Feng stood before the cracked well rim, his phone's flashlight piercing the stone fissures. Three hours prior, the drill bit had jammed here—hollow echoes reverberated beneath, resembling relentless fingernails scraping metal. Tapping the stone with a geological hammer, his sonar detector revealed a sealed chamber approximately thirty square meters below.

  "Everyone retreat to the village entrance." He tossed his vape into the gas detector; the screen flashed excessive methane warnings. "If I don't emerge in two hours..." He hesitated. "...pour concrete to seal the well."

  The workers scattered like startled birds. When the last engine rumble faded, Feng retrieved a hydraulic breaker from his gear case. With muffled booms, bluestone slabs fractured, unleashing a putrid wind laced with paper ash. His respirator filter yellowed instantly. Thermal imaging showed the entrance eleven degrees Celsius colder than the outside.

  The passage sloped downward, stone steps coated with gelatinous residue. As Feng's boot touched the first step, the Annals of Folk Mysteries in his tactical belt convulsed violently. Pages flipped under the cold blue glow of a chem light, bleeding fresh ink: "Seven oath-takers at the Hour of Hai during the Wuxu Year."(9 PM, 1898—Seven Oath-takers)

  His phone vibrated abruptly.

  "Professor Feng?" The caller ID showed Professor Zhou from the provincial archaeology institute. "That private exploration team you inquired about—their leader Lao Wu claims introduction through your university senior..."

  Feng's attention fixed on the glossy substance coating the steps—a polish formed by countless reptilian traversals. Accessing his alumni group chat, he found a yellowed photo: A young man in Ray-Ban sunglasses fiddling with a compass, his wristwatch engraved with archaic seal script reading "Wu."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Lao Wu arrived faster than anticipated.

  "This job's mine." The man leaping from the pickup's rear seat crushed his cigarette underfoot, Ray-Bans replaced by gold-rimmed glasses, though the vintage watch remained. "But terms are clear—seventy-thirty split on underground artifacts."

  Feng's gaze swept over the man's bulging backpack. The shape beneath the tarp unmistakably outlined a Luoyang shovel. Their leather jackets bore traces of tomb-blue clay, sleeves revealing glints of tomb-raiding talisman chains.

  At midnight, six headlamps pierced the passage darkness. Lao Wu's henchman took point, the screech of entrenching tools against stone startling bat swarms. Feng noted the creatures' abnormality—each bat's right wing bore a twisted "张" brand, as if seared by red-hot iron.

  Amid flapping wings, Feng's UV flashlight scanned the cavern ceiling—a branding iron wedged in crevices, its incised 'Zhang' character perfectly matching the bats' scars. This recalled county records: "During the 1909 drought, the Zhang clan branded sacrificial livestock with their crest, binding all through blood contracts."

  "Halt!" Lao Wu suddenly crouched, caressing the wall. Under intense light, bluestone veins pulsed crimson. He splashed murky liquid—high-proof liquor mixed with bone powder—igniting eerie green flames upon contact.

  The conflagration revealed the wall's true face:

  Bloody handprints climbed from floor to ceiling, each palm crease embedded with microscopic sigils.

  Feng's camera shutter clicked through Lao Wu's profanity: "Goddamn corpse-stacking curse! Only seven generations' handprints can..."

  The ground collapsed.

  Feng grabbed fissures mid-plummet, Lao Wu's screams echoing above. As dust settled, headlamps illuminated nine bronze chains suspending a sarcophagus carved with human faces. The partially opened lid exposed layered corpses—the uppermost wearing "Huangjue Village Construction Crew" uniforms. A missing worker's walkie-talkie crackled before emitting an inhuman screech:

  "The auspicious hour... has come..."

  The stone coffin burst open.