Chapter 1: The Beginning

In truth, the start of many stories often stretches back much further than we imagine. That box wasn’t famous at first; it appeared without any warning.

In the late 1970s in New China, a few old farmers were leaning on their shovels, which were stuck deep in the ground. Zhu Laosan took a few deep drags from the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the sparks briefly flickering in the pitch-black mountain hollow.

“Zhu Laosan, are you seeing things? We all grew up in these mountains. How come out of hundreds of people, only you found treasure?” A young man standing outside the pit shouted angrily.

Zhu Laosan hefted his hoe and stabbed it into the ground. “You can dig or not, I don’t care. If you don’t want to get rich, then get lost and stop talking nonsense!”

With a shovel full of yellow earth, he dumped it onto the pile behind him. Zhu Laosan went in for another scoop, but the shovel struck something with a clear “clang” and wouldn’t go any further. Zhu Laosan, who often lived by thievery, felt his heart tighten, and his fatigue immediately vanished.

“There’s something here.” Zhu Laosan removed the last layer of soil, dropped the shovel, and began digging with his hands. He called to the young man, “You idiot! Standing there is useless! Come help, we’re about to get rich!”

The metallic sound from the shovel vanished from his mind. The memory of arguing with Zhu Laosan was quickly forgotten as the young man dropped his shovel and scrambled to kneel beside him.

The two of them quickly cleared the mud covering the metal vessel with their four hands. A small gold object the size of a palm soon appeared before them, captivating the young man’s gaze. Although Zhu Laosan loved money too, he wasn’t as hopeless as his unlucky nephew.

Years of mingling in the Outer Eight Trades had taught him there was something even more valuable below.

So Zhu Laosan kicked his bothersome nephew onto the dirt pile and continued digging with his hands. Soon, his fingers touched something quite solid, larger than the gold object.

It was a jade casket.

He quickly cleared the dirt from the Jade Casket. With just one glance, Zhu Laosan tucked the Jade Casket into his coat, wrapping it tightly with his tattered clothes.

The mountain hollow was scheduled for normal work the next day. To avoid discovery, Zhu Laosan and his nephew filled the pit back in with soil and covered it with some weeds. Only then did they leave, hearts full of joy.

A week later, a barefoot doctor stopped to rest on a bridge over a muddy ditch by the Huai River. The previously stifling weather suddenly turned chilly.

Sensing something amiss, the doctor hurried across the bridge, only to see a dried-up corpse hanging beneath the arch, swaying in the wind. It was as thin as a cicada’s wings, as if a spirit had drained it of blood and bones, leaving only a human skin.

Rumors spread quickly. Villagers recognized the clothes left by the bridge.

It was Zhu Laosan, who had just struck it rich and planned to go to town to marry.

I lay in bed, drowsiness washing over me, my body growing lazy as I yawned at the notebook in my hand.

In the late 1970s, the country hadn’t fully implemented the “household responsibility system.” Many villages still operated under production teams, and Zhu Laosan likely discovered the valuable items underground while digging for roots in the mountain hollow.

According to my ancestors’ accounts, Zhu Laosan only unearthed a Jade Casket, and after selling it, he mysteriously disappeared. Until his body was found, the villagers thought he had gone to town.

I rubbed my tired eyes, sorting through the details in my mind.

After selling the Jade Casket for a fortune, Zhu Laosan went to the ditch bridge, removed his clothes, and hanged himself under the arch with a rope.

It’s utterly baffling.

From a logical perspective, none of this makes sense.

I should explain something about my ancestors who recorded this strange event.

My ancestors were traditional “Record Keepers of the Heard.” Essentially, they weren’t much different from scribes.

The only difference is that traditional “Record Keepers of the Heard” served the “Outer Eight Trades,” which included theft, sorcery, trafficking, prostitution, fraud, witchcraft, theater, and assassination—trades outside the conventional 360 professions.

These tales, written over generations, inevitably piece together some illogical stories. Consider them nonsensical bedtime tales, but let’s give our ancestors some face, shall we?

I closed the heavy notebook, thinking this when the doorbell suddenly rang. I reluctantly climbed out of bed, wanting to curse. It’s already past ten at night—what kind of brat is playing pranks again? Once I save enough money, I’m moving to a high-end neighborhood.

I stood up to open the door, the motion-sensor light illuminating the empty hallway.

I just peeked outside for a moment, and my hair stood on end as if electrified.

A complete Jade Casket.

The moment I saw the Jade Casket, my mind went blank. I paced around the doorway, confirming there wasn’t a soul in sight.

Then I made a decision I might regret for the rest of my life.

The box was placed on the table, the silver lock on the Jade Casket already opened. Touching it, I felt it was damp and cold as ice, as if it had come from a much colder place.

Inside the Jade Casket was a stack of manuscript paper two fingers thick.

That was the first time I saw the story of the “Nine Rings.”

As a direct descendant of the “Record Keepers of the Heard,” I wasn’t surprised by this method of sending manuscripts. Some who dealt in inauspicious trades preferred to remain anonymous, sending things wrapped like this.

Curiosity drove me to put on my glasses and start flipping through the damp, nearly stuck-together paper manuscripts.

I stayed up all night reading these manuscripts.

It was a story more fantastical and bizarre than I imagined. I wasn’t concerned about the truth of the manuscripts; I just copied them down as I read, treating them as a precious treasure of my generation of “Record Keepers of the Heard.”

By the time I finished copying, it was the afternoon of the third day.

I collapsed onto my bed and slept.

When I woke up and looked at the table, the manuscripts were gone.

Along with the ice-cold Jade Casket, they had vanished, but the notebook with the copied content proved I wasn’t dreaming.

Someone had indeed sent me an opened Jade Casket.

It seemed like someone simply wanted me to record these stories.

That’s all.

However, I was sure I wasn’t the only living Record Keeper of the Heard. Why did that person send it to me specifically? And did the legendary Nine-Ring Jade Casket really exist? Or was the one I saw yesterday the same one from the legend?

But no one answered my questions. My life remained calm and uneventful, and I never saw that mysterious Jade Casket again. Later, I even drove to Henan, but couldn’t find the protagonist from the manuscripts.

The people and families in the story seemed to have been completely swallowed by time.

Only I knew they might have once existed.

Note: The “I” in this chapter is not the same as the main character of the story and serves only as a prologue to introduce the main narrative.