Mysterious Country 1: Mist-Shrouded Champa, Volume 2: Chapter 5: The Ghost Road

Mysterious Country 1: Mist-Shrouded Champa, Volume 2: Chapter 5: The Ghost Road

Sima Hui had spent years rolling with guerrilla fighters in northern Burma, living on a knife’s edge every single day. He understood the law of the jungle better than most: the strong devour the weak, and even a moment’s hesitation could get you killed with no grave to show for it. So when he felt a gun barrel press against the back of his skull, he didn’t waste a second thinking. He dropped his body sharply downward in a move called the “Reverse Head Wrap,” swinging his right arm back to trap the attacker’s gun hand before the trigger could even be pulled.

His left shoulder was already wounded, so he couldn’t rely on strength alone. Instead, he threw himself forward and drove his forehead upward in a headbutt that connected squarely with the attacker’s nose. The crack of breaking cartilage was dull and final. The bone fragments drove inward, and the man collapsed without making a sound.

The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye brutal, clean, and over before anyone could react. But Sima Hui couldn’t stop his own momentum and tumbled to the ground alongside the body. Fearing there were more enemies nearby, he immediately rolled to the side, chambered his SM1E rifle, and was about to signal the others to take cover when twenty-some armed Burmese fighters emerged from the jungle.

Most of them wore black clothing with patterned scarves wrapped around their heads, and every one of them had a submachine gun aimed directly at Luo Dahai and the two others walking ahead. The message was clear: if Sima Hui made another move, his friends would be cut to pieces.

He had no choice. He stepped forward, dropped his weapon, and surrendered. They tied him up immediately, tight and thorough. He cursed himself inwardly. The last thing he’d expected was to run into enemies deep in these mountains. But looking at the mismatched weapons and clothing of this group, they clearly weren’t government soldiers. In a cursed place like the Wild Man Mountains, the only people reckless enough to venture in were guerrillas, fugitives, or drug runners.

He couldn’t figure out exactly who these people were, but he knew one thing for certain: he’d just killed one of their own. That didn’t leave much room for optimism.

Then, from behind the armed fighters, six more people appeared. Some older, some young including one tall, broad-shouldered Westerner. Leading them was a young woman, strikingly beautiful, no older than her early twenties. She wore a jungle combat hat fitted with goggles, a hunter’s jacket, and carried herself with a sharp, commanding presence that made her look far older than her years.

The Burmese fighters searched all four of Sima Hui’s group, top to bottom, and handed everything they found to the young woman including a small notebook they’d taken from Karaweik. She flipped through each item without showing much expression. But when she reached the notebook, something flickered across her face surprise, quickly suppressed. She closed it, glanced down at the body on the ground, then walked over to Sima Hui and looked him over from head to toe.

“You’re Chinese?” she asked. “Why are you wearing People’s Army uniforms? And what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

To Sima Hui, this woman seemed like someone who’d stepped out of an old film her origins impossible to place. But the fact that she seemed unaware how many Chinese soldiers served in the Burmese People’s Army told him she’d come from outside the country. Her Mandarin was flawless, too natural to be learned as a second language. She was Chinese, or had been at some point. He knew there was no point hiding the obvious a Chinese face stands out in a crowd of Burmese people. He suspected there might still be room to maneuver here, but he wasn’t ready to trust her yet, so he just gave a slight nod.

She softened her tone a little. “Why won’t you speak? Are you scared?”

Sima Hui was quietly running through escape scenarios in his head. “Very scared,” he said vaguely. “Extremely, terribly scared.”

Her expression hardened immediately. She gave a cold snort. “Don’t play games with me. You had a gun pressed to the back of your head and still managed to kill my man in one motion cleanly, without a shred of hesitation. A person with those instincts and that level of combat skill doesn’t get scared easily. So what’s the act?”

“I meant it,” Sima Hui said, deadpan. “You’re standing too close. Ten steps back and I’d be fine. Any closer and I start feeling unsafe.”

She stared at him with ice in her eyes. “Answer my questions straight, or things get ugly. The only reason I ordered you taken alive is because you’re Chinese. Hand you over to those Burmese men out there, and they’ll skin you alive on a post. I think you know they’re very good at that sort of thing.”

“Go ahead,” Sima Hui said, utterly unbothered. “Luo Dahai will take your place. He’s a real professional. Very competitive rates.”

Luo Dahai had been pinned to the ground with his hands bound, unable to say a word this whole time. When he heard Sima Hui volunteering him for torture as a joke, he thrashed against his restraints and exploded. “Sima Hui, you absolute piece of work! Do you even have a conscience?!”

The woman realized she was getting nowhere. These two were slippery as eels ask them one thing and they’d answer another, with a grin on their faces the whole time. Her patience snapped. She grabbed the girl named Acui by the hair, pulled out a hunting knife in one smooth motion, and pressed the blade against her throat. She looked directly at Sima Hui. “One more joke and I slit her throat.”

Acui didn’t even flinch. “I’ve been wanting to die for a while now,” she said calmly. “Make it quick.”

Then she closed her eyes and waited.

Karaweik screamed and struggled, but a Burmese soldier put a boot on his back and slammed a rifle butt into his head two or three times until blood ran freely down his face.

Luo Dahai roared curses. Sima Hui, on the other hand, stayed completely still. He kept up his casual front while quietly testing his restraints and looking for any opening to break free and grab a weapon. But as he scanned the group, something caught his eye. Each of the six people behind the woman was carrying a metal rod strapped to their back.

He recognized the tool. It was called a “Duck-Beak Spear” crafted entirely from metal, roughly the width of an egg, with a grip about the length of a forearm. The rod contained three telescoping sections inside it, so it could extend or collapse as needed. The front end was shaped like an animal’s mouth, from which a flat, chisel-like blade extended not unlike the multi-purpose spade carried by wandering monks, but lighter and more refined. It was a specialized instrument used by geomancers to probe soil conditions, capable of penetrating even hard rock. In the wilderness, it could double as a weapon for self-defense. He’d also heard that grave robbers in the south and northeast of China had long used them to dig open burial mounds and pry apart coffins.

He studied the tools carefully, his suspicion deepening. These people aren’t government soldiers sent after us. But why come after us at all? And what could possibly be hidden in these cursed mountains worth risking their lives over enough to bring a group of grave robbers all the way out here?

One of the people standing behind the woman was a man in his fifties lean, with a thin goatee and the slick, smooth-talking manner of a village scholar. Sensing that the standoff was about to turn bloody, he stepped forward and tried to ease the tension. He spoke to Sima Hui directly, introducing himself as Master Jiang a former scribe by trade, originally from Shaoxing in Zhejiang Province. He introduced the young woman as Sheng Yu, also known as “Yu Feiyan,” the leader of their group.

According to Master Jiang, they were an expedition team researching historical geography, hoping to locate the remains of the old Stilwell Road deep in the Wild Man Mountains. They’d paid a significant sum to a powerful warlord operating in the northern Burmese triangle zone, which got them into the mountains. But they’d been wandering for over two weeks without results, hopelessly lost, with no guide and no landmarks to follow.

When the team had heard the gunshots earlier, they’d scattered for cover and that’s when they spotted Sima Hui’s group. Seeing armed people who appeared to be Chinese, they’d been worried about a deadly misunderstanding, so they’d tried to neutralize the threat quietly before opening negotiations. They hadn’t expected Sima Hui to react so violently. The whole thing had gone sideways fast.

Master Jiang was experienced enough to know that Sima Hui was the type who couldn’t be bullied but could be reasoned with. “Looking at you,” he said with a warm smile, “a man of your bearing and skill truly extraordinary. We mean you no disrespect and have no quarrel with you. Losing one of our men is nothing to die over between fellow Chinese. We only have one question: do you know anything about the Ghost Road?”

Sima Hui wasn’t buying any of it. Before Master Jiang even finished, he cut straight to the point. “What does a gang of grave robbers want with the Stilwell Road?”

He’d already guessed their profession but wanted to confirm it. The words landed like a stone. Both Sheng Yu and Master Jiang went visibly rigid — they hadn’t expected him to see through them so quickly. Almost in unison, they asked: “How did you know?”

Sima Hui let his gaze drift to the Duck-Beak Spears on their backs and gave a cold laugh. “Birds of a feather.”

The two exchanged a quick look. Master Jiang stepped forward and untied Sima Hui’s bonds, though the other three remained tied up. They led Sima Hui aside to talk privately.

Both sides had plenty of questions, and neither was willing to say much. Everything at stake was deeply underground — literally and figuratively — and neither group could afford to tip their hand to strangers. This was the unwritten law of the underworld: three things you speak of, three things you don’t.

In situations like this, the tradition was for the two leaders to sit down face to face and conduct what was known as “Reading the Sea Floor” a ritual exchange using the coded language of the Jianghu Sea Floor Eye, a handbook of secret phrases passed between those who lived outside the law. Only by correctly answering each other’s coded questions could they establish enough mutual trust to talk openly.

Master Jiang found a large mossy stone nearby and scrounged up eighteen canteen caps from his men, using them as stand-ins for the traditional tea bowls. He filled each one with water, arranged them on the stone in the proper formation, and invited Sima Hui and Sheng Yu to sit across from each other.

As the host, Sheng Yu opened the exchange. She pushed two of the caps forward from the formation, pressed three fingers lightly on one with her left hand, and steadied the other with four fingers on her right. She smiled and said: “Among our people, loyalty comes first. Three become one, and the branches share the same root. Brother Sima — please, drink.”

Sima Hui’s shoulder wound throbbed, and his head felt like something was crawling around inside it. But he’d come this far; there was no backing down now. He forced himself to focus. He studied the two caps carefully. Picking one up carelessly would mark him as an amateur someone who didn’t know the rules. He shook his head and said: “I am neither an elder nor a titled member of any order. I wouldn’t dare be so forward in front of you.”

Sheng Yu saw that he knew what he was doing. She nodded slightly, withdrew the cups, and rearranged them in a straight line before asking: “What banner hangs at the head of your formation, and what words are written beneath it?”

This was her way of asking about his background and training. Sima Hui replied: “A son does not speak of his father while at home; a student does not name his teacher while on the road. Since you ask, I’ll answer. The banner at the head reads a single character. Below it lies the turning of the sea. My name is written in the stars above, the moon behind, and the water beneath.”

Sheng Yu understood. He was from a genuine lineage of geomantic tradition what the underground world called the “Gold Point” school. But he was young, and she wasn’t ready to take him at his word just yet. She pressed further: “And what goods do you carry?”

He replied: “Nothing but half a copy of the Diamond Sutra, shared across the five lakes and four seas. Though I’ll admit I have one foot in the door and one foot out. If I say something wrong, I ask for the patience of those present.”

Then, having answered, he decided it was his turn to ask questions. He rearranged the caps into what was known as the “Two Dragons Emerging from Water” pattern and turned the question back on her: “How many ships have you captained?”

He was asking, indirectly, how many tombs she had robbed.

Sheng Yu didn’t hesitate. “Not many and not few — exactly nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

In other words: too many to count.

Sima Hui didn’t believe her for a second. “And what flag did those ships fly?”

Among grave robbers, most stick to their own region — those from Henan don’t work in Shaanxi; those from the northeast don’t cross into the south. He was asking where they operated and what methods they used.

Sheng Yu answered without blinking: “Victory flags going up the mountain, yellow flags coming down, dragon-and-phoenix flags on the first and fifteenth, great banner flags at the bow, and nine wind flags flying at the stern.”

Translation: Everywhere. Every type. Every era.

The implication was clear. Common graves in open farmland were easy to dig but rarely held anything worth the risk. The great imperial tombs held untold treasures, but their stone chambers and iron ceilings, their hidden mechanisms and reinforced passages, were notoriously difficult to find and nearly impossible to crack. Sheng Yu was claiming she could handle all of it no tomb too small, no mausoleum too fortified.

Sima Hui wasn’t impressed. “And how many planks make up those ships? How many nails in those planks?”

He was essentially saying: Prove it. Big words are easy.

She replied evenly: “Seventy-two planks, set by the earthly spirits. Thirty-six nails, arranged in the heavenly formation.”

Translation: We have masters of geomancy and experts in demolition. There is nothing we cannot do.

Sima Hui snorted. “Then tell me which plank has eyes but no nails? And which has nails but no eyes?”

Sheng Yu answered without pause: “Nails without eyes that’s the springboard. Eyes without nails that’s the wind board.”

Then she turned the question back on him: “How many stars are in the sky?”

His patience had run thin. He thought to himself: You think these parlor tricks impress me? And he fired back: “Stars in the sky? Too many to count. The old ones say thirty-six thousand six hundred. How many nerves run through your body?”

She was starting to lose her composure. Her eyes narrowed. “Seven nerves in the body you’d have to cut through flesh and bone to find them. Tell me: how many holes does one knife make?”

“One knife,” he said flatly, “makes two holes. How many hearts do you have? I’ll borrow one to wash down my drink.”