The Tomb Gate Chronicles 01: The Seven-Star King’s Palace

**Chapter 1: The Blood Corpse**

Fifty years ago, at Biaozi Ridge in Changsha, four grave robbers crouched atop a mound, their eyes fixed on the Luoyang spade lying on the ground.

The spade was still caked with freshly dug soil, but strangely, the dirt was oozing a bright red liquid—as if it had just been dipped in blood.

“We’re in deep trouble now,” Old Cigarette Butt muttered, knocking his pipe against the ground. “There’s a blood corpse down there. If we’re not careful, we’ll all be left buried with it.”

“So, are we going down or not? Make up your d*mn mind, no need for all this chatter!” snapped a one-eyed young man. “Old man, if your legs aren’t up to it, stay here. My brother and I will go. Whatever’s down there, we’ll just fill it full of lead.”

Instead of getting angry, Old Cigarette Butt chuckled and turned to a bearded man beside him. “Your second boy’s got a mouth on him. If he keeps this up, he’s gonna get himself killed. You oughta teach him better. This line of work ain’t just about waving a gun around.”

The bearded man glared at the young man. “You little brat! How dare you talk to the Old Master like that? He was robbing graves before you were even a sh*t stain in your mother’s belly!”

“What’d I say wrong? Didn’t the ancestors say the blood corpse is a good omen? There’s gotta be treasures down there. If we don’t go, we’re just wasting our shot!”

“You still talking back?!” The bearded man raised his hand to strike, but Old Cigarette Butt blocked him with his pipe.

“Don’t hit him. You were just as bad when you were his age. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The one-eyed boy smirked at his father’s scolding, but Old Cigarette Butt coughed and rapped him on the head with his pipe. “What’re you laughing at? A blood corpse is no joke. Your second uncle dug one up in Luoyang once—now he’s a raving lunatic. No one knows what the hell happened to him. Listen up: I’ll go down first, you follow me. Second boy, you bring up the rear with the soil rat. Third boy, you stay here. With four of us, there’d be no room to retreat. You just hold onto the rat’s tail, and when we shout, you pull it out.”

The youngest of the group pouted. “No fair! You’re leaving me out! I’m telling Mom!”

Old Cigarette Butt burst out laughing. “Look at this! Third boy’s throwing a tantrum. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a golden dagger later.”

“I don’t want you to get it—I’ll get it myself!”

The one-eyed second brother lost his temper and grabbed the youngest by the ear. “You little sh*t, always stirring up trouble! Keep yapping and I’ll beat the hell outta you!”

The youngest, clearly used to his brother’s threats, immediately shut up and looked to his father for help—only to find the man already packing up gear. The second brother smirked. “See? Even Dad’s not backing you up this time. One more word, and I’ll twist your ear clean off!”

Old Cigarette Butt clapped the second brother on the shoulder and bellowed, “Alright, boys! Gear up!” With that, he swung his whirlwind shovel into action.

Half an hour later, the tunnel stretched so deep it was impossible to see the bottom. Apart from the second brother occasionally surfacing for air, no sound came from below. The youngest grew impatient and yelled into the hole, “Grandpa! You through yet?”

Several seconds passed before a muffled voice echoed back: “Don’t… know. You… stay up there… hold the rope!”

It was his second brother’s voice. Then came Old Cigarette Butt’s cough: “Quiet… listen! Something’s moving!”

Then—dead silence.

The youngest knew something was wrong. His blood ran cold. Suddenly, a bone-chilling croaking sound, like a toad’s call, echoed from the tunnel.

Then his second brother roared from below: “Third boy! PULL!”

He didn’t hesitate. Planting his feet, he yanked the soil rat’s tail with all his might. But after a few tugs, something below seemed to bite back—an opposing force was dragging the rope deeper into the tunnel. The youngest had never expected this. He nearly got pulled in himself. Thinking fast, he looped the rope around his waist and leaned back, his body at a 30-degree angle to the ground—a trick he’d learned from village tug-of-war matches. With his full weight on the rope, he could hold his ground even against a mule.

Sure enough, he locked into a stalemate with whatever was below. Neither side could gain an inch. After about ten seconds, a gunshot rang out from the tunnel, followed by his father’s desperate scream:

“THIRD BOY! RUN!!!!!”

The rope went slack. The soil rat shot out of the tunnel like an arrow—with something attached to it.

The youngest didn’t have time to think. He knew disaster had struck. He caught the soil rat and bolted.

He didn’t stop until he’d sprinted over half a mile. Gasping for air, he pulled the soil rat from his shirt—and screamed.

There was nothing hooked to it.

Just a bloody, severed hand.

He recognized it instantly. Tears welled up. It was his second brother’s.

Even if his brother wasn’t dead, he was crippled for life. Gritting his teeth, he turned to rush back and save his family—only to freeze.

Something crimson was crouched behind him.

Staring right at him.

The youngest was no amateur. He’d followed his father on enough digs to know that underground, anything was possible. Panicking wouldn’t help—adapting would. No matter how fierce a ghost was, it was still bound by physics. A few bullets could turn even the nastiest corpse into harmless pulp.

Steeling himself, he backpedaled, his pistol already in hand, set to full auto. If that thing moved, he’d empty the clip into its skull.

But then the crimson figure stood up.

The youngest’s scalp prickled. His stomach lurched.

It was a skinned man.

Dripping blood, as if it had squeezed free of its own skin. Yet it could still move.

Was this the true face of a blood corpse?

Before he could react, the creature lunged.

Their eyes met. The bloody face pressed against his nose, reeking of rot. The youngest threw himself backward, firing his entire clip point-blank into its chest. The bullets tore clean through, splattering gore as the thing staggered back.

Heart pounding, he swung the gun up for a headshot—

*Click.*

Jammed.

The pistol was an antique his second uncle had looted from a warlord’s tomb. Neglected and rarely fired, it had seized up when he needed it most.

Without hesitation, he hurled the gun at the creature and bolted.

This time, he didn’t dare look back. He sprinted for a towering tree, hoping the thing couldn’t climb—

Then his foot caught.

He faceplanted hard, smashing his nose and mouth against a stump. Blood filled his mouth.

Cursing his luck, he heard movement behind him.

Death had come calling.

Resigned, he stayed down, waiting for the end.

But the corpse stepped right over him.

Its bloody foot stamped onto his back, leaving a searing print. The weight crushed the air from his lungs. Bile rose in his throat. Then—itching.

His vision blurred.

Poison. Fast-acting.

Through the haze, he spotted something in his brother’s severed hand.

A silk scroll.

If his brother had died for it, it had to be valuable.

Gritting through the pain, he crawled over, pried the scroll free, and stuffed it into his sleeve.

His ears rang. His vision darkened. Limbs grew cold.

By now, his pants were surely soiled.

*Hope that girl from the next village doesn’t see me like this.*

His thoughts scattered.

Then—the croaking sound from the tunnel returned.

Something was wrong.

The blood corpse hadn’t made a sound earlier.

So what was making it now?

Had he fought the wrong thing?

Too late to wonder.

He forced his head up—

And met the gaze of a monstrous face leaning over him.

Eyes empty. Pupilless.

**Chapter 2: Fifty Years Later**

Fifty years later, at the West Lake Seal Engraving Society in Hangzhou, my thoughts were interrupted by an old man. I closed my grandfather’s notebook and sized him up.

“Do you accept rubbings here?” he asked, sounding casual. I was pretty good at this business, so I brushed him off. “Yeah, but we don’t pay much.” Translation: *If you don’t have anything good, get lost. Don’t waste my time reading.*

In this line of work, you might go three years without a sale, but when you do, it feeds you for three years. We were used to idle days and had little patience for half-baked customers. Eventually, we started playing funeral dirges to shoo away window shoppers. But lately, business had been *too* slow. The peak season was almost over, and nothing worthwhile had come in. I was starting to get antsy.

“Well, I was wondering—do you have any rubbings of the Warring States silk texts? The ones dug up by those grave robbers in Changsha fifty years ago, before an American swindled them away?” He eyed the items in my display case as he spoke.

“You just said an American took them. So why would I have any?” I snapped. “If you want rubbings, go scour the market. You can’t just pick one specific text and expect to find it. How’s that even possible?”

He lowered his voice. “I heard you’ve got connections. Old Yang sent me.”

My guard shot up. A chill ran down my spine. *Old Yang? Wasn’t he locked up two years ago? Did he rat me out?* Panic set in, and cold sweat broke out. “Wh-which Old Yang? I don’t know him.”

“I get it, I get it.” He chuckled and pulled out a watch from his pocket. “Here. Old Yang said you’d recognize this.”

That watch was a gift from Old Yang’s first love back when he was in the Northeast. He treated it like his life, drunkenly clutching it while babbling names like “Juan” or “Li.” Once, I asked him what the woman’s actual name was. He thought hard, then burst into tears, wailing, *“Damn it, I forgot!”* If Old Yang had given this watch to this guy, he must’ve been someone important.

Still, the man rubbed me the wrong way. But since he’d come all this way, I figured I might as well cut to the chase. I waved a hand. “Fine. Since you’re Old Yang’s friend, what do you want?”

He grinned, flashing a gold tooth. “A buddy of mine brought something back from Shanxi. Wanted you to check if it’s the real deal.”

“With that Beijing accent of yours, you’re telling me a big-shot like you came all the way south just to ask *me*? You flatter me. There’s plenty of experts up north. I think you’ve got other motives.”

He smirked. “Southerners really are sharp. You’re young, but you