The second black bear, seeing its companion killed so swiftly, turned and bolted into the depths of the forest.

 Who says wild animals lack intelligence?

 With the bears gone, everyone returned to their tents to rest. As I watched Xiaohui and Xia Chaoran enter the same tent, I tilted my head toward the night sky, letting the vastness of the stars dilute my melancholy and frustration. The distant horizon held a single, lonely star—much like me, always alone, always solitary.

 The next morning, we set out early.

 According to Miss Jiang, the area we were in had an exceptional feng shui layout, a rare configuration. If there was a tomb nearby, this was undoubtedly the place.

 Over the past few days, I’d come to realize that people like me—those with unique abilities—weren’t as rare as I’d thought. They just didn’t advertise it.

 Xia Chaoran, for instance, was born with the "Yin Eye," allowing him to see spirits and demons directly. But as a child, his psyche couldn’t handle it, so the Jiang family had "sealed" his ability. It wasn’t until four days ago that Miss Jiang unsealed it, turning his irises a striking green.

 Natural Yin Eyes were said to be incredibly powerful. For example, after I "opened" my own eyes, I could see spirits, but if a particularly skilled demon chose to hide itself, I’d miss it. Xia Chaoran’s innate ability, however, left no room for concealment—no spirit or demon could escape his gaze.

 Chen Haotian’s abilities were equally impressive. If I’d been in his place, I might’ve barely dodged the black bear’s attack. But he? He’d casually flipped the bear over his shoulder. His reflexes and mental fortitude were unmatched.

 Chen Haozhe, on the other hand, spent his days flirting with Shasha, showing no signs of any special abilities. His sly, effeminate demeanor made him thoroughly unlikable.

 As for Zhang Zixuan, the so-called "miracle doctor," no one had fallen ill or been injured yet, so his skills remained a mystery. He was in his early twenties, of average build, and not a martial artist. Like Chen Haozhe, he was a flirt, often engrossed in banter with his female companions, though he occasionally exchanged a few words with me.

 Miss Jiang’s abilities were the most enigmatic. What exactly was this legendary "sealing technique" she wielded? She was also well-versed in the esoteric arts of Qi Men Dun Jia and feng shui, making her a force to be reckoned with. Physically, she wasn’t a martial artist, her constitution only slightly better than Zhou Huiqing’s.

 She often lingered at the back of the group, asking me to recount my ghost-hunting experiences. But I hadn’t had many, and after a few days, I’d exhausted my stories.

 Chen Haozhe wasn’t entirely sure if there was a tomb here or where he’d gotten his information. Fortunately, Miss Jiang was with us. Under her guidance, we dug into a clearing, and at a depth of three meters, we hit slate—clear evidence of a large, ancient tomb.

 The slate slabs were cemented together, immovable and unyielding. No one knew how to enter the tomb. As night fell, Chen Haozhe decided we’d camp and discuss how to proceed. With no professionals among us, the consensus was to use explosives. We’d blow our way in at dawn.

 After several days together, I felt confident they meant me no harm, so I decided to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would likely bring the unimaginable.

 But my body, accustomed to early morning workouts, woke me at 3 a.m. I gave up on sleep, stepped out of my tent, and started doing push-ups. Three hundred later, I felt invigorated. I sat cross-legged on the ground, meditating. Despite the summer season, the morning chill was biting, but my inner fire kept me warm.

 After half an hour, I stood, unable to focus due to the sounds of patrolling guards. I retrieved my black backpack and began organizing my essentials: five Yang Talismans, five Yin Talismans, and five Clear Mind Talismans tucked into my pockets, along with my sword, Chengying, strapped to my belt. These were items I couldn’t afford to be without in a crisis.

 Everyone rose early. After a quick breakfast, the guards set up C4 explosives, detonators, and wiring around the slate. Once everything was in place, we retreated to a safe distance. The explosion was deafening, the ground trembling beneath us. The blast startled nearby wildlife, their cries echoing through the forest.

 The slate shattered, falling into the tomb below. But we couldn’t enter yet—the tomb had been sealed for centuries, and the air inside was likely toxic. Two hours later, Chen Haozhe ordered a guard to descend, ostensibly to scout but effectively to test whether it was safe. The guard, without hesitation, jumped in with a flashlight. After five minutes with no issues, Chen Haozhe declared it safe.

 We followed, descending one by one. The tomb chamber was roughly six by nine meters, littered with debris from the explosion. Scattered across the floor and walls were paintings—seven in total, all depicting the same man.

 He was strikingly handsome, with sharp, intelligent eyes, a high nose, thin lips, and perfectly arched brows. His hair was tied in a topknot, and he held a folding fan, a piece of jade hanging from his waist. Five paintings showed him in ornate robes, while two depicted him in armor, astride a warhorse. Clearly, he was a military leader.

 As we admired the paintings, Miss Jiang mused, “What a handsome man… could this be Liu Bowen?”

 “No,” Chen Haotian replied coolly. “Look at the warhorse painting. The soldier behind him holds a banner with the character ‘Long’—likely the general’s surname. And on the fan in this painting, there’s a faint ‘Long’ character in the corner.”

 “You can see that tiny detail?” Zhang Zixuan, the doctor, pulled out a magnifying glass and confirmed, “It’s indeed the traditional character for ‘Long.’”

 Chen Haozhe cut in, “Miss Jiang, let’s focus. We’ve got two stone doors—front and back. Which way do we go? This tomb is bound to be full of traps. A wrong choice could cost us.”

 Miss Jiang, still captivated by the paintings, absentmindedly said, “Ask Zhang Xiaolong. He’s the Taoist.” All eyes turned to me. I sighed, “I hunt ghosts, not tombs. But if I had to choose, I’d go right.”

 The group fell silent. Their expressions said it all: *You’re choosing at random? If there’s a trap, we’re dead.*

 Sensing the tension, Miss Jiang finally looked away from the paintings. “I can’t determine the tomb’s layout yet. We’ll have to proceed cautiously.”

 “Then we go right,” Chen Haozhe said, pointing to the guards. “Open the door.”

 The door had a small golden dial on the wall. Three guards approached, one turning the mechanism while the others stood ready. The rest of us stayed clear, wary of potential traps.

 As the dial turned, gears groaned, and the door began to rise. No arrows flew out, no traps were triggered. But as one guard stepped inside, a faint *click* echoed. The door slammed down, crushing him instantly.

 The scene was gruesome—his skull shattered, neck driven into his chest, legs broken and jutting through his pants. The door, partially held open by his body, left a gap just wide enough to crawl through.

 The group stood in stunned silence, some vomiting at the sight. I fought back nausea, having seen worse in my ghost-hunting days. The guards, accustomed to bloodshed, remained stoic, as did Zhang Zixuan. The Chen brothers were unfazed, Chen Haotian calmly noting, “The trap was triggered by a pressure plate in the next chamber.”

 Miss Jiang, wiping her mouth, asked, “How do we get past it?”

 Chen Haotian replied matter-of-factly, “We crawl past the body.”

 At his words, Miss Jiang vomited again.