Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Tomb of the Shadow Soldiers

The words “Grave of the Yin Soldiers” were definitely not carved there on a whim. Bathed in the dual illumination of moonlight and my cellphone, the already ancient characters radiated a strange, somber red gleam, heavy with the weight of ages.

A grave for yin soldiers…?

In the moonlight, I could see that this “Yin Soldiers’ Grave” was quite small. Compared to that grand, dignified tombstone brimming with antique charm, this one felt pitifully insignificant—so much so that it struck me as even smaller than an ordinary villager’s grave.

Standing there amid such a scene, it was impossible not to be reminded of certain things. What first came to mind were the three tables of shadowy offerings near the “stone men” by Old Qi’s Road, the black-molded sticky rice, and the gray cat swaddled only in Wang Hou’s windbreaker.

That cat, especially, had left a deep impression on me. Just thinking of it made my entire body shudder involuntarily. Its ghostly, unblinking eyes, the mold-caked rice clinging to its fur, and the faint scent of blood that still lingered on me—all filled me with dread. That coppery tang seemed now to whisper a warning: could the gray cat and this grave somehow be connected?

As I stood lost in thought, Zhao Hong arrived, leading his dog, with little Ah Si trailing behind. The three of us and the dog stared dumbfounded at this ancient tomb, crafted for “yin soldiers.” None of us could make sense of it, nor could I fathom why Wang Hou’s phone was sitting atop the stone altar before the grave.

“This is a very old grave!” Ah Si called out from a distance, eyeing the mound. “Ancient graves sink in over time—the older, the more sunken. A thousand-year-old earthen grave might even be concave. I’d say this one is at least five or six hundred years old…”

“Come on!” I turned, listening to his expert tone, and couldn’t help but ask, “You ever robbed tombs, kid? How do you know all this?”

His next answer made my eyes widen—he actually admitted it.

Ah Si told me he’d once been tricked into joining a tomb-robbing gang while begging for food, working for six months as a “gold-touching captain.” He recalled that they’d taken a liking to him for his short stature, making him ideal for crawling through tunnels—he was faster at retrieving loot than most. But his size also made him the butt of their abuse, always forced into the most dangerous jobs, with his pay constantly docked and the spoils unfairly divided.

Later, during a raid on a “Scorpion Tomb” in Baoshan, Yunnan, the entire gang perished—except for Ah Si, who barely escaped thanks to his small size. After that, he never dared return to that line of work.

At this point, Ah Si suddenly threw back his head and howled, “The past is too painful to recall! All the mistakes of my ignorant youth! If only I’d studied the relics law sooner, I’d never have fallen in with criminals…”

His mournful expression made me uncomfortable, so I teased, “Alright, you make it sound like you were kidnapped. Even if you’d studied the law, you’d still have a criminal streak! Instead of waxing sentimental, why not use your expertise—tell us why Wang Hou’s phone is on this Yin Soldiers’ Grave? What’s buried here?”

But Ah Si just stuck out his tongue, mystified. Seeing he had nothing to offer, I turned to Zhao Hong. “Old Zhao, you’re a local—any idea what this grave’s all about?”

Zhao Hong, puffing on a cigarette, scratched his plump head but came up empty.

At that point, we had to admit it—the lead we’d just found had gone cold again.

With no other options, the three of us circled the Yin Soldiers’ Grave, moving cautiously, hoping to find any clue to the disappearance of Wang Hou and Xian Hongye.

As I began to walk, I realized the ground near the grave was treacherous, every step threatening a fall, so I moved with extra care. Even then, after six or seven steps, my foot slipped and—crack—I stepped on something.

The sound was crisp and oddly pleasant. I quickly lifted my foot and looked down, spotting a splintered bone. I must have crushed it underfoot.

The bone was already unrecognizable, smashed to bits. From the fragments, I guessed it belonged to a small animal—most likely from within the grave itself.

But… why were the bones outside the mound? I didn’t know, nor did I particularly care. I raised my head to resume my search.

Just then, Ah Si hurried over, tugging at my sleeve and pointing at the grave.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This grave…” His hand trembled slightly as he pointed. “It’s a bone mound!”

I didn’t know what a bone mound was, but clearly Ah Si had seen something seriously disturbing, or he wouldn’t have been so flustered.

Following his gesture, I raised my flashlight and stepped forward until I stood before the modest grave.

Only then did I see its true nature.

Instantly, I felt the same shock and horror as Ah Si—perhaps even more.

In the moonlight, the grave looked ashen gray, smaller and duller than most. But on closer inspection, I realized it was anything but ordinary.

For it wasn’t earth that covered the mound, but layers upon layers of… cat corpses, in various states of decay.

The cat bodies were packed tightly together. Most had decayed to bare bone, but many still retained fur, skin, even eyes. They were interwoven, entangled, stacked so closely that each cat’s head faced outward, jaws agape, sharp fangs bared in a perpetual snarl.

Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of cat skeletons formed this little “mountain” of a grave. The pointed teeth glinted coldly in the moonlight, sending chills down our spines.

Ah Si, standing beside me, explained, “A bone mound is a grave made entirely of bones.”

I didn’t answer, but stared, transfixed, at this bewildering work.

After a moment, I noticed the most startling thing about the mound—the way the corpses were arranged.

The cats’ bodies were layered in a peculiarly intricate way, crisscrossing like a woven tapestry. Every dead cat’s paw and tail entwined with those of its neighbors, binding them all together in a tightly knit web, filled in wherever necessary with fur and gray sticky rice.

This was a true “cat grave.”

Staring at this bizarre tomb, Ah Si and I were both stunned, unable to make sense of it. Why was a grave for yin soldiers covered in cats? Why the sticky rice? Could the cats be the yin soldiers? Was the rice their rations?

My thoughts grew muddled, and for a moment I couldn’t even tell if this grave had been built by people—or by cats.

If it was manmade, then whoever built it must have been either obsessed with cats or utterly hated them. Either way, I found it deeply twisted. Of course, there was another possibility: that this grave was some strange natural phenomenon—a communal tomb where the local cats came to die.

If that were so, what force drew these creatures here? Was it something about the local landscape, or something buried beneath the grave?

I didn’t know. My ignorance drove me to ask Ah Si, “Do you know what this cat-corpse grave means?”

He hesitated, clearly reluctant to speak.

I pressed him, “There’s no cops here—just spit it out if you know.”

After a moment’s thought, Ah Si shared what he knew.

He said that back when he was tomb robbing, his boss once unearthed a similar bone mound in Changsha—though that one was made of dog bones, not cats. Local rumor held that the mound contained the remains of a dog spirit that had achieved immortality.

“They figured anything left by a spirit must be a treasure, so they robbed the grave,” Ah Si said.

After much effort, his boss dug through the putrid heap of dog bones and found only a copper box.

“What was inside?” I asked.

Ah Si grinned wryly. “Well, supposedly the immortal remains of the dog spirit. But honestly? Just a dog tooth! The box was worth more than its contents.”

I was speechless—but what he said next was even more so.

After obtaining the tooth, his boss insisted it could ward off evil, fashioned it into a pendant, and wore it everywhere. But less than a year later, he died in Baoshan’s Scorpion Tomb, not even leaving a corpse behind.

After that, survivor Ah Si lost all faith in ghosts and spirits.

“Just goes to show—superstition kills! Better to study the law!” he sighed.

I nodded, then returned my gaze to the grisly mound. If Ah Si was right, there might be some “cat spirit” relic buried here too. But why call it the Yin Soldiers’ Grave instead of the Cat Grave? Could the yin soldiers be cats? Or was there another copper box below, holding some object revered by locals?

To be honest, I had little interest. What lay beneath had nothing to do with us. On an ordinary day, I might have been curious enough to investigate, but now, with Wang Hou and Hongye missing and the “white food parasite” afflicting us, we had no time for distractions.

Just as I was about to turn my attention elsewhere, something happened on Zhao Hong’s side that forced us to refocus on the bizarre grave.

Without warning, Zhao Hong’s black dog began barking furiously, as if sounding an alarm—its attention fixed squarely on one of the cat skulls atop the mound.