Volume One, Chapter 11: The Prize

I could not help but be astonished, coming to a sudden halt.

My master, who always delighted in playing devil’s advocate, was actually defying the consensus to support my choice—to push open yet another unknown stone door?

But upon reflection, I realized his primary motive must still be the protection of cultural relics. I need not flatter myself. Time was of the essence; the historical and cultural heritage of us Chinese people should be firmly held in our own hands. We must never let foreign spies get there first!

We practically jogged, rapidly traversing the third atrium and feeling our way to the fourth stone door.

"Two more characters," Master Qi said with a smile, looking at me.

"Oracle bone script again," I replied, eyes fixed on the door.

These were the characters for "Hua Chi" (Flowery Pool). The first character was easy to recognize, resembling a bundle of firewood; the second was more complex, featuring a stack of stones on the left and a murmuring stream on the right.

Up to this point, all the stone gates and inscriptions we had encountered consisted of two characters. They were all imitations of ancient script, located beneath apertures, and did not end with terms like "palace," "chamber," "tower," or "pavilion." Like the plaque on a stone gate or a couplet for the Spring Festival, they likely corroborated one another. I couldn't help but feel that this ethereal "Hua Chi" must have some connection to the "Hukou" (Pot Mouth), "Chenxiang" (Agarwood), and "Taibai" (Great White) of the previous three doors.

Yet, as the stone door opened, I felt distinctly that this atrium was completely different from the others. The door frame was low, the crumbling stone walls were jagged and sharp, and the low ceiling seemed to sag under immense pressure, nearly brushing the top of our heads.

It looked like a small, pagoda-shaped atrium. The circular, coffered ceiling was within reach, yet it lacked any magnificent murals—there was nothing at all. Looking up, I could not tell how high it went; it was pitch black, and our one flashlight and two wrist-lights were insufficient to illuminate it.

There were no sturdy, thick foundations here, only the pungent, salty stench of seawater, silently permeating the crags. My flashlight flickered, catching a pool in the center of the atrium. The dark surface appeared oval in my field of vision, and the edge of the pool was ringed with strange sandalwood-colored stones, like the binding on a jar of fine wine.

In the dead center, the largest and most striking stone bore the characters "Hua Chi" engraved in Tang-style regular script, echoing the inscription on the stone gate. As for what else lay in the darkness, I could not tell.

"These stones have quite an age to them," Master Qi said, unable to resist reaching out to touch one. But as soon as he extended his hand, he was stopped by my reprimanding gaze. He gave a sheepish smile and pointed to spots the size of sesame seeds on the surface.

The stones seemed to fade slowly. First, the black turned into a purplish-gray, then became covered in moss-like aquatic plants, blending into a sandalwood color, until eventually, even the moss peeled away, leaving only dry, withered spots. This was what we saw before us.

I circled the "Hua Chi," surveying the atrium, and concluded that three things were amiss.

First, there were too many atriums. As mentioned before, the tombs of princes and princesses rarely exceeded six atriums, while those of first or second-rank officials usually had no more than five; those of lower rank might have none at all. Yet this obscure tomb owner had managed to construct four atriums, rivaling the nobility. Was there no law? What exactly was he trying to do?

Second, the entire tomb was built too well. It wasn't just "ingenious work"; it was the work of nature itself. While I am no professional geologist, I felt this tomb resembled a naturally formed submarine karst cave.

Submarine karst caves are a unique type of volcanic seafloor topography, carbonate caves developed below sea level, primarily formed by the chemical dissolution of carbonate rocks into depressions and pits. Such natural caves generally form below sea level; I understood them to be like coral reefs, providing diverse living spaces and shelter for marine life. But a submarine tomb that was not only underwater but also contained oxygen—that was unheard of.

Even if it were naturally formed and later modified by humans, how could ancient technology from over a thousand years ago manage to excavate a massive tomb under the sea without leakage or collapse? Engineering like this today would be akin to digging a cross-sea tunnel. How could the ancients have possibly done it?

Third, the path we had traveled was far too deep.

Tomb passages and depth are usually proportional. Experienced tomb robbers once told me that if you dig down ten or twenty meters with a Luoyang shovel to reach the tomb roof and then turn to tunnel forward, the passage is usually twenty meters deep. Of course, more secure tombs might be forty or sixty meters deep, following a 1:2 or 1:3 ratio.

But from the moment we entered the tomb until now, we had walked for so long without seeing an end, making it impossible not to feel uneasy. The tomb was under the sea, with a vertical depth of nearly a hundred meters. Was its horizontal length also scaled proportionally, extending for kilometers? Were the ancients truly planning to build a cross-sea tunnel?

"The road ahead is still long, so let's stop here, Officer Shi." The spy on the communicator interrupted my thoughts, his voice carrying that infuriatingly lazy tone.

This time, however, I remained perfectly calm. Master Qi was pressing his ear against my communicator, listening in.

*Master, do you want to say a few words to him?* I signaled to Master Qi. I remembered him saying that if this spy dared to speak again, he should be told to crawl back across the Pacific.

*No, no need.* Master Qi pondered for a moment, then pressed my hand down and shook his head. It meant the plan had changed. We should listen to what schemes the spy was plotting next.

"Officer Shi, you see the 'Hua Chi' in front of you, right? Please go into the water now and salvage a pair of Tang Sancai (tri-colored glazed) chess jars. They are the 'souvenirs' I want." The spy finished his request in one breath and waited silently for my reply.

Chess jars? Master Qi and I exchanged a silent look across the communicator. The spy specifically wanted a pair of chess jars. And he wanted me to go into the water to get them myself.

Master Qi thought for a moment and gave a slight nod, signaling for me to agree and continue listening.

"Fine," I said cautiously. "But in a pool this big, where do you expect me to find two small jars? You could at least tell me how big they are, what color, and what distinguishing features they have."

The spy on the other end chuckled. "Officer Shi, don't worry. You and these two treasures share a psychic connection. You will recognize them at a glance. Because the patterns on the two jars are identical to the patterns on the artifact from the case you are investigating—that Spring and Autumn period bronze *you*!"

Master Qi and I looked at each other again, both seeing the shock in the other's eyes. This expedition truly had yielded unexpected gains. If we hadn't entered the tomb ourselves, who could have imagined that the clues to our national treasure case were hidden here, deeper than the bottom of the Pacific Ocean?

"Good luck. There are other fine treasures in the water; you may salvage them as well. Consider them 'prizes' from me."

*Hah, he thinks he's handing out gold stars in kindergarten? Not only is he forcing us, the cultural relic police, to help him steal artifacts, but he's also 'rewarding' us? The audacity!* Master Qi sneered, signaling this to me.

I curled my lips into a cold smile but readily agreed with the spy: "Fine, I'll go take a look."

In the darkness, I slowly approached the "Hua Chi." It was a small stone pool, sleeping quietly in the center of the atrium. The water was calm, appearing smooth, dark, and murky yellow-green, like ink-black river water wrapping around large chunks of bronze. It resembled a massive, heavy, lusterless coffin, its surface wrapped in smooth silk and coated in thick tar.

I shone my flashlight around the pool's rim, seeing that it had been meticulously polished by ancient craftsmen until it was as smooth as a mirror made of pure steel. Looking closely, the wall was inlaid with shimmering gemstones, jadeite, beige jade, and many rare seashells whose names I did not know.

It felt as though the pool had been chiseled out of a giant boulder. There were no chaotic rocks, only well-placed stone "peaks" and rolling stone "ridges" quietly surrounding the smooth, tranquil water. Unfortunately, the water was too turbid to see the bottom. I couldn't help but wonder how deep the "Hua Chi" was and if the bottom held the same wonders described in Liu Zongyuan’s *Record of the Small Stone Pool*—shoals, islets, crags, and rocks.

I crouched by the edge, cupped a handful of water, and wiped my face, wanting to test the temperature. I immediately regretted it. I don't want to recall that feeling again. It was like pressing one's face against a fog-covered ice pane in the dead of winter.

"Too cold? Then don't go in." Master Qi stood by, arms crossed, having watched the entire process of me testing the water temperature. His tone was uncharacteristically serious. "Police work does not require senseless sacrifice. Your life is worth more."

"Don't worry, Master. As long as I'm fast, I can salvage the artifact within three minutes... I'll be safe. No suffocation, no hypothermia." I deliberately patted my chest, trying to be reassuring.

Of course, I understood the risks. But the thought that the artifact I had been longing for was right there in the pool made me impatient to dive in.

We had no oxygen tanks; we were forced to rely on freediving. Freediving is the second most dangerous sport in the world after skydiving, requiring complete reliance on the diver's lung capacity, or abdominal breathing.

But this diver had to be me. Growing up on the shores of the West Sea, I was accustomed to swimming, diving, rowing, and surfing. I had self-taught the Frenzel maneuver for ear equalization, and as an adult, I could hold my breath underwater for over three minutes.

The police academy had a swimming pool, which we called the "ferrying pool." The instructors only taught two strokes: breaststroke and freestyle. Breaststroke is the easiest to learn, and freestyle is the fastest. A child of the West Sea like me didn't need a teacher; I was like a silver fish in the water, diving and playing after just a lesson or two.

But the ferrying pool was the place Master Qi feared the most. Back then, when he was my classmate, he would sometimes sit on the edge, afraid to enter the water, and I would play pranks by pulling him in. He would then cling to me for dear life. Later, through my personal instruction, he—a northerner—finally learned to keep his head above water and do a clumsy dog-paddle, but if you asked him to dive, it would cost him his life. Without an oxygen tank, he would never do it.

"I know exactly what your diving level is," I said, blocking Master Qi. I gave him simple instructions: "You stay on the shore to provide support. Count to two hundred; if I haven't returned by then, come into the water to find me."

Master Qi moved his lips as if to warn me, but he stopped short.

I finished my warm-up, put on my diving goggles and waterproof wrist-light, took a deep breath, and dived.

The tools were primitive. I had no weights and no fins. I silently hoped the pool wasn't too deep, or I wouldn't be able to reach the bottom in time.

It didn't feel like a pool of stagnant water. I keenly sensed an undercurrent brushing against my back like a tickle. The water in the "Hua Chi" was also salty, much like seawater, and I couldn't help but suspect the pool was connected to the sea. But for some reason, while the ocean outside was warm, the water in the pool was bone-chillingly cold.

As I swam, I began to regret it. The cold water tore at my chest. Nothing could make me warm now. My feet were stiff, my calves were trembling, and my mouth was sour. Soon, my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. From the moment I started the dive, my chest felt tight and uncomfortable, and my heart beat heavily and slowly, as if it would stop at any second.

I realized belatedly that if this pool were truly connected to the sea, the entire tomb should have been subjected to such immense pressure that it would have been flooded with water long ago.

I laughed at my own stupidity. Then, I heard the salt water bubbling and rushing in my ears, and my throat became increasingly starved for air. An irresistible cold had seeped deep into my marrow.

My wrist-light couldn't shine very far; everything I saw was yellow-green water, devoid of life. Stirring the murky bottom, the light looked like a dying campfire or green mist. I didn't know how many seconds had passed, but I still hadn't touched the bottom. I thought, *Am I really going to drown here?*

The thought vanished as quickly as it came. I began to reflect on why I had put myself in such danger. Finally, Master Qi's words echoed in my mind—*To know the truth of a matter, one must practice it.*

Why do we, the cultural relic police, follow the footsteps of tomb robbers? Is it worth it? Is it right?

My mind was a tangled mess. I could only blame my own negligence. I thought of how, when I dove before, I was always surrounded by sunshine, beaches, and waves. I had never plunged into an ice hole, nor had I ever been in such mortal danger, frozen to the point where I had only one breath left.

Now, I was paying the price.

In the end, I sank downward almost unconsciously, with only one thought left in my mind: "I can't survive this. I'm going to die."

At the coldest moment of my life, my eyes heavy, I dimly saw a flickering flame at the bottom of the water.