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墨書 Inktalez
The secret passage was about two people wide, extending endlessly underground, with the flashlight unable to reach its end. I motioned for my senior sister to follow me as we descended into the dark tunnel. Just as we stepped onto the stone steps, the Gemini Tree behind us made a soft rustling sound and closed shut.
I hurriedly searched for a switch, but the inside of the tree hollow was bare, not even a crack to be found. My senior sister stopped me and said, “Let’s just go down and take a look.”
I replied in frustration, “How could that foolish mouse find this mechanism?”
She analyzed, “The Mao Mouse naturally prefers living in tree hollows. It might have stumbled upon this secret passage by chance and, through familiarity, made it its home.”
Taking out a locator device, she noted that the red light from the Moon Meteorite was still very faint, but the intervals of its flickering were getting longer. She shone it downwards and said, “Let’s go.”
The stone steps beneath us were polished smooth, with low gaps between each step, making the descent gentle and manageable. As we went deeper, the passage widened until we could stand up straight.
At that moment, my senior sister pointed out something on the ground. There were several distinct bloodstains on the steps. I reached down to touch them and found that they were still wet; they must have been left by the person dragged by that Brown Spotted Civet.
Thinking of my junior brother Cold Bench and the others made my heart race. I desperately hoped it wasn’t any of them. But then I felt selfish for wishing misfortune upon someone else and quickly reassured myself: I hope I’m just seeing things.
We followed the bloodstains downward. Suddenly, we encountered a bend in the path. After turning around it, we found a long spiral staircase descending steeply; each step required a sharp turn that made my head spin.
I asked, “Senior sister, where is this place? It feels like we’re heading towards the center of the underground.”
She shone her flashlight on the walls on either side. They were still bare except for rough hewn marks from what seemed like heavy tools. She replied, “I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel like a good place.”
I suddenly remembered what Old Qiao had said about those tombs, and I remarked, “I once heard a friend mention that in ancient times, wealthy officials loved to spend money on building their own mausoleums while they were still alive. They would often dig three feet into the ground, constructing their graves as if to reach the center of the earth, believing that this way, their bodies would not be disturbed and their souls could attain eternal life.”
My senior sister suddenly flashed her flashlight at me. “What soul? Is that old man Qiao filling your head with nonsense again? Hmph, he doesn’t look like a good person; you shouldn’t get too close to him.”
I was nearly blinded by the sudden light and rubbed my eyes. Once she moved the flashlight away, I said, “He’s a Tomb Raider expert, very knowledgeable about this field. Even Third Granduncle Master said, ‘For matters underground, we still have to rely on Master Qiao.’” I mimicked Third Granduncle Master ’s tone, which made my senior sister laugh.
But in an instant, she returned to her usual self. It seemed she was extremely dissatisfied with Old Qiao. With a sneer, she said, “Hmph, what does he count as a scholar? He’s just a thief! Stay away from him; people like that are very slippery. With your brain, if he sold you out, you’d probably still count the money for him!”
I laughed and replied, “If he really sold me out, who would help him count the money?” Yet inside, I wondered how surprised my senior sister would be if she knew the true nature of my relationship with Old Qiao. She playfully patted my head and said, “Slippery!”
For some reason, I found myself increasingly enjoying doing things that were considered “out of line.” Seeing her worry about me made me feel incredibly satisfied—sweeter than honey.
I didn’t know how others understood this strange feeling. At that time, I had no romantic experience whatsoever (not counting those who confessed to me), and I thought it was simply because my bond with my senior sister had been strong since childhood; it felt natural.
It was this almost foolish ignorance that allowed me to enjoy a very happy time in my life. Unfortunately, this simple and pure happiness didn’t last long. Once I finally understood what my feelings for my senior sister truly were, it was already too late.
Some people you meet can define a lifetime; missing them can also define a lifetime.
In the past, I would never have expressed such cheesy sentiments. Even now, as I write this down and think about strangers reading it, my pen trembles and goosebumps rise on my arms.
I even considered deleting this section and any future stories of being alone with my senior sister as exclusive memories of mine. Now that I have the ability to do so without ruining the integrity of the story.
But then I suddenly realized that I was already damaging the story's integrity. If I did that, it would completely destroy the completeness of my feelings for my senior sister.
After much contemplation, I decided to record this segment in its entirety. It may involve some silly or awkward dialogues between inexperienced lovers. Please read it without taking it to heart; after all, I am still a novice in love, having only ever loved this one woman.
Now, let’s continue.
As we descended countless steps, we suddenly came upon some paintings on the stone walls flanking the staircase. Once we discerned the content of these artworks, the momentary joy we had felt vanished completely, leaving us with a sense that we might never be happy again.
I must clarify that my understanding of painting is quite limited. I know almost nothing about professional terminology or the nuances of appreciation and observation, which I find regrettable. Thus, I can only rely on my memories and describe what I saw in the simplest terms possible. If my words offend art or tarnish the eyes of certain artists, I hope for your understanding.
The first painting depicted a large pot that was narrow at both ends and wide in the middle, with a roaring fire beneath it. Surrounding the pot were several figures resembling ghosts (I’m not sure if they could be called human), hunched over as they added firewood beneath the pot. Inside the pot was a man with his hands bound atop his head, his face contorted in agony. His body was submerged in boiling oil up to his neck, and steam rose around his face from the scalding liquid.
The overall structure of the painting was simple and easy to understand, yet it conveyed an incredibly oppressive feeling, as if one had plunged into hell.
Next was a depiction of a man standing very straight, his head tilted back at a ninety-degree angle while his legs were spread apart—one leg upright and the other leaning forward at a thirty-degree angle. Strangely, the forward-leaning leg appeared two to three times thicker than the upright one.
From a medical perspective, this person might have suffered from stunted growth or polio.
Just as I was about to continue looking down at the next painting, I suddenly heard my senior sister gasp behind me. (To be continued.)
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