By the time Old Wang and I got off the train, it was the middle of the night. Zhou Jianguo waved frantically as we exited the station, looking like he'd been waiting for a long - lost lover.
He grabbed my hand tightly, a burly man with red - rimmed eyes—we were clearly his last hope. "Master, you're finally here! If I hadn't gotten your call, I'd have gone back to Shenyang. Let's go to the village now."
Old Wang snorted coldly. "It was sweltering on the train. I haven't had a drop of water."
Zhou looked embarrassed. "Right, right—let's eat first."
I stopped him. "Skip the meal. Find us a place to stay, and we'll go to Zhoujiazhuang at dawn."
Old Wang shot me a glare but fell silent, looking put out. Is this really the last patriarch of Maoshan? I wondered. Why choose someone so greedy and lacking Taoist virtue?
Zhou agreed quickly. In his Xia Li sedan, we reached a hostel. Old Wang grumbled about hunger all the way—I was annoyed. We hadn't done anything yet, and he was already acting like a charlatan. I'd rather eat plain rice than demand payment upfront.
In the three - person room, I endured Old Wang's grinding teeth, farting, and snoring till dawn. Zhou drove us to Zhoujiazhuang without delay. En route, I told him to introduce us as traditional Chinese doctors from Shenyang—mentioning feng shui might get us blocked by the quarantine.
The village lay over 40 kilometers from Tongliao, the bumpy road taking nearly an hour. Zhou explained it had once thrived on coal but now was barren, with only rundown buildings and bald hills.
After being questioned by (armed police) and signing waivers, we entered. The deserted streets reminded me of SARS—ordinary people bore the brunt of unknown disasters. No medics were in sight, just isolation.
As Zhou reassured villagers that we were "divine masters," Old Wang puffed out his chest, bragging about being Maoshan's patriarch. Finally, we reached the village committee—and my first glimpse of the ancient tomb.
A black coffin jutted from the ground, surrounded by sunken earth and abandoned picks. The red - brown soil caught my eye.
"Use your Divine Eye," Old Wang whispered.
"Not needed. Look at the soil—reddish - brown, clearly an evil site. What does the red remind you of?"
"Cinnabar?" Old Wang mused. "Not quite—like a mixture with cinnabar."