Chapter Fifty-Two: The Wordless Stele Falls

The old ferryman’s words were laden with meaning.

To gain something is always to lose something else—such is the law. What the old ferryman was telling me was a clear warning: if I wished to seize that opportunity, I would inevitably have to part with something precious.

With this in mind, I asked him what exactly I would lose.

He merely smiled faintly. “You will part with that which is most important to you. Your life, your years, your body, your soul—or perhaps your love, your family, your friendships. Anything precious enough may be lost.”

“Can I choose for myself?” I pressed.

He gave a wry smile. “If choice were possible, I would not be a ferryman on the River of Forgetfulness. What you will lose is the thing most vital to you; there is no choosing.”

I had not expected that crossing this river would entail such a trial. If I could choose what to give up, perhaps it would not be so difficult. But this very lack of choice is what makes it so daunting.

“Sir, what do you mean by the true nature of this loss?” I asked again.

“If it is your life, your years, your body, your soul, then these will no longer belong to you—they will remain behind on the River of Forgetfulness. But if it is love, family, or friendship, the consequences are unpredictable: perhaps death, perhaps estrangement, perhaps love turning to enmity, friends or family becoming your executioners, your mortal foes.”

“The King of the Underworld cannot take your life because, to you, your life, your years, your body, your soul are less important than the latter. Therefore, I believe the river will not claim your life or body, but something else, something dearer. As for how the river claims it, that is a mystery beyond the understanding of a mere ferryman.”

It is precisely the latter losses that are hardest to bear.

When the ferryman finished, I fell silent. I did not know what I might lose in pursuit of that opportunity. The prospect was terrifying.

“How many have come to the River of Forgetfulness?” I asked, steering the conversation away. I could not bear to dwell on it further.

The old ferryman thought for a moment. “The Lesser Underworld has existed for over a thousand years. I have long since lost count of how many have come. But of those who arrive here with their own life intact, you are the second.”

A ghostly woman had once told me the same, which piqued my interest. “Who was the first? I heard he was swallowed by the river.”

“That’s right. His body lies at the bottom of the river. But he was different from you. What he valued most was perhaps freedom, and so his soul was forever bound to the river. Long ago, there were no ferrymen here. After him, there was.”

With these words, I understood. He was speaking of himself—his body sank into the river, and he became the first to bring his own life to its banks.

“Was it not enough to surrender one thing? If his body was given, why did his soul remain?”

“Because he could not ferry himself across. He could only stay to ferry others,” the old ferryman replied, glancing back at me.

In his gaze I suddenly glimpsed a certain brilliance—like a sunken treasure finally rising to the surface, dazzling in the light.

“Has the one you were meant to ferry arrived?” I asked.

“She has,” he replied.

Next, I asked about the life that had been borrowed from the Lesser Underworld eighteen years ago. The question gave him pause, but then he answered, “That life was mine. I am now but a wandering spirit, unable to leave the river, so my life is useless to me. On that day, a woman in red broke into the Lesser Underworld. The King wanted to claim her life, but I pleaded for her and gave her my own.”

I was stunned; I had never imagined my life was once his. Sensing a connection, I pressed on, “You and that woman—what bond was there between you? Why did you help her?”

He hesitated, unsure how to reply. His reaction confirmed my suspicion.

He was the man beneath the cliff all those years ago.

It was for him that Weiyang once stood weeping at the edge of the precipice; for him her hair turned white overnight. Centuries later, he had become an old man.

The ferryman sighed deeply. “In truth, it was I who placed my own body in the river, believing that by leaving it behind, I could reclaim what I had lost. But it was useless. The river took from me what mattered most—her.”

Though his face bore regret, there was no grief.

He truly had lost her; yet Weiyang remained in the Forest of Guicang, tending the red Spider Lilies, waiting for him. I wondered if it was the river’s mistake that left her remembering him all these years, a torment, a punishment worse than any curse, enduring for a millennium.

The River of Forgetfulness flowed on, shrouded in distant mist. I glimpsed the shadow of a solitary island.

“There lies the ancient tomb island. Within it are thirteen burial mounds, each one perilous beyond measure. I am but a spirit, unable to set foot on the island. I can only wait for you here.” The old ferryman brought the black-canopied boat to the island’s shore, sat at the bow, and spoke to me thus.

I nodded, leapt ashore, and set off toward the island.

After a few steps, the ferryman called out, “Whatever happens, you must remember her. Never forget.”

I understood whom he meant.

I nodded once more.

He watched from the boat as I ventured into the island, climbing among the rocks in search of the thirteen burial mounds.

On the far side of the cliffs, I found thirteen peaks, each with a blank stone stele before it.

The blank stones were almost identical to those at the old graves on our village’s burial hill.

Yet each mound was indistinguishable from the next, making it impossible to tell which, if any, was real. Only by finding the true tomb could I obtain the opportunity and escape this place. Time was running short, especially for my grandfather, who could not wait much longer.

Seeing nothing to set them apart, I had no choice but to press on blindly.

I approached the nearest mound and stood before its stele, pondering its meaning. A blank stele, I thought, signified the refusal to inscribe one’s own epitaph, leaving judgment to posterity. If it was for the future to decide, then as a descendant, I could inscribe a character myself.

I bit my fingertip and wrote the first character with my blood.

The character “One.”

To be honest, I did not know why I chose it. Perhaps it was habit, as it appears in my name, or perhaps for its simplicity.

As I finished, intending to write a second character, cracks began to spread across the stone. Startled, I stepped back.

From several meters away, I watched as the cracks snaked across the surface like black ink, until at last the stele collapsed with a thunderous crash.

This surprised me. Did the tomb’s occupant not wish to be judged? Or perhaps this mound was a decoy, unable to withstand the scrutiny of posterity. With this in mind, I reasoned that identifying the true tomb should not be so hard.

If I wrote a blood character on each stele, I could test which tomb was genuine.

Without delay, I set to work.

But when I had marked every stele, I was met with a result I could not accept: every last one collapsed.

If my reasoning was correct, then all thirteen were false.

Suddenly, I realized—the “thirteen burial mounds” were all decoys. Perhaps everyone misunderstood, believing one among them to be real, but in truth, the genuine tomb existed elsewhere, outside their number.

Just then, I heard a rustling nearby, as though something was crawling along the ground. A chill wind snaked past my ear, raising goosebumps on my skin.

I looked around.

Shadows began to emerge from the tombs, creeping forth. In the darkness, pairs of crimson eyes fixed upon me.

Only then did I realize the trouble I had caused.

No matter how long I lingered near the mounds, nothing emerged—until the stones collapsed. Their fall had broken the seals, releasing what lay beneath.

I had no skills in the arcane arts, nor even a single talisman for protection. In such a predicament, survival was all but impossible.

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