Chapter 2: The Secret Behind the Mask

Twilight settled in, and the old streetlamp at the mouth of the alley seemed half-asleep, its warm yellow glow pooling in a small circle that failed to light the entirety of the blue-stone path. A wind whipped in from the end of the alley, swirling a few dead leaves that skittered across the ground with a dry rustle before being swallowed by the dark. He stood beneath the lamp, his shadow stretched thin and long, like a thread ready to snap.

"You came," she said.

Her voice was soft, scattered into fragments by the wind. He nodded but didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted past her shoulder, landing on a half-open wooden door deep in the alley. A sliver of light leaked through the crack, flickering rhythmically, as if someone were pacing inside.

"The door isn't locked," she added, her tone somewhere between a reminder and a probe.

He pulled his gaze back and looked down at his hand. His knuckles were white, gripping a key with a trace of dried rust clinging to the teeth. He rubbed the metal once, slid the key into his pocket, and stepped into the alley. She stepped aside to let him pass, not following, only whispering behind him: "He's waiting for you."

He didn't look back. The blue-stone path was slick; his soles made a faint, tacky sound with every step. When he reached the wooden door, he paused and pushed it open. The hinges let out a long, drawn-out creak, sounding like a startled sigh. Inside, the light was dim and yellow. An old desk lamp sat on the corner of a table, its shade coated in a layer of dust, with tiny specks of dust dancing in the beam. A man sat by the table with his back to the door; hearing the movement, he slowly turned around.

"Sit," the man said.

He did as he was told, the chair legs letting out a short, sharp screech against the concrete floor. A narrow table separated them, upon which lay an old, worn ledger. The pages were yellowed, the corners curled, and the ink had faded. The man pushed the ledger toward him, tapping a specific page with his fingertip.

"This account doesn't add up," the man said.

He looked down, his eyes following the line of figures until they stopped at a sum circled in red. After a moment of silence, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the key, and placed it on the table. The metal hit the surface with a crisp clink.

"The key is here, but the account doesn't add up," he said.

The man stared at the key for a long time—so long that the lamp light seemed to dim. Finally, the man sighed, closed the ledger, pushed it aside, and pulled a manila envelope from a drawer, setting it on the edge of the table.

"You can go," the man said.

He picked up the envelope without opening it, stood up, and turned to leave. At the door, he paused. Without looking back, he said only one thing: "I'll be back next month."

The door closed behind him with a creak, returning the space to silence. As he walked out of the alley, her silhouette was still there under the streetlamp. She saw the envelope in his hand but didn't ask; she simply shifted slightly to clear the path. He walked past her, their shoulders nearly brushing. The wind rose again, tugging at the hem of her clothes and the corner of the envelope in his hand.

Outside the alley, the streetlights were bright and the traffic was thick. Standing at the border between light and shadow, he looked down at the envelope, finally tucked it into his coat, and stepped into the crowd, his figure quickly swallowed by the city lights.

***

It wasn't until the night had fully set in that Chen Ye dared to peek his head around the corner of the alley. Zhao Peng’s men were still lingering at the street entrance, their flashlights sweeping across the blue-stone path like restless snakes. He pressed himself against the wall, his thumb rubbing a fragment of an old map—parchment with curled edges and ink lines so faded they were barely recognizable. Yet, holding it in his palm, it felt inexplicably heavy.

The scene from the secret door was still fresh in his mind. When the mechanism's reversal function had activated, hair-thin carvings on the stone wall had lit up one by one, as if some ancient relic were breathing. He had pressed seven bricks in reverse order, and the stone door had indeed slid open silently, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through. The footsteps of the search party had thundered overhead, sending dust raining down. He had held his breath until the sound faded before slowly crawling out. A bloody scrape remained on the back of his neck from where he'd been pressed against the wall; the night wind hit it, sending a searing sting through his skin.

Elder Sun had been waiting for him at the end of the alley. The old man hadn't said much, simply pressing the fragment into his hand. His palm was rough, pressing firmly against the back of Chen Ye's hand. "Hide it well," Elder Sun had whispered, his voice barely audible. "Some things... once you know about them, there's no getting away."

Chen Ye hadn't understood that at the time. Now, standing under a dim streetlamp, he held the fragment up to the light. He could see clearly that those faded lines weren't riverbeds or mountain ranges—they were concentric circles of a burial chamber. In the center was a square box with three small characters noted beside it. The ink had bled, leaving only half of the character for "Tomb" legible. He remembered the unfinished sentence Elder Sun had uttered while appraising the mask: "The Former Dynasty's Royal Tomb, the funerary objects..." He had been cut off when Zhao Peng’s men burst in, and the old man had immediately pivoted, claiming it was just a common antique. But the panic in his eyes had been impossible to fake.

He flipped the fragment over. The back was even older, the color darker, as if it had been rubbed repeatedly by human hands. Along the edge, a dark red stain meandered along the cut, looking like dried blood. Instinctively, he rubbed it with his thumb, and the red felt slightly damp. As it clung to his fingertip, a faint scent of iron wafted up.

Chen Ye froze. The map hadn't been soaked in blood—the blood was seeping out of it. It was as if the fragment itself were some living thing, oozing from the edges. He recalled how Elder Sun's fingertips had been shaking when he handed it over, and how the old man hadn't dared to look at it again, as if he were afraid of it.

The streetlamp flickered. He looked up and saw a silhouette standing at the mouth of the alley in the distance, which vanished in a blink. The wind swirled a few dead leaves, spinning them against the toes of his shoes. He gripped the fragment tight, his knuckles turning white. The smell of iron grew stronger, as if it were seeping from the paper—or perhaps seeping from his own palm.

He tucked the fragment securely against his body, the scent of iron still lingering on his fingertips. Elder Sun's words echoed in his mind: *Some things... once you know about them, there's no getting away.*