Volume One, Chapter Seven: Fabrics

Master Qi raised his wrist lantern high and said, “Take a good, clear look—what is this?”

Forcing myself to overcome my fear, I forced my eyes open and finally saw the entire creature clearly: antlers like a deer’s, a serpent’s body, phoenix-like eyes, and fish scales.

—This was unmistakably a dragon.

More precisely, a wooden dragon carving.

The dragon is a symbol of the Chinese nation and one of its most important cultural icons. As early as 8,000 years ago, in the Xinglongwa culture of the Liao River basin, dragons with pig heads and snake bodies already appeared. During the Sui and Tang dynasties, dragons were considered heavenly beasts. The “wooden dragon” (a homophone for “tomb dragon”) was a common guardian spirit placed in tombs.

“Master, I don’t think this is a tomb guardian,” I thought to myself. If it were a tomb guardian, it should stay obediently in the tomb. How could this wooden dragon move on its own? And slide like that, playing face-to-face with me?

“That’s right. I feel it looks too ugly,” Master Qi glanced at it with disdain and shifted his gaze away. He explained that wood carving demands high skill in both sculpting and painting. The lines on this wooden dragon were rough and awkward; its proportions strange and unappealing. It was likely a product of common folk craftsmanship, not the imperial court. If any carver dared to present such a thing to the emperor, he’d surely bring ruin upon his entire clan.

“Master, you have some knowledge of sculpture and painting then?” I asked.

“Not exactly a researcher, but I know a bit about the standards. The image of the Chinese dragon was basically fixed by the Song dynasty. The Song scholar Luo Yuan summarized the dragon’s features in the ‘Erya Yi’: antlers like a deer, head like a camel, eyes like a ghost, neck like a snake, belly like a clam, scales like a fish, claws like an eagle, palms like a tiger, ears like an ox—this is called the ‘Nine Similarities.’ He also divided the dragon’s body into three parts: from head to shoulder, shoulder to waist, waist to tail. Each part’s proportions must be strictly maintained—this is called the ‘Three Sections.’ This ‘Three Sections and Nine Similarities’ method became the standard for painting dragons in later generations. A dragon drawn this way looks pleasing to the eye.”

“But this is a Tang dynasty dragon, right? There’s no need to be bound by Song, Yuan, Ming, or Qing dynasty rules,” I reasoned. “This must be characteristic of Tang dragon art. It’s just that modern people find it hard to understand ancient aesthetics.”

My first impression of the whole dragon was that it was wild and unrestrained.

Its body twisted sinuously like a slender sea serpent. From the dragon’s head, I could faintly make out fins on its back and two wings entwined with auspicious clouds. The four legs below were not eagle talons but thick beast hooves like a qilin’s, holding up this four- or five-meter-long giant.

I had no doubt about the carving and painting skill involved. Even the small patch of the dragon’s forehead visible to me employed complex woodcarving techniques such as relief and openwork carving. Though it was a millennium old, its dragon eyes were still vivid, glaring down at us invaders as if ready to roar thunderously at any moment.

If... if this level of craftsmanship is considered childish, I dare not imagine what kind of masterpiece would ever meet Master Qi’s approval.

“Yeah, only these dragon eyes are carved passably well. Apprentice, you must not have seen the real thing—the true dragon that roams boundlessly across the eight directions and circles the nine heavens!” Master Qi pointed at the wooden dragon and said, “Don’t blame me for being blunt. When I was young, I worked in national security. I had a friend surnamed Sheng who once entrusted me with several dragon paintings from the Republic era. I safely escorted them to the Louvre in France and returned them intact. They were to be exhibited internationally, bringing honor to the country. Those dragons were truly magnificent—without even dotting the pupils, they stirred wind and thunder in the skies. So now, after seeing this, I say after Huangshan there’s no other mountain, after Wushan there are no other clouds.”

Fine, you certainly have taste, sir. I muttered casually and was about to move on.

Unexpectedly, Master Qi stood behind me and firmly pressed down on the back of my head. “Don’t move,” he said.

—“Look closer. What else is wrong with this wooden dragon?”

I blinked and examined it more carefully. To my surprise, I noticed a thin thread shimmering along the slender dragon’s body.

Wait a moment. We’re a hundred meters underwater, trapped in a tomb. How could there be sunlight or reflections?

It was kesi silk. Lowering my head as Master Qi pressed down gently, he whispered that kesi weaving flourished in the Tang dynasty and peaked in the Song, continuing to the present day. Though the dragon was crudely carved, its internal mechanism was not to be underestimated. Ancient artisans deliberately embedded kesi silk beneath each dragon scale, threading them through like muscles and veins throughout the dragon’s body.

Moreover, the dragon’s surface was woven with silk threads as well. They wound, connected, and stretched taut over the carving, transparent as spider silk and highly concealed. Ancient people lacked modern flashlights and only had dim candlelight in the pitch-black tomb. It was impossible for the naked eye to detect these fine threads. Any attempt to touch or move the dragon would immediately trigger a trap. And most deadly was that silk traps do not corrode like metal ones. As the saying goes, Chinese kesi lasts a thousand years without decay.

Master Qi rubbed my head, as if comforting me.

“It’s okay, apprentice, don’t move. Just rest on this big dragon. Because the vital point of this mechanism happens to be at your forehead.”

As he finished speaking, I finally saw the gleaming thread clearly. Its two ends connected to the dragon’s left and right neck sides, with the thread running right against my forehead.

From the corner of my eye, I saw two small dragon scales on either side being pulled up by the thread. The trap was clearly triggered.

The wooden carving must have just pressed against the stone door behind. When the door opened, the carving naturally slid out, coming into close contact with me, my forehead touching that thread.

It’s easy to imagine: if Master Qi hadn’t stopped me and I had leaned back to avoid it, the pressure on the middle thread would instantly vanish, and the two small scales would snap back into place.

The trap would have been triggered.

The fear I had just suppressed crawled back up my spine.

It wasn’t fear of triggering the trap itself that unnerved me, but the disbelief that such a trap could exist without my sensing it. As a child, I was hypersensitive to touch—friends joked that I was like a delicate princess who could feel a pea beneath seven mattresses.

Yet this thread was so fine and gentle—pressed against my forehead and face, and I didn’t notice?

“Master, how did you know there was a trap here?” I stiffened instantly.

If I could guess the general nature of the water trap at the first door, this intricate silk thread trap was completely new to me—unheard of and unseen.

“Child, I’ve walked through more tombs and stepped on more traps than you’ve entered pits,” Master Qi said with unpretentious laughter.

“So what if I trigger this trap by accident? What then? How do I deal with it?” I asked, keeping my words brief to conserve energy.

Master Qi only chuckled twice. He said he had never provoked such a trap before, so he didn’t know exactly what would happen if triggered.

“If we’re lucky, some hidden mechanical darts might be shot out, but after a thousand years, the mechanism might have corroded and become inactive. If we’re unlucky, something might crawl out from between the dragon scales, releasing colorless, odorless toxic inorganic substances—which have no expiration date and can be lethal.” He said this slowly.

The three archaeologists witnessing the entire exchange grew anxious and kept asking what to do.

I lowered my head, motionless and silent, quietly thinking of a solution. I don’t like sharing my emotions. Most of the time, I fight alone in the depths of tombs. I’m used to lying on a bed of needles—turning over hurts unrelentingly, yet I endure it.

My first thought was that if we were tomb robbers, once such a trap was detected, it would be easy to handle. Wooden threads are not stone or steel blades; they burn. Just light a fire behind the carving and burn the whole dragon down.

But we are cultural relics police, cautious not to harm artifacts. Burning such a delicate funerary object would be desecration and dereliction of duty. The dominant thought in my mind was to protect this cultural treasure intact and whole, even though it had attacked us first, trying to kill me.

“Don’t be so tense. Apprentice, look at you—you just had a bath in seawater, and now you’re sweating all over.” Master Qi’s untimely laughter broke my train of thought. He skillfully massaged my tense shoulders and said, “Feeling rested? If you’ve rested enough, we’ll go. If not, lie down on this dragon and take a nap.”

“Go? I’m trapped here, how can I go anywhere?” I ground my teeth and said, “I told you not to open this door earlier, but you wouldn’t listen. Now I’m bearing the trap for you, and you’re laughing at me!”

Master Qi seemed to deliberately tease me for being unable to move. He pinched my nose and poked my face like playing with a toy. When he saw I was truly angry, he smiled and said to the archaeologists behind, “You two, take the batteries out and hand me the flashlights.”

I heard the two called names respond with puzzled “Oh,” and rustling sounds as they obediently handed their empty flashlights to Master Qi.

I saw Master Qi stride to the wooden dragon and wedge the two flashlights beneath two dragon scales, propping them up like simple levers.

When he finished, he clapped his hands and said to me, “Get up.”

I looked up in disbelief.

The middle thread was still taut, the two dragon scales still lifted, everything intact, no damage to the relic. But I was free.

I took two steps forward, my head dizzy. Rubbing my temples, I had no idea my wrists were trembling slightly. I couldn’t accept it: such a simple solution, yet I never thought of it.

“I told you—if you’re really tired, just lie down and rest a while. Since we went underwater until now, plus the overtime you put in last night, you haven’t slept a wink in over a day. With low energy, even the smartest brain slows down.”

Master Qi’s eyes twinkled with layers of laughter. He said, “Apprentice, this is your first time underground. It’s good to see things for yourself so you won’t be helpless later. After all, in our line of work, the commander’s chair is at the frontline. Many things can’t be figured out just by sitting safely in the rear and thinking with your brain. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re a strategist like Zhang Zifang.”

I had no face to reply and said, “Don’t walk beside me, hurry to the rear.”

“Ah, this really is the farmer and the snake, Lü Dongbin and the dog, Hao Jian and the old lady, and you and me,” Master Qi sighed and immediately slipped to the back of the team, avoiding my glare.

Heeding earlier lessons, I cautiously led everyone on a wide detour, steering well clear of the wooden dragon.

Master Qi walked at the rear, shining his lantern and suddenly brightening, “Wow, this entire carving is made from agarwood.”

I, too, took a deep breath. Despite the millennium, a faint fragrance still lingered. A subtle, dark scent drifting, wisps of auspicious clouds rising, fresh and lingering. Examining the wood grain, it flowed smoothly with almost no flaws—clearly a rare, gigantic, top-grade piece of agarwood.

Agarwood is not a single tree species but a semi-woody, semi-resinous mixture formed when a tree undergoes natural injuries like lightning strikes, fire, insect damage, or bird pecking, and then repairs itself. Known as “king of all aromas” and “wooden relic,” the very word “relic” hints at how precious this material is—like a Buddha’s bone relic, the distilled essence of heaven and earth.

“Generally, agarwood pieces aren’t large. Making a Buddha pendant or a bracelet is feasible, but a complete, four-to-five-meter square giant agarwood carving is unbelievable. Could it be pieced together?” Master Qi clicked his tongue in amazement.

The Ming and Qing dynasties had a “patchwork” carving technique, joining small agarwood pieces together before carving. Recently, some even combine agarwood with jade and jadeite, but all because agarwood material is too scarce.

“I should tell you, the Tang people loved this stuff. Even Li Bai’s ‘Qing Ping Diao’ poem mentions ‘Explaining the endless hatred of spring wind, by the agarwood pavilion leaning on the railing.’ Experts say the entire agarwood pavilion might have been carved hollow from agarwood. You can imagine how obsessed the Tang were with agarwood.”

“A whole pavilion carved from agarwood? During the An-Shi Rebellion, it could have burned as firewood for years,” Master Qi babbled as he strode forward.

After circling the dragon, I noticed the silk threads covered it completely—like longitude and latitude lines on a globe intersecting to form exquisitely intricate geometric patterns.

Despite this, compared to other deadly anti-tomb-robbing traps, this wooden dragon seemed somewhat inferior, more showy than practical.

Just as I wondered about its exact purpose, I suddenly discovered the dragon’s tail was missing.

—Where the tail should have been was now replaced by a square cross-section wooden rod.

“Riding the dragon to ascend heaven, one need not see the tail,” Master Qi said. “Look at the third stone door.”

I looked from afar and saw a cat’s-eye hole carved in the third door.

However, this small hole was also square-shaped.

I immediately understood.

“Amazing, right? This transformed dragon tail rod fits perfectly into the third stone door,” Master Qi mused. “This wooden dragon was likely placed there to tightly block the door. If anyone wants to open the third door and continue deeper into the tomb, they must remove this giant wooden dragon, inevitably triggering the silk thread trap.”

But the designer never imagined that the seawater just now had helped us greatly—washing this door-guarding dragon out from the third stone door’s lock and pushing it to the second door, breaking through two layers of traps at once. We were fortunate in misfortune.

“We shouldn’t linger here,” Master Qi warned. “We haven’t triggered the trap ourselves, but the seawater might have. Better keep a distance from this wooden dragon and hurry onward.”

“Wait a moment. I’ll go check the entrance for any inscriptions.”

With that, I felt my way to the third stone door.

Sure enough, near the cat’s-eye hole, I found two ancient-style characters engraved: “Tai” and “Bai.”