When the 317th thief's hole appeared in the tomb passage, I knew another fool had come down to accompany me.
They didn't know that this tomb was very sinister, and that carefully designed thief's hole would soon disappear, only sending its creator to hell, and it's a one-way ticket.
At first, I was hostile to these guys who made a living off the dead, happy to see them step on various traps and mechanisms.
And I only needed to lie in the coffin, waiting to sit up and scare them when they pushed the lid open.
Most of the time they would be scared shitless, of course, there were also brave experts among them, trying to shove a Black Donkey Hoof into my mouth, pour dog blood on me, or attempt to bind me with ink bucket thread.
As you can imagine, I'm still here, but they have already kicked the bucket.
Unlike most zongzi, even though I died a long time ago, I still retain my memory, thoughts, and emotions.
As time has passed, my memories have gradually faded, and I've forgotten my name and origin, but I am still a zongzi with intelligence.
Therefore, whenever some self-important guy pulls out a Black Donkey Hoof intending to do me harm, I will snatch it first and smash it back at their forehead.
Imagine encountering a zongzi that can fight back… can you picture their expressions at that moment? Although my facial muscles are already stiff, it doesn't stop me from laughing inside.
Occasionally, I become friends with someone like that, because they will always find that there is simply no way out of this sinister tomb.
When their mental energy is exhausted, tools fail, and they're at their wits' end, they, like me, become trapped beasts in this underground prison.
But most people go mad; when despair takes over, thoughts of suicide emerge, floating in their minds, growing larger and larger, difficult to ignore like a floating corpse.
So I realized, even vicious Tomb Robbers sometimes become melancholic like Lin, eventually depressing themselves to death.
What makes them even more desperate is that all they get in exchange for their lives is a completely barren 'empty' tomb.
There's no Gold Mountain or Silver Mountain here as they imagined, and I can say with great responsibility that the most valuable things in this tomb are the mechanisms that have killed countless Tomb Raiders.
They are of such research value, it's truly astonishing, having never stopped working for thousands of years.
Actually, I no longer remember how long I've coexisted with them; the era of this tomb I learned from Tomb Raiders.
Yes, Tomb Raiders, they changed from being my enemies to my mentors and friends. Isn't time great? Everyone submits to it eventually.
Those who are trapped in the tomb and haven't killed themselves in bitterness, when extremely lonely and empty, will choose to chat with me.
I'm also too lazy to scare them anymore, and they can't do anything to me; we form a sort of unconventional roommate relationship in the tomb.
'Longevity disease' was thought up by a guy who lived a long time after entering the tomb. I have to say his appearance and his heart are strikingly contrasting.
When I first saw him, I thought he was a wild man who strayed into the tomb; later, when he got trapped and often talked to himself, I thought he might be a philosopher.
He said I'd contracted a strange illness called longevity; maybe one day, when technology reaches a certain level, I could be cured and thus recover.
He said he couldn't wait for that day, and the next day, I found his body outside the main tomb chamber; he was the first to hang himself in the tomb.
Later, I concluded, if a trapped Tomb Raider starts talking to me, that's a signal—those with a strong mind use this method to prevent themselves from being speechless; the weaker-minded... it means they're close to collapse.
Only a few Tomb Raiders discover my difference from a 'zong', and in times of extreme emptiness, they will ask me simple questions and watch my reactions.
I don't mind communicating with them, even if it's only through body language. But when they realize it doesn't help in escaping, they stop paying attention to me.
My arms and legs can move; when I get bored lying in the coffin, I will go out for a walk, but I certainly won't go too far because mechanisms are everywhere in the tomb, and I'm not sure what would happen if I got crushed, so for safety's sake, I only wander in my own burial chamber.
Regarding my identity, opinions among the Tomb Raiders vary—they haven't found any written symbols in the tomb, and apart from the era, they know nothing.
Every time I hear them saying such discouraging words, I curse them as fools in secret. I am the one who most wants to know my own identity, but they always disappoint me.
According to them, this is a geomantic treasure land, where a large tomb must be built underground; it's a rare fat loot.
That's true; for thousands of years, who knows how many lives this tomb has swallowed, and it has long grown fat and greasy.
Others read history through books; I read history by observing Tomb Robbers—from their attire, crime tools, and ways of speaking, I can see changes in the outside world.
In the last ten years, I've been fascinated by a novel thing; some Tomb Robbers even brought mobile phones when they came down. I learned to play around with a phone from a Tomb Robber; unfortunately, you can't recharge down here, and it runs out of power after a while, which is quite a buzzkill.
Later, the guy who taught me to use a phone caught a cold and fever which killed him; you can't blame him—the temperature in the ancient tomb is very low, and it's easy to catch a chill sleeping at night.
I mourned for a while because of this, put him in a large pottery jar in the side chamber, and carved his name on it, considering it a proper burial.
Afterward, whenever they die in places I can reach, I will rummage through their pockets and backpacks, taking any mobile phones I find.
Though there's no internet or signal in the tomb, some people's phones have music, movies, novels, or even offline mobile games stored on them.
They've added some color to my monotonous tomb life. The new vocabulary I learn is growing; to me, they have no privacy—I'll go through all their chat records, clicking on each audio message.
I don't know if it's because of too much human interaction, but recently I've felt more nimble than before—the direct manifestation is that I can blink, no longer staring with wide eyes and a gaping mouth as if ready to devour someone.
Technically, there shouldn't be mirrors in an ancient tomb, but Tomb Robbers often cooperate with Daoists, and whether they are real or fake Daoists, they particularly like carrying mirrors, especially shiny bronze ones.
The first time I looked in a mirror after death, I was startled by my own appearance, unable to believe the monster with disheveled hair, bulging eyes, and gaping mouth was me.
But I no longer remember what I looked like in life, so I reluctantly accepted my posthumous appearance; I am one to go with the flow, and I enjoy a touch of fun in life, even as a zongzi—I am a zongzi who appreciates beauty.
So I used the food packaging paper left by the Tomb Robbers, folding some paper flowers to wear on my head to make up for my lack of appearance.