: “Why?”
Lin Xiru spoke flatly: “Because you eliminated all the other genera and species. We’re all Nuwa’s descendants, all from the same mother, but you were capable enough to eliminate all the others, one by one.”
Perhaps because this claim was too absurd, someone couldn’t stand it anymore and angrily interjected: “She’s making things up again. This woman’s talking nonsense, bringing up Pangu creating heaven and Nuwa creating humans—don’t listen to her nonsense.”
Lin Xiru spoke mockingly: “I’m talking nonsense?”
“I’ve lived on the surface for over twenty years now. I can read and I’ve read many books. I understand you humans quite well. Isn’t eliminating those who are different simply ingrained in your nature?”
“Forget about those who are different—how well do you even treat your kind? The slave trade—didn’t you kill enough of your own? When conquering North America, scalping Native Americans piece by piece—and this was after entering your so-called age of civilization. Going back thousands of years to barbaric times, what good could you have possibly done to those different from you, like us?”
Nie Jiuluo couldn’t help but interject: “How are you different from us? What’s not the same?”
Lin Xiru remained composed: “Our tongues are different. We can absorb nutrients from humans, live longer than you, and have stronger regenerative abilities.”
Nie Jiuluo pondered briefly: “So you eat humans, just saying it euphemistically. You belong to the… cannibalistic species of the human family?”
Lin Xiru glanced at her: “What’s wrong with eating humans? It’s species nature—humans are just animals, eating animals and being eaten by animals. So humans eating humans, humans being eaten by humans—isn’t that normal too?”
Nie Jiuluo ignored her, having experienced Lin Xiru’s “powerful” and unusual logic before. Arguing with her was meaningless—if she said it was normal, then let it be normal.
Yan Tuo said: “Then you are quite different, and I think it’s understandable that humans fought against you. What wouldn’t be fought over? It’s a survival competition, may the best win. The victors are chosen by heaven, and the defeated shouldn’t blame heaven or others.”
Lin Xiru gave another cold laugh.
She said: “Yes, we couldn’t defeat you. But many things ate humans—back then, weren’t wolves, tigers, and leopards all eating humans? Why did you fixate on us specifically, wanting to eliminate us?”
Xing Shen had been listening to the story while maintaining his watch at the observation hole. Hearing this question, he suddenly remembered Old Dao.
A few months ago, he and Old Dao had discussed the “uncanny valley effect.” He thought this theory could apply here: humans fear humanoid beings, and the more similar they are, the more horrifying and negative the emotional response—yes, wolves, tigers, and leopards ate humans, but they didn’t look like humans. One glance and you knew they were different species, but you? You looked exactly like humans.
Looking the same, yet possessing a tongue that could devour flesh and blood—how could one not be afraid?
Lin Xiru clearly couldn’t empathize with this and continued bitterly: “Complete elimination, not leaving a single one, almost driving us to extinction. Fortunately, when Nuwa created humans, as a mother who knew her children’s nature, she foresaw this would happen. She knew we would destroy each other, so she prepared a backup plan, leaving a final sanctuary for the defeated side.”
A light flashed in Yan Tuo’s mind: “The sanctuary you’re talking about… is Black and White Ravine?”
Lin Xiru continued: “Of course, I never saw Nuwa myself. These are all legends passed down through our people. They say Black and White Ravine is where Nuwa’s physical body collapsed, but she was the creator deity—alive she created humans, dead she would still protect her creations. When we were massacred with nowhere to go, our remaining people fled into Black and White Ravine and prayed to our ancestor Nuwa. Finally, the barrier she set up at her death activated, and from then on, black and white were divided.”
“Above ground is yours, the daylight belongs to you; below ground is ours, the night belongs to us. You live under the sun, and we have our sun—isn’t it said that the earth’s core temperature reaches thousands of degrees, a fiercely burning fire, another sun buried deep?”
At this point, she laughed: “Surprising, isn’t it? Deep, deep beneath your feet, people are living there too, your milk siblings, different species but still family. We’re just separated by the black-and-white boundary, never meeting between life and death. You just didn’t know.”
Towards the end, her voice gradually lowered, becoming as soft as a whisper: “But we were forcibly driven and killed down from the surface. Having enjoyed the comfort of spring warmth and sunshine, who would willingly live in the damp darkness underground? The fallen nation wants to restore itself, the displaced want to reclaim their land. Once the crisis passed, we were always plotting to return to the surface.”
“However, Black and White Ravine is both our umbrella of protection and an insurmountable barrier. If we forcibly breach it, Di Xiao becomes human demons, and our forms become distorted, turning into something neither human nor ghost. Still, staying in Black and White Ravine is better—if we continue up to the surface and are exposed to sunlight, we accelerate our destruction. Simply put, breaking through from Black and White Ravine to the surface is a process of self-destruction.”
Yan Tuo’s heart stirred: “Similarly, humans can’t cross Black and White Ravine either. Once they enter, humans become Xiao ghosts, their forms equally twisted and hideous, and if they continue deeper underground, they’ll also accelerate their destruction?”
This was the significance of Black and White Ravine as a boundary and barrier. The underground Kuafu Clan would never see humans again, only terrifying Xiao ghosts, and humans would never see the underground clan, only the terrifying Di Xiao.
Di Xiao becomes human demons, demons in human eyes; humans become Xiao ghosts, ghosts in Di Xiao’s eyes.
No wonder the Bandaged Army always thought Di Xiao were just beasts. No wonder Lin Xiru had once arrogantly mocked them for “only reading half the book.” This page of the Di Xiao’s story was only being revealed to them today.
Xing Shen, who had been listening until now, finally spoke: “Then what is Nuwa’s Flesh?”
A slight smile crossed Lin Xiru’s lips.
She said: “Every clan has its warriors who seek possibility in impossibility. In mythology, Kuafu is chasing the sun. We consider ourselves Kuafu’s descendants, the sun-chasing lineage, always trying to find ways back to the surface.”
“Then, we discovered that Nuwa’s Flesh is both our defeat and our potential victory.”