Volume One, Chapter Six: The True Third Rank

Across the roaring sea, I gratefully said to Master Qi, “Thanks to you, we police officers can uphold a simple promise—to protect the safety of the people.”

But when I looked at him again, I found him lying in the water, playing wildly and shouting happily, “Hey, apprentice! Doesn’t this feel like the final waterfall from ‘Boys vs. Girls Challenge’?”

I was momentarily stunned.

Then he grinned and added, “So, when we climb the hill later, do you think we can win a big refrigerator to take home?”

The flattering words of thanks I was about to say died in my throat. I wanted to take back all my compliments about him. Having a police master who loves jokes like this sometimes wears me out—I even feel like calling the cops on him.

After shedding our diving gear, everyone finally could communicate openly. I saw the archaeologists all wearing worried expressions, but their eyes on the two of us were still full of trust. It seemed the national consensus was already, “When in trouble, call the police.”

“Hey, officer, what’s going on here?” one loudly asked.

“What do we do next? We’ll follow your lead!” another chimed in.

To calm everyone, I lied that there was a minor water seepage in the tomb passage ahead, no need to worry, the seawater would drain soon, and we just needed to be patient.

Of course, I didn’t mention the spy, because the enemy was surely still watching our every move from the shadows. Please understand that in the current publicly known national security cases, although often involving bribery, the statecraft struggles between nations cannot rely solely on such small favors or slow infiltration. In the unseen places, those ruthless enemies use violence and threats to force compliance. If I exposed this lightly, the other side would be furious and do more harm to us.

After about half an hour, the seawater indeed drained away. While waiting, I roughly estimated the total water volume per second using the universal formula—depth times width times velocity—and speculated that there was likely a small basin above this underwater tomb storing seawater.

Such basins result from water erosion, glacial action, and other surface processes; they are like circular ponds collecting seawater. Once the enemy drilled through the basin floor, water continuously flowed into the tomb. The initial loud rumble must have been the enemy blasting through the rock layer between the basin and the tomb, diverting the seawater below.

We dragged our dripping bodies forward. Two pieces of good news awaited us.

The first: despite the massive influx of seawater into the tomb passage, the water level didn’t noticeably rise; it even fell slightly.

This meant we were climbing uphill. At this rate, we would soon free ourselves from the threat of seawater. Based on my earlier guess, once we find the connection between the basin floor and the tomb ceiling—likely blown open by the spy—we could escape through that hole. That opening was our hope for survival.

The second good news: most of the stone wall had been shattered by the tremendous seawater pressure, almost pulverized, allowing us to pass easily.

I directed everyone through the rubble, then noticed Master Qi still fiddling with the stone wall. He squatted, picked up a small stone fragment, carefully examined its patterns, pondered for a moment, then gently placed it into his waist pouch.

“What did you find this time?” I slowed my pace, deliberately lagging behind to ask him.

Master Qi smiled faintly and whispered, “Apprentice, you have to be prepared. The trap we encountered isn’t the same as the one those grave robbers ran into. The path we’re on is different from theirs. If they’d met such a big waterfall back then, the stone wall wouldn’t still be intact. They must have found another way to escape.”

“Then where do you think they went down the tomb? How did they get out?” I asked.

Master Qi didn’t answer immediately. He just touched the stone in his pouch, smiled lightly, and said, “Who knows? We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Indeed, we proceeded step by step. In my mind, according to the layout of Tang dynasty tombs, this stone wall was at the passage’s end, the “transition chamber,” and the next main structure was the “courtyard.” Sure enough, once we exited the transition chamber, we saw a spacious courtyard, its surrounding stone walls covered with magnificent, exquisite murals glowing with vibrant colors.

I raised my wrist lamp and scanned the walls:

This first courtyard contained no burial goods, but the murals were perfectly preserved. Anyone with eyes could tell the grave robbers hadn’t been here.

If I were to describe grave robbers with an idiom, it would be “vicious to the extreme.” “Extreme” means absolute. Grave robbers always go to extremes, doing whatever it takes. They call themselves “gold seekers,” but they never just take gold and jewels. Anything that can be sold—the epitaph stones, burial garments stripped clean, even murals glued and scraped off in places—they take it all.

This courtyard had a square vaulted ceiling, painted from southeast to northwest with the golden crow, moon hare, and many stars. In the center was the Big Dipper outlined in white lime paint, its handle long and dazzling. Beneath the tomb ceiling was the courtyard; the east and west walls bore the Azure Dragon and White Tiger, while the south and north walls displayed the Vermilion Bird and Black Tortoise—common celestial diagrams indicating the tomb’s cardinal directions during the Tang era. Moreover, the midsections of all four walls formed a continuous ring depicting a long line of gallant Tang dynasty hunting cavalry, shooting arrows at the sun and moon, horses treading green hills.

Upon seeing this, the archaeologists immediately halted their steps. They no longer worried about being trapped; instead, they stopped to admire, chattering about high-grade Tang murals, vaulted celestial maps, and the “array of halberds,” occasionally exclaiming in amazement. As if to compensate for not bringing cameras, they seemed to want to press their eyes against the murals, scanning every detail. Fortunately, Master Qi and I—both devoid of artistic talent or appreciation—kept urging them to keep moving.

We only needed one glance to grasp the essentials; all the mural’s fine details were fleeting clouds in passing—there was no need to linger.

Current academic consensus holds that large noble tombs in the Tang dynasty often featured open courtyards and niches. The number of courtyards corresponded somewhat to the tomb owner’s status: princes and princesses could have more than six courtyards, first- or second-rank officials in early Tang had up to five, lower-ranking officials even fewer, sometimes none.

Courtyards were often adorned with large murals showcasing the tomb owner’s status and daily life. Their importance lies precisely here. Many national treasures are called so because they serve as a window into ancient times, allowing us to glimpse society, history, prosperity, and splendid civilization from centuries past. This is a precious legacy shared by all Chinese.

In Tang tombs, all murals are generally divided into two parts by the last courtyard: the front depicts the tomb owner’s hunting excursions, the rear shows life in the inner residence and its ancillary buildings. The halberd array depicted also has significance. The Old Book of Tang states: “In Tang regulations, officials of third rank or above could display halberds at their gates.” Counting carefully, the east and west walls here display twelve halberds. The rear images are too worn near the tomb passage entrance to discern. Also, the murals lack the ceremonial or musical scenes common in palaces, but show scenes of playing qin and chess, floral chessboard patterns, and religiously themed immortals playing chess, with vivid expressions.

Master Qi and I exchanged a glance.

Judging by the murals, it was clear this tomb owner had a deep connection to Go: first, he was likely a highly ranked official who had rendered notable service related to Go; second, he might have been a minor official titled “Go attendant,” but his immediate family or clan must have held a third-rank or higher position.

Why the family rather than the tomb owner himself? Because as far as we know, even the greatest Go master of the flourishing Tang era—“Go Sage” Wang Jixin—though a top player, was merely a court entertainer like Li Bai, officially serving the emperor’s amusement without rank.

This tomb owner, daring enough to build such a high-rank “Go-themed” Tang tomb, either earned great merits closely tied to Go or relied on the immense power of his family, surpassing regulations.

“Look at this mural—it’s the ‘Wang Jixin Go Scene.’ This unlucky ‘householder’ must be from the mid to late Tang period,” Master Qi said as he examined the mural.

Some grave robbers call the tomb owner the “East Lord,” because they rely on the “East Lord” for their loot.

As for us cultural relics police, we don’t call the tomb owner “owner” publicly; we call him “householder.” Because in a sense, they are also victims of burglary.

Following Master Qi’s finger, I looked toward the east wall: two women playing Go, while a third person stretched her neck like a roasted goose, seemingly eavesdropping.

This painting easily calls to mind a Tang dynasty anecdote recorded by Li Zhao in the “Supplement to the National History”: “Go Sage” Wang Jixin, confident in his unbeatable skill, once stayed at an inn in the capital. At night, he overheard an elderly woman calling her daughter-in-law for another game. They spoke moves aloud, and Wang silently memorized their play. The next day, he reproduced their moves but found he couldn’t match them. He realized that true masters exist among the common folk, beyond even him.

This mural, drawing on a Tang story, indicates this tomb owner lived in the mid to late Tang period.

We continued forward to the first courtyard’s end, where a second transition chamber appeared.

What annoyed me was that this second chamber also had a stone wall door about two to three meters tall, tightly shut and impassable.

The stone door also had a peephole.

Below and to the right of the peephole was another vertical line of archaic text—“Agarwood.”

Agarwood? What did that mean? And how did it relate to the first door’s “Hu Kou” inscription?

With these questions swirling in my mind, I immediately ordered everyone: “Search the entire courtyard!”

Since the second stone door was intact and unbroken by water, seawater must have leaked into the tomb through this first courtyard, and the exit must be here.

But the archaeologists all shook their heads, telling me not to imagine things. We had just thoroughly admired every mural on the walls. There were no cracks, not even a small niche hole.

There might be another possibility. Master Qi stepped forward and gently patted my shoulder, reminding me, “When the seawater surged into the tomb, this second stone door might have originally opened inward.”

So when water rushed out from inside, the current acted like an invisible hand, “helping” to close the door.

That’s why the stone door wasn’t damaged by the water!

I bent down for a quick inspection and, disappointed, found Master Qi was right. The heavy stone door’s pivots, unlike delicate crossbow mechanisms, do not corrode. But built underground, after millennia of tectonic movements, even the strongest mechanisms wore out. Eventually, the sturdy door yielded to eternal time, unlatched itself, and swung inward.

Evidence was at the door’s bottom: clear water marks extending inside. The door was hardly sturdy—I could push it shakily open with one hand.

“Officer Shi, the second stone door is broken. A gentle push can open it,” the spy yawned deeply nearby, like a bear just waking from hibernation, hungry for flesh. He added, “Hope you don’t lose your nerve once it opens.”

...Lose my nerve? What did he mean?

What danger lurked behind the door?

Questions flooded my mind again. As my hands reached to push the door open, suddenly they lost strength.

Everyone had been pushing with me, but my sudden pause caused the door, about to open, to slowly close again. People stopped, looking at me in confusion, as if asking what had happened.

“Step aside. I’ll do it myself,” I said, pushing everyone away.

“What, you think you can open such a tall stone door alone? You have the strength of a giant?” Master Qi stood firm, refusing to yield. He ordered the others to spread out on both sides and push hard—no time to waste.

As the stone door was about to swing open, I felt anxious but couldn’t stop them. I reluctantly stood in the most dangerous spot, ready to adapt.

The door suddenly crashed open.

Everyone gasped as if seeing a ghost:

“Something slid out from behind the door!”

Immediately, I felt a cold touch on my face—like an icy tongue licking my nose—sending shivers down my spine. When I opened my eyes, I was face to face with a pair of huge, coppery beast eyes!

At that moment, I understood that in extreme terror, the mind goes blank, unable to react. I couldn’t move or utter a sound.

I stared at the beast eyes for half a second. That brief moment felt like half a century.

Then, instinctively, I tilted my head back, trying to retreat from the terrifying creature.

But unexpectedly, Master Qi suddenly reached out and firmly pressed my head down. He wouldn’t let me turn away, forcing me to keep staring straight into those beastly eyes.

He said coldly, “Don’t move.”