Chapter Thirty-Four: What Happened That Year (Part 2)

When I heard this, I couldn't help but ask, “Didn't you just say that when you went in, the Three-Eyed Python had already been chopped into three pieces and laid out on the offering table?”

The Second Boss nodded. “That's exactly what happened.”

At the time, we were all startled, thinking we’d seen a ghost. But the old beggar said he wasn’t a ghost.

The old beggar tapped the Three-Eyed Python under the table. “Brother, how are you?”

The Three-Eyed Python turned his head weakly and greeted us as if we were old acquaintances. “So you’ve come!”

“Well, that's good. Now I won’t be alone on the road to the Underworld—someone will be dying with me.”

As soon as I heard that, I lost my temper. I reached under the table, grabbed the Three-Eyed Python, and yanked off his blindfold.

The old beggar peered closely into the Three-Eyed Python’s eye sockets, then took the blindfold off the head sitting on the offering table. That was when we realized the head on the table was just a decoy for the Three-Eyed Python.

It turned out, the Three-Eyed Python was never a single person, but rather a whole gang of grave robbers who just happened to all dress alike.

The old beggar squatted in front of the Three-Eyed Python with a gentle smile. “Brother, we’re all men of the underworld here. At a time like this, let’s not waste words—just tell us what’s useful. If we make it out, we won’t forget your favor.”

The Three-Eyed Python gave a feeble chuckle and lifted his shirt. “Look at me—do you think I still care about favors?”

The old beggar looked down and saw a bullet hole in the Three-Eyed Python’s stomach.

He glanced back at the body on the offering table, the one chopped into three pieces, and seemed to understand what had happened. Wasn’t this a classic case of betrayal among thieves?

The Three-Eyed Python must have discovered a great treasure in the mortuary hall, and his partner, driven by greed, shot him. But the shot didn’t kill him outright; instead, the Three-Eyed Python managed to kill his partner.

According to the underworld code, if a brother stabs you in the back, you repay him with three cuts and six holes—never leaving the body whole. After killing his partner, the Three-Eyed Python used the mortuary hall’s altar to lay out the corpse and offer it to their patron.

Though the Three-Eyed Python had avenged himself, his wound was fatal. Even if he escaped the mortuary hall, he would only die somewhere else.

The old beggar said, “Brother, your life can’t be saved. Are there any last wishes you want to leave behind?”

The Three-Eyed Python chuckled. “We’re all men of the underworld. For the sake of our shared path, I’ll tell you some things. Let’s count it as a good deed before I die.”

He raised a shaky hand. “Look at that box on the table. That’s something extraordinary—and deadly, too! But the key to open it isn’t here.”

Listening to the Three-Eyed Python’s faltering story, we finally understood how he fell under the curse.

After opening the tomb, the arm-thick white candles in the mortuary hall suddenly burst into flame without any spark. The flickering candlelight seemed to shine deliberately on the mysterious box in the center of the offering table. Under the glow, four gilded characters appeared on the box: “Treasure Box of the Mortuary Hall.”

“Why is there only one box?” The Three-Eyed Python was muttering to himself when suddenly someone shrieked, “The chariot, horse, boat, and sedan each depart. Await the auspicious one. When the lucky hour arrives, each returns to its place.”

As soon as the voice fell, the white candle flames surged, and more than a dozen figures in bright red and green appeared on either side of the mortuary hall.

The Three-Eyed Python watched as two ghastly pale men with painted faces led a white horse from the left side of the offering table toward the exit. Written on the horse’s saddle were two characters: “Autumn Frost.”

A chill ran through him. It was a paper horse for the dead—only paper horses made for the afterlife had names written on their saddles. That horse’s name was “Autumn Frost.”

The two coachmen, as if unable to see the Three-Eyed Python, walked right past him.

Next came the paper carriage, paper boat, and paper sedan, each following in turn. Hundreds of paper figures streamed out of the hall in a grand procession. Once they’d all left, the lights in the mortuary hall suddenly went out, and the room that had been ablaze with light became pitch black.

Instinctively, the Three-Eyed Python reached for the treasure box on the offering table, but before he could touch it, a gunshot rang out behind him. Fired at close range, the bullet pierced clean through him, striking just above his lower back.

He had no time to wonder why the brother who’d followed him for more than a decade would betray him now. He swung his knife in return, slashing his attacker’s throat, and after chopping the man into three pieces, he heard voices outside and hid himself beneath the table.

The Three-Eyed Python said to the old beggar, “Brother, take my word for it: that box is not something just anyone can touch. Anyone who does will meet a bad end!”

“Think about it—why did the chariot, horse, boat, and sedan leave the mortuary hall early? They took the key to the box with them! Without the key, how can you open it?”

His voice faltered as he continued, “It was only after I was wounded by the Black Python—my partner—that I realized why he turned on me. He must have been bewitched by the box. That thing kills!”

“Believe me!”

The old beggar glanced at the Head Steward, who was staring coldly at the ashen-faced Three-Eyed Python, saying nothing.

From that look, the old beggar knew the Head Steward had no intention of giving up on the treasure box.

All of us who lived by the blade knew the risks. If a few words could scare us off, what right did we have to rule the mountains?

The Three-Eyed Python seemed to sense what the Head Steward was thinking and gave a cold laugh. “That Dragon-Severing Stone over there isn’t hard to break. Do as I say, and you’ll open it.”

“One last piece of advice: don’t touch that treasure box.” With that, the Three-Eyed Python explained how to open the stone, then breathed his last.

The Head Steward led us to the Dragon-Severing Stone, and after much deliberation, agreed that the Three-Eyed Python’s instructions were trustworthy. But none of us had ever robbed a tomb before, and even with the guidance, it took us three days to break through.

Seeing that nothing had happened during those three days in the mortuary hall, the Head Steward decided the Three-Eyed Python had been lying in his final moments, that the treasure box was not as sinister as claimed, and he was determined to take it.

No matter how hard the old beggar tried to dissuade him, it was useless. In the end, he could only ask the Head Steward to take the box while he stayed behind in the mortuary hall to observe for a few more days. If nothing happened, he would then try to open it.

The Head Steward had always respected the old beggar, and seeing how resolute he was, finally agreed.

Only then did I understand why, according to legend, when the band of Clear Breeze emerged from the tomb, everyone returned except for their strategist, the old beggar. It turned out he had chosen to stay behind of his own accord.