The Tomb Gate Chronicles 6 Part2:Ancient Tower Yin Mountain

**Chapter 1: Origins**

To help Silent Zhang recover his lost memories, we ventured deep into the heart of the Hundred Thousand Mountains—a remote region known as Banai, often referred to as "the Siberia of Guangxi."

I had always believed that amnesia and memory recovery were tropes unlikely to happen in real life, so at first, the whole situation felt surreal. While other people’s pasts might be mundane, Silent Zhang’s backstory was bound to be different—like stepping into a mystery novel, except I was now an active participant. The thought left me both uneasy and exhilarated.

As usual, Silent Zhang remained tight-lipped. Did someone like him wrestle with the same inner conflicts as ordinary people? I couldn’t say for sure. But at the very least, his patience was something I admired. I had my own reservations too—helping him uncover his past meant dragging him out of his current peace and back into reality. Was that really a good thing?

I won’t dwell on the arduous journey into the mountains. Following the clues given by Brother Chu, we found the stilt house where Silent Zhang had once lived. Inside, hidden beneath a dilapidated bed, we discovered an iron box. Then, in quick succession, chaos erupted—someone tried to yank the box out from under the floorboards. Luckily, we caught them in the act, but the intruder, clearly familiar with the village layout, vanished into the maze of alleyways before we could give chase.

Before I could even process what had just happened, the ancient clasp on the iron box in Fatty’s arms suddenly snapped. The box crashed to the ground, flipping open.

Everything happened too fast. None of us had time to react before the box lay on the ground, its lid wide open. A fist-sized object rolled out and came to a stop at Fatty’s feet.

Silent Zhang had warned us earlier that he had a vague memory of this box and that its contents might be extremely dangerous. He had insisted we never open it. So, the moment the box hit the ground, I instinctively raised my arms and hunched over in a defensive stance. Fatty barely had time to duck his head. Both of us froze, bracing for the worst.

I half-expected an explosion. There was no time to think—just pure reflex. But after a few seconds of clenched teeth and squeezed-shut eyes, nothing happened.

No explosion. No hidden projectiles.

Cautiously, I opened my eyes and looked at the object near Fatty’s feet. It resembled a lump of gnarled wood, covered in strange bumps—something I’d never seen before, but it didn’t appear dangerous. Fatty gradually relaxed and took a few steps back. I lowered my arms, puzzled. Had Silent Zhang misremembered? Or had the danger expired over time?

I glanced at Silent Zhang. His expression was unreadable, but he seemed just as startled.

It was like a firecracker that failed to ignite—no one dared to check on it immediately. We stood frozen for a moment before Fatty, ever the braggart about his "indestructible luck," finally inched forward.

I followed. The object was shaped somewhat like a gourd, roughly the size of a wide-mouthed cup. Its surface was covered in pustule-like bumps, resembling the skin of a toad—deeply unsettling. Upon closer inspection, the "gourd’s" bumps had a metallic sheen, as if it were made of iron.

Fatty reached out to grab it, but Silent Zhang stopped him. Instead, he plucked a nearby pumpkin leaf, wrapped it around the "iron gourd," and lifted it.

From the way he handled it, the object was indeed iron—and surprisingly heavy. The bumps looked like they had been corroded by acid or cast with trapped air bubbles. The red and yellow blotches were rust stains. The whole thing was essentially an iron lump shaped like a gourd, but faint ancient patterns could still be discerned on its surface, suggesting it was an artifact.

Fatty frowned. "What the hell is this? Looks like an old cannonball. Some kind of ancient grenade?"

I shook my head immediately. "Don’t be ridiculous. Who buries a grenade under their bed?"

Firearms were already advanced by the Ming Dynasty—explosives like the "Sky-Shaking Thunder" and "Surname Bottle" were highly destructive. I’d handled a few before, but they were always deactivated, with the gunpowder removed—no one trades live ones, as that would be arms trafficking. Most antique firearms were originally dredged up from the sea by Fujian fishermen before being bartered away by antique dealers. But this iron lump didn’t look like a maritime artifact, nor did it resemble a firearm. Besides, burying something like this under a bed? If it exploded during dry weather, the consequences would be disastrous. Silent Zhang would never do something so reckless.

Silent Zhang weighed the object in his hand, sniffed it, then shook his head. I asked if he still sensed danger. He didn’t answer, but his expression darkened as he stared at the iron gourd. After a pause, he said, "Only the outer layer is iron. The real thing is sealed inside."

I blinked. "How can you tell?"

Silent Zhang replied, "It’s too light."

Fatty gaped. "You can actually tell just by holding it?"

It wasn’t that surprising. Anyone who deals with antiques develops this skill. Those who’ve handled pure iron or worked with molds know that iron’s weight often defies expectations—a pencil-case-sized block would be impossible for the average person to lift with just two fingers.

I smirked at Fatty. "You part-timers lack the basics. Hand skills like this are something we all practice to some degree."

Fatty scoffed. "Why the hell would I waste time on that? A digital scale costs peanuts."

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Silent Zhang. "Any idea what might be sealed inside? Any memories or hunches?"

Silent Zhang shook his head. Fatty chimed in, "There’s an old method called 'iron-wrapped gold,' where gold was concealed inside iron casings during transport to avoid drawing attention. But this iron casing looks cast, and it’s too light—definitely not gold inside."

I’d never heard of that. The only "iron-wrapped gold" I knew was a breed of Tibetan mastiff. My grandfather had owned one, but it never adapted to the local climate and was eventually kicked to death by a village ox. Whether Fatty was bluffing or had actually seen such a thing, I couldn’t say.

What intrigued me were the faint patterns. At the very least, this object had decorative value—it wasn’t just a crude casting. It must have had a specific purpose.

"Could it be part of some iron artifact?" Fatty suggested. "Like the leg of an incense burner or a decorative piece from an old wagon wheel?"

I considered it possible. My knowledge of iron artifacts was limited—they rust easily, making them rare in tombs and far less common on the market compared to bronze or porcelain. Their value is usually low, so most antique dealers aren’t well-versed in them. I had no leads.

But since this was an antique hidden under Silent Zhang’s bed, it had to be significant—likely tied to whatever had happened to him in this village.

Recalling Fatty’s theory from yesterday, a speculation formed in my mind. He had suggested there might be an ancient tomb near Goat Horn Mountain. If so, the sequence of events might have gone like this: Silent Zhang had once been part of Wen Jiu’s archaeological team, and this "gourd" was something they had retrieved from that tomb. For some reason, he had hidden it.

Fatty furrowed his thick brows. "I’m thinking the same. If Little Brother hid this back then, he must’ve been wary of something. The situation back then must’ve been complicated."

Where there’s wariness, there’s opposition—meaning whatever happened with the archaeological team here wasn’t as simple as Ah Gui had made it sound.

We fell silent for a moment. I felt both relieved and frustrated—happy that we’d uncovered more clues than expected, but annoyed that they only painted a vague outline of "an incident" without any concrete details.

Wen Jiu had appeared here. In the photo, Ah Gui had been seventeen or eighteen, but now he was definitely in his forties. That meant this had happened over twenty years ago—around the time of the Xisha incident. Wen Jiu’s presence here must have been shortly before Xisha—she likely left for Xisha afterward. I hadn’t seen anyone else in the photo. Had she come with another team or with members of the Xisha archaeological team? No way to know.

As for Silent Zhang being kidnapped by Vietnamese smugglers and forced to serve as "Ah Kun," that would’ve been five or six years ago. That left a fifteen-year gap. What had he been doing during that time? Something didn’t add up. With his skills, those Vietnamese should’ve been no match for him. Even if they were armed, escaping shouldn’t have been an issue. How had he ended up trussed up like livestock? Had his meeting with Chen Pi Ah Si been part of some plan? These were all unanswered questions.

"Could the person who tried to steal the box just now be connected to all this?" Fatty asked, staring in the direction the intruder had fled.

That reminded me. "Did either of you get a look at his face?"

"Ha! That guy ran like a bat out of hell. Forget his face—I didn’t even see his *ss. All I know is he was scruffy, about your build, and vanished in a flash."

Who was he? Just a thief tailing us, or someone involved in this affair? It was unsettling—like being shadowed. If he wasn’t just a petty thief, then he had to be connected to this. Our situation might be worse than we thought. We’d have to lock our doors tonight.

"Let’s ask Ah Gui later. That guy looked like a madman—maybe he knows something," Fatty said. "What do we do now? This iron gourd’s a dead end. Should we find a blacksmith to melt part of it open?"

I disagreed. "The wisdom of the working class is boundless. I know a method—using sulfuric acid to gradually thin the iron shell. Judging by the corrosion, someone’s already tried it but stopped for some reason."

That someone might’ve been Silent Zhang. I had a hunch that his impression of danger came from attempting to dissolve the iron seal. He might’ve noticed something alarming and aborted the process. Even though he’d forgotten everything now, that sense of danger lingered in his subconscious.

Of course, this was just speculation—albeit a plausible one.

Fatty perked up. "Sulfuric acid’s easy. I’ll get some from the fertilizer station."

I waved him off. "Let’s not mess with that yet. We should take it to Ah Gui’s first and let Silent Zhang examine it properly."

Silent Zhang placed the iron gourd back into the box and closed the lid. Fatty picked it up. "Alright, today’s been productive. I’m keeping this thing on me. You two hurry up and search the place again—that girl will be back soon. Make it quick."

I remembered the photos Brother Chu had mentioned—those were the real priority. I stood up and headed for the window.

But before I could take two steps