Taboos of Tomb Guardians
A feudal lord of the Guli Kingdom, who devoted his life to dark sorcery, founded the Shadow Realm and, upon his death, was entombed with crypts constructed by forbidden arts. He appointed a guard to protect his mausoleum, and their descendants have watched over it for generations. For thousands of years, some among them have tried to escape their fate as tomb guardians, but without exception, all met tragic ends in the world outside. The curse binding the guardians has trapped them within the remote mountains. Millennia later, a young man returns to his cursed clan, determined to break the spell. Across Dragon Mountain, through journeys in the desert, and battles at the ancient lake, he strives to change his destiny and free his people from their thousand-year shackles. Will this ancient curse, at last, be broken?
Taboos of Tomb Guardians
Outside the window, the vast, open plains stretched as far as the eye could see—fields extending endlessly, sturdy and luxuriant trees standing tall, and, in the distance, a range of mountains looming faintly on the horizon. One by one, these scenes raced into view, only to vanish in a fleeting instant, swept away by the rushing train. The world outside formed a living, flowing tapestry, every frame shimmering with vibrant beauty, like an ink painting unfurling slowly across the landscape.
Seated on the old green train, I leafed through the notebook in my hands. The pages had yellowed with age, and the cover had long since fallen apart. Clearly, this notebook had accompanied me through many years.
My gaze drifted to the window, and in my mind, I heard my father’s final words before his departure: "I'm sorry, I brought this upon you." And my mother’s voice, trembling with regret: "It’s all our fault, child. I shouldn’t have brought you into this world."
There are things in this world that lie beyond our understanding, things we cannot comprehend. Sometimes, even if we do not believe in the supernatural, we are forced to accept its presence.
My name is Gao Ziyun. I am twenty-four years old. According to my father, our family has an ancestral record, and in my generation, all our names must have "Zi" in the middle. As for "Yun"—cloud—he hoped I might drift through life as lightly as a cloud, never resting, for clouds that linger too long will scatter.
To be honest, I never truly understood what he me
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