Chapter One: The Curse of the Tomb Guardian

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 meant—until that year, when I was thirteen. Suddenly, my palm itched unbearably. When I returned home and opened my hand, I discovered a red mark in the center, like a tiny birthmark. After the itching subsided, I felt nothing more, but that day, I heard my father sobbing loudly, locked away in his bedroom. I saw the fear and trembling in my mother's eyes.

I did not know what had terrified them so. Three years later, the itching returned, this time spreading to my entire arm. I said nothing, afraid of causing my parents further pain, even though I did not understand the reason. After that, it happened every two years, then every year. The last time, the sensation was so overwhelming it felt as if my upper body could not bear it. Though I have never touched drugs, I imagined this must be what withdrawal feels like. By now, the red mark on my palm had multiplied to three.

From the moment the first mark appeared, my parents became consumed with busyness. My father worked at a lumber mill, renowned for his masterful woodcarving—his pieces fetched high prices. My mother was an official in the city’s cultural bureau. By any measure, ours was a prosperous family.

Yet after that day, their lives grew shrouded in secrecy. They traveled often, always on business. Until, last year, my father died in a manner most strange. His colleagues told me he had been sitting at his workbench, smoking, lost in thought, when he suddenly collapsed. In the hospital, he looked at me with great pain and spoke those words: "I'm sorry, I brought this upon you." He never opened his eyes again.

My mother, devastated by his death and tormented by the sight of the red marks on my palm, could not bear the grief. Two months ago, she followed him—by her own hand. The doctors called it depression, the weight of unbearable pressure.

I closed my eyes, willing myself not to dwell further on these memories. All of it seemed like a riddle, until I found this notebook—or perhaps, my parents meant for me to find it. Within its pages were not only notes but letters each had written to me. I do not know why my mother could not tell me these things face to face, why she chose this way instead. Was she afraid I would blame them?

I let out a bitter laugh. My origins, it seemed, were shrouded in mystery. And so, the story must begin long, long ago.

In ancient times, the Yan Emperor founded the state of Qi, also known as Chuli. This name originated from the Chuli River (today called the Zhuozhang River). Chuli lay deep within the Taihang Mountains, a land with many mountains and few rivers. It was the first place in the region to witness the rising sun and to cultivate millet and sticky rice. Its people, with their dark skin, came to be called the Li people, a name that endured.

During the Shang dynasty, Dayou, a descendant of Emperor Yao, was granted the fief of Chuli; his clan became known as the Chuli or Li people. By the late Shang, his descendants ruled the Marquisate of Li as a vassal state under the Shang. According to the genealogy of the Zi-surnamed Li clan, when Pan Geng moved the Shang capital to Yin, he enfeoffed his uncle Wen Kui in southwestern Shanxi, establishing the state of Li, also called the state of Pear, ruled by the Zi clan as marquises.

All of this I learned from my father's notebook. The history of Li was fraught with hardship; the entire clan migrated again and again. Among them was a marquis who became obsessed with sorcery. According to legend, he sought out the descendants of Chi You—now known as the Miao people, for Chi You is revered as the ancestor of the Miao. This marquis devoted his life to forbidden magic and, upon his death, built a grand mausoleum. He commanded his eighteen personal guards and their families to guard his tomb for generations, hidden from the world.

I am a descendant of those eighteen guardians. For thousands of years, our village lived in relative peace. Yet many descendants longed for life beyond the mountains. The clan’s rules were strict, but some escaped. One left, then another, then more. But within a few years, most returned in terror—victims of the bloodline curse.

The curse would consume any who strayed too far from the mausoleum. The farther they went, the faster it struck. After several died miserably, the survivors realized that the ancient legend was all too real. They fled back to the mountains for refuge, but it was futile; at best, their deaths were only delayed.

Through the years, our ancestors refused to accept their fate. They searched for every way to break the curse. Who could blame them? After thousands of years, any destiny should be fulfilled. Generation after generation, they tried—through marriages, rare herbs, even self-surgery to excise the curse’s root—but nothing worked. As long as the bloodline endured, so did the curse. Whenever anyone left the mausoleum’s vicinity, the curse would erupt.

When I recalled my father’s final moments, I finally understood how he had borne such torment all these years. Returning to his notebook, I read of the time he was eighteen, gathering herbs in the mountains, when he met my mother. She was part of a scientific expedition team that became separated in the wilderness. In those days, technology was scarce, and she was injured before my father found her.

He treated her wounds with herbs and nursed her back to health. Like the tales told in countless novels, they fell in love. My father brought her to his village. Though villagers sometimes ventured out to trade, outsiders were never allowed to settle. My father was severely reprimanded, and their love met with fierce resistance. So, my father eloped with my mother, fleeing the mountains for the outside world. He was unmatched in martial skills among his peers and elders; no one could stop him. He thought that as long as he had her, even if the curse killed him, it was a price he’d gladly pay.

He could not have imagined the curse’s potency. To spare my mother worry, he kept it secret, merely saying he did not want children. But fate had other plans. My mother became pregnant. When my father discovered her condition in the fourth month, he finally told her the truth. My mother later told me how furious he became then—a rage she could not comprehend, as if he had become a wild beast. Terrified, she fled. Three months later, my father found her, but it was too late. In those days, terminating a pregnancy at over seven months was extremely dangerous and forbidden.

So, I was born. Until I turned thirteen, my father lived in constant anxiety, but when the curse showed no sign, he relaxed—until the year it began.

In the days before my mother left, she came to me and shared all that she had learned—what my father had told her, what she had discovered on her own. She said there were many documents and records locked in her office cabinet and urged me to read them when I could. Above all, she implored me to return to the village. I knew why—she feared for my life.

After she was gone, I set out for my ancestral home. Though my mother left behind documents, I felt compelled to see the mountains for myself. As for the curse, perhaps I was too young to worry; with the advance of modern medicine, I found it hard to believe in such supernatural things.

I had graduated from university less than a year ago, majoring in civil engineering, though I was hardly a model student. Work was hard to find, and I had plenty of time on my hands. I was not returning out of fear of death, but to resolve the questions that haunted me, to find answers for my father and mother, and to help those still living in the mountains.

Moreover, from childhood, I had trained with my father in martial arts. This was not the kind you’d see on television, nor even encounter in real life. My father called it true martial arts, the kind passed down from ancient times—the source of all Chinese martial arts, refined through generations. I was not a great student, but I had a natural gift for martial arts. My father once said that, at my age, he had never matched me.