Chapter Seventeen: The Golden Dragon Tortoise

Water from the pond poured into the iron gate, leading to a long passageway submerged in darkness. Xiaolian Shan swam ahead, disappearing into the gloom beneath the water, while I lingered at the edge, hesitating for quite some time, my mind echoing with Gu Anqi’s muffled warning.

“Whatever you do, don’t go in.”

My heart felt as if it were being clawed by a cat. Whoever designed this “Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood” formation must have been a master of geomancy. What on earth was the altar below for? Sometimes, curiosity and reason are at odds, and I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and plunged into the pond.

Swimming through the pitch-black passage, I saw a faint light above me. I headed for it, breaking the surface just as my lungs gave out. Gasping for air and wiping the water from my face, I was stunned by the sight before me.

The pond and the underground altar lay parallel to one another, connected by the passage. The passage itself was U-shaped, so the water wouldn’t flow into the altar, perfectly concealing the entrance. No wonder Liu Hao had been digging here for months without finding anything.

Xiaolian Shan pulled me from the water. Around the altar hung slender iron strips filled with lamp oil. Once lit, the entire altar was ablaze with light.

I dipped a finger into the oil and sniffed it—corpse oil! I was bewildered. They used corpse oil to light the altar! What kind of deep-seated hatred was this?

The scale of the altar surpassed my wildest imaginings. Yue Leiting’s cherished country villa, massive at over three hundred square meters, would be dwarfed here; twenty of them wouldn’t fill this space.

The altar was rectangular, with a stone-paved path leading directly to the main hall. On either side of the path stood stone warriors, armed with blades and bows. Judging from their attire, they were Ming dynasty soldiers. Though they’d stood here for centuries, they remained lifelike and imposing, their expressions stern and forms vivid. Standing beside them, I almost felt transported back to the Ming era.

Crossing the path, we reached a large courtyard with a massive stone table at its center. On it was carved a map. Taking the torch from Xiaolian Shan, I examined it closely. The map depicted the mountains and rivers above the altar. One peak was colored red. Above the landscape was a star chart, and I recognized it at once as the constellation of the Big Dipper. As I’d suspected, the mountain behind the altar pointed toward the star Wuqu, while the red-tinted peak—present-day Wanggu Cliff—aligned with the Emperor Star, Ziwei.

There was an inscription on the carving. I brushed away the dust and read eight bold seal characters:

“Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood, Nation Ruined, Sovereign’s End.”

Xiaolian Shan grinned excitedly at me. “Brother, it really is the Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood formation. You’re amazing—you just looked at it from above and figured it out.”

I patted his shoulder, smiling faintly. “What I really want to know now is who this ill-fated emperor was.”

We entered the main hall beyond the courtyard, and what we saw left us speechless. Before us sat a colossal general, sword in one hand and the other arm resting on his knee, exuding majesty with his tiger eyes and dragon beard—a figure that commanded respect. The statue was as tall as a three-story building; I could only look up in awe.

On the stone pillars on each side were inscribed two lines:

“Fear not for lack of valiant generals after death;
The loyal spirit still guards Liaodong.”

After I read the couplet, I looked up at the gigantic statue, murmuring to myself, “Could this general be... Yuan... Yuan Chonghuan?”

“Brother, there’s a plaque here, come look,” Xiaolian Shan called.

I walked over. Beneath the statue was a dark wooden tablet; the inscription was so worn by time that only a few characters could be made out.

“There’s... I can’t make out this one… Yuan… general… still can’t see… of… soul…” Xiaolian Shan struggled to decipher a few words.

“The spirit tablet of the Great General Yuan of the Ming!” I gasped and reflexively stepped back. It truly was Yuan Chonghuan’s statue—this altar was dedicated to him.

Gazing at the altar and recalling the geomantic layout above, I suddenly laughed at myself. I’d been obsessed with discovering which emperor was doomed by this vengeful formation, wondering who could harbor such hatred as to bring down an empire just to destroy a ruler.

So, it was Chongzhen.

The birth dates of emperors and ministers throughout the ages are well-known to any student of fate and physiognomy. I calculated briefly and smiled—what a cunning Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood formation. Chongzhen should have struggled on for seven or eight more years, but the breaking of Wuqu against Ziwei, Wu Sangui leading the Qing forces in, Dorgon—the Wuqu star—pressing toward the Forbidden City, Tanlang in the life palace, Li Zicheng as the Tanlang star, storming the capital and forcing Chongzhen to his death.

“Yuan Chonghuan! Brother, Yuan Chonghuan was a true hero—just died too unjustly. I heard old men in the village say he was executed by the emperor’s orders after being slandered, sliced to death a thousand times.”

Xiaolian Shan had always admired heroes. Learning the statue was Yuan Chonghuan, he knelt at once, respectfully bowing three times.

Gu Anqi’s warning not to come here, and Master Huang’s relentless efforts to excavate this place for a certain book, flashed through my mind. I frowned, glancing up at Yuan Chonghuan’s statue, my heart sinking. Could the rumor be true? Did that book really exist?

“Brother, think about it—if the emperor hadn’t wrongfully killed Yuan Chonghuan, maybe the Qing army wouldn’t have gotten in,” Xiaolian Shan said, oblivious to my troubled expression.

“Few emperors are fools. Chongzhen wasn’t so stupid as to kill a brilliant general over a few slanderous words…”

“What do you mean? Was there another reason the emperor had Yuan executed?”

I smiled faintly and lowered my voice, promising to tell him a rumor passed down through Daoist circles for a thousand years—though who could say if it was true.

Xiaolian Shan glanced around. The main hall was solemn and silent, containing only the colossal statue, the spirit tablet, and some decayed offerings—nothing else.

“Brother, there’s nothing here. I don’t know why Thunder-brother went through so much trouble to dig his way in.”

“It’s an altar, not a tomb. Of course Thunder-brother won’t find what he’s looking for. Let’s search carefully, see if there’s any book,” I said.

Xiaolian Shan nodded, circling the statue to search thoroughly, but found nothing. Then, patting the statue, he laughed, “You know, brother, geomancy really is uncanny. This Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood formation—just as it says, ‘Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood, Nation Ruined, Sovereign’s End.’ Not only did the emperor lose his country, he died by his own hand at Coal Hill.”

“The Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood is derived from the Qimen Dunjia’s Autumn Wind Yin Seven formation. It’s extremely difficult to set up—requires the right terrain, and…” I trailed off.

Xiaolian Shan noticed my silence and came out from behind the statue. Standing parallel to it, I occasionally glanced back, then adjusted my position, mimicking Yuan Chonghuan’s pose—raising my arm in the same direction as his sword.

Xiaolian Shan came up behind me. From that angle, my raised hand pointed directly at a stone wall.

“I’ve felt something odd about this statue. If the altar is meant to honor Yuan Chonghuan, it should be solemn and peaceful—why would the general be depicted holding weapons?” I mused.

Xiaolian Shan approached the stone wall, which bore a decorative carving: nine irregularly arranged dots connected by a straight line, forming the shape of a ladle, around which coiled a stone dragon, its claws bared.

“Brother, this ladle… it looks familiar.”

“That’s the Big Dipper. Of course it looks familiar.”

“Oh, right, right—the Big Dipper. I knew I’d seen it somewhere. But why is the dragon coiling around it?”

“That’s ‘Dragon Encoiling the Seven Stars’—symbolizing the stars in heaven aiding the emperor in his endeavors.”

Xiaolian Shan nodded, then frowned. “But, brother, if this altar activates the Cuckoo’s Cry of Blood formation to doom the emperor, why would it also have a Dragon Encoiling the Seven Stars carving?”

I realized the contradiction, too. That motif is a lucky omen for emperors—‘the dragon ascends to heaven, all bow in submission.’ This was Yuan Chonghuan’s altar; it shouldn’t contain a blessing for Chongzhen. I scrutinized the carving more closely.

The stone dragon coiled around the seven stars, its head facing east—directly toward the Emperor Star.

I was puzzled. Dragon Encoiling the Seven Stars signifies the arrival of auspicious purple energy from the east… but then it struck me: here, east isn’t really east!

Xiaolian Shan was startled by my sudden revelation. “What do you mean, not east?”

“The dragon’s head should face east, for the purple energy from the east protects the Emperor Star, but here the dragon’s head is facing west—it’s reversed!”

As I spoke, I reached out to the dragon’s head and found it could move. I twisted it toward the east, and immediately the main hall trembled. The stone slabs before the giant statue parted, and a circular pedestal rose up.

“Brother, something’s here!” Xiaolian Shan exclaimed in excitement.

My heart pounding, I carefully approached. At the center of the pedestal sat a golden dragon-tortoise, about the size of a palm, with its dragon head raised proudly, all four tortoise legs bracing against the ground. Its golden surface gleamed in the torchlight—pure gold, no doubt.

Beside the dragon-tortoise was an oilpaper-wrapped bundle. I unwrapped it with trembling hands, and as I peeled away the last layer, my mouth dropped open in astonishment.

There, nestled in the oilpaper, lay a perfectly preserved, yellowed ancient book.

The Mysterious Tactics of Luo Xuan!

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this book truly existed in the world.