Song Jinyu handed out the antidote pills to the others through Niaoniao. Jì Bìluó only needed one glance to recognize their worth. “These are rare — people would pay a fortune for this,” he breathed.
“You’re very generous, Miss,” someone teased.
“Hardly,” Song Jinyu replied, unconcerned. She waved it off as if the mixture were nothing special. To her, Jì Bìluó was overreacting.
He was the one overreacting. On the black market of the jianghu, a vial of that potency was called priceless. That thought made Jì Bìluó’s eyes shine; he came forward with sticky eagerness to ask for the remaining bottle.
“You, planning to quit the trade — what do you want this for?” Song Jinyu said lightly.
Still, he tossed it back. He had skill; if he wanted more he could make more.
They walked for nearly half an hour before they reached the outer door of the tomb. Jì Bìluó pushed it open and a strange, choking odor spilled out, forcing everyone to step back.
“The air in this tomb is foul,” Mi Cui murmured to Xingjian. Xingjian had come along with Prince Yu this time. No sooner had the words left her lips than Jì Bìluó called out, “Wait a moment!”
The group halted. A sound came from beyond — a rustling like dry leaves. Even the most seasoned fighters felt a prickle of unease. “Vines!” someone hissed.
Zhongli Mingye drew his soft sword and sliced at the creeping tendrils at Song Jinyu’s feet. Others sprang into motion, hacking and kicking, sending lengths of sinister vine flailing to the ground. But the plant was tenacious, as if it would not be cut—“Those are the tomb’s guardians,” Song Jinyu said between parries. “They grow in ancient tombs, fed by the warm springs beneath. They won’t die easily.”
Song Jinyu, the least skilled of them, dodged awkwardly while Zhongli Mingye stayed at her side, repeatedly cutting the advancing ropes of green to protect her. Yan Fei rushed forward too, his face set with stubborn protectiveness — no matter what, he would keep his little junior sister safe.
“Scared?” Zhongli Mingye teased as he struck, but when her expression tightened he couldn’t help feeling a pang. He tugged her back behind him, shielding her with his own body.
After a fierce skirmish Xingjian and the others managed to hack away the majority of the vines.
“It’s not like that—” Song Jinyu started, thinking through their next move, when Jì Bìluó called from the rear, “The roots are further in. We have to cut the main rootstock!”
“This tomb hasn’t been entered in a thousand years,” he added. “Those vines smell human life. They’ll only stop when they taste blood.”
At that moment the copper tang of blood hit her. Looking down, she saw Niaoniao’s ankle clamped by a vine, a dark bite blooming on the skin. “Catch!” she cried, and threw a small bottle of sulfur to her.
The sulfur burst in a cloud that hit everyone like a slap; coughing, they staggered back. The vines recoiled as if scalded, hissing and drawing away.
Something in the movement felt off.
Song Jinyu darted forward. Zhongli Mingye vaulted to grab her hand, trying to hold her back. No sooner had they shifted than the vines surged again, faster, thicker, with a brutal strength that surprised them. One of the great ropes wrapped around Song Jinyu’s ankle; despite Zhongli’s grip on her wrist, their combined weight began to drag them both inward toward the tomb’s center.
“Let go!” Song Jinyu told him, voice steady even as the earth tilted beneath them. She could see another tomb room ahead; if they were dragged in, they might never come back out.
Memories came unbidden — the year they had fallen from a cliff together — and something wet blurred her vision.
“Don’t speak!” Zhongli Mingye snapped, and without hesitation he hacked at the vines with ferocious, unrelenting strikes. He never loosened his hold on the hand that anchored him to Song Jinyu. Yan Fei, seeing them trapped, poured his chi into the blade and redoubled his efforts, hacking at those thick ropes with single-minded fury.
Yan Fei’s blade hit a vital node. The vines shuddered and then, with a collective shriek, retreated as if the buried heartwood had been severed.
Relief flooded the group. They surged forward until they stood around the two of them, checking for wounds. When they saw Song Jinyu and Zhongli Mingye were unhurt, everyone exhaled.
Jì Bìluó’s eyes had widened; he had underestimated the strength concealed in Song Jinyu’s band. Their opponents in the underworld might have been capable, he realized, but Song Jinyu’s people were no mere amateurs.
“Let’s go,” Song Jinyu said, and they pressed on toward the tomb’s center. After the vine attack everyone walked with a new caution. Chéng Sōng knelt to tend Niaoniao’s ankle, while the rest moved forward with heads on swivel.
Jì Bìluó led with his experienced, furtive steps, skulking like someone used to digging for fortunes in the dark. He had finally understood: this run would not be easy. These two principals — the ones they had come to rob or rescue — could not suffer even a scratch.
Song Jinyu scanned the murals along the corridor as she walked. A familiarity nagged at her. The mural panels along the walls certainly looked like scenes she’d seen before, though she could not place where.
They came to a chamber where the space suddenly broadened, and three doors stood closed before them, each carved with a panel of equal height.
The first panel showed the moment of Zhaojun leaving for the frontier. The second depicted a Daoist descending from the mountain. The third showed a celestial maiden dancing in midair.
“These belong in a palace,” Zhongli Mingye said slowly. “The style is imperial.”
“The tomb owner must have been someone from the royal household,” Song Jinyu answered. “But what do the three doors mean?”
Yan Fei stepped forward, bold and blunt. He reached to push one of the doors.
“No.” Jì Bìluó stopped him. “Only one of these is the true life-door.”
“If you choose wrong, you won’t be buried in any grave,” he warned sharply.
He stood before the doors, tugging his brows into a knot, pacing between them. This was the first true test of the raid — and experience made Jì Bìluó wary. A single misstep could send a man to his doom.
Song Jinyu watched him, then said softly, “You can’t deduce the tomb owner’s identity from these murals alone.”
She pointed at the corridor paintings. “They are scenes from his life — each a possible ending. The three murals represent different kinds of fates.”
Zhongli Mingye’s eyes lit with comprehension. “Zhaojun’s departure suggests someone who escorted a prince or a general outward to war. The Daoist’s descent signifies renunciation and a mortal end. The dancing fairy implies transcendence — an early entry into paradise.”
They exchanged a glance and, with a quiet, mutual certainty, reached for the third door.
When it opened, nothing dramatic happened. The passage beyond was simply black, a void that swallowed the torchlight.
Jì Bìluó stared at them, incredulous. “You…”