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Volume One: The King of Tomb Raiders Author: Feitian

The First Egyptian Tomb

— Chapter 1 - The Night Visitor —

I can't sleep tonight.

Lying on the Simmons mattress in room 2828 of the most luxurious Mandon Hotel in downtown Cairo, although my eyes were closed, my heart was like a boiling pot. Countless long-forgotten memories were simultaneously awakened, churning and colliding in my mind like a turbulent sea.

On the bedside table lay an old, yellowed booklet. On one page were two obscure lines of text, resembling obscure poetry:

July 1999

To resurrect King Angorumoa

The King of Terror will fall from the sky

At that time, Mars will rule the world.

It is said to be for people to achieve a happy life

When the Great Seven Cycle ends

Mutual killing occurred

It occurred shortly after the beginning of this millennium.

At that time, the dead underground will break out of their tombs.

Without even opening the book, the two passages were already etched into my mind like carvings, for I had noticed them from the very first day I acquired this handwritten booklet. Furthermore, under the words "Big Seven," someone had underlined them in red with a wavy line, clearly to draw the reader's attention to these key points.

"The Big Seven? What exactly does it refer to? Is it really, as paranormal scientists claim, another catastrophe that will destroy the Earth in 2007, and then occur next year?"

These two verses are from the well-known book of prophecy, *Les Prophecies*, whose remarkable aspects need no further elaboration. The booklet, however, was passed down to me by my brother through intermediaries; he was my only remaining family member. Thinking back, that was fifteen years ago. Now, my brother's remains should be buried beneath some ancient tomb, his soul transformed into cosmic radio waves, decaying with time.

However, his name will forever remain in the glorious memories of some people—"King of Tomb Raiders" Yang Tian.

Ding-ling-ling—

The phone rang suddenly, startling me from my reverie.

"Sir, would you like a massage? Authentic Japanese massage girls..." The young woman on the phone spoke fluent, enticing English terms, uttering one after another.

"No need, thank you." I hung up the phone. It's common knowledge that Italy's sex industry is world-renowned; during my four years studying in Rome, I'd witnessed it thousands of times. Fortunately, I'm a man of principle; I only feel pity for girls engaged in prostitution, not enthusiasm. At university, plenty of pretty girls were flirting with me and even offered themselves to me…

I got up and took a cold shower to calm my somewhat agitated mood. Then I took three long, deep breaths to expel all the stale air from my chest. Finally, I made a charming smile at myself in the Turkish mirror in the bathroom.

"Always maintain a peaceful state of mind and a serene smile." This is my life motto.

Back in the living room, I pondered for a while before dialing a local number.

While waiting for the other person to answer the phone, I poured myself a glass of strong whiskey, added two ice cubes and a small sugar cube. This unique way of drinking was taught to me personally by a friend I greatly respect.

The phone rang exactly twenty-nine times before the other party picked it up. No one spoke, but the rhythmic tapping of fingernails on a table could be heard through the receiver.

That was a Morse code signal: "Who is it?"

I tapped in response with practiced ease, saying into the receiver, "Friends from the East."

The other person paused for ten seconds; I could tell they were carefully searching their memory. I took a small sip of my drink; the gentle clinking of the ice against my teeth invigorated me.

A deep, pleasant male voice came through the receiver: "Don't make a sound, friend. Let me guess who you are? Hmm, at this hour, there are no more than three people who still remember to call old friends. I think you must be..."

I swirled my glass, the ice cubes clinking against the rim of the crystal. I took another sip, the fiery liquor carrying a wonderful blend of three completely different flavors—burning, icy, and sweet—sliding down my throat and into my chest, sending a wonderful shiver through my body. I couldn't help but let out a groan of pure bliss, exactly like the feeling of reaching climax during something.

"Hey, how come it's you? Feng?" He guessed my identity, but was very surprised, as I didn't seem to be among the three people he had originally identified.

"It's me. I'm drinking the 'Phoenix Rebirth' you taught me. I'm calling you just to thank you for teaching me such a wonderful way to mix drinks—" He took another sip of his drink, bit off a piece of ice, and chewed it with a crunching sound.

He had no name, only a strange nickname—Scalpel.

The scalpel fell silent, paused for a moment, and then asked in a languid, slightly melancholic tone, "Didn't you say you were going to travel the world? Why are you here first?"

I gulped down the glass of wine, the lingering aroma still fresh, and exhaled a satisfied breath: "My studies are over, and I will—begin my new life. You should understand what I mean."

The scalpel sighed, "Is it all because of Boss Yang's booklet?"

I didn't speak, but looked through the bedroom door and fixed my gaze on the booklet.

The scalpel continued thoughtfully, "Alright, I'll send a car to pick you up later. Two Indian friends are visiting tonight; perhaps you'll find them interesting."

Fifteen minutes later, a Mitsubishi Jeep with diplomatic license plates pulled up in front of the hotel. The driver was a long-haired woman with angelic features and sun-kissed skin like the finest dark chocolate from Cadbury.

I slipped into the car, wearing a gray trench coat, and grabbed only the booklet. Of course, something so fragile was kept in a delicate leather box.

“Yang, no wonder my master said you are the most alluring handsome man from the East. He told me to be careful not to lose myself in your amorous dark eyes. Let’s get acquainted. I’m Judy—” She blinked her big, watery eyes, her long, curled eyelashes fluttering charmingly at me.

I threw myself into the back seat of the car, pulled a blanket over my head, and unceremoniously rejected Judy's fiery enthusiasm. My mind was solely focused on the booklet; I had no interest in anything else. This trip to Cairo wasn't meant for a vacation.

Judy, having been turned away, whistled softly, stepped on the gas, and sped off towards the east of the city.

In the dead of night, the streets were deserted, so the jeep quickly accelerated to over 200 kilometers per hour, speeding along like lightning. Looking out from a corner of the blanket, tall, magnificent new buildings flashed past the windowpane. Soon, the car left the city and headed southeast along a ring road.

“The master is in villa number thirteen.” Judy didn’t mind my indifference.

Throughout the African continent, Scalpel is a legendary figure. A tycoon, a mob boss, the crown prince of a landlocked African kingdom, a behind-the-scenes shareholder in a world-class football league, a major arms dealer in the Third World…

Of all his many accolades, I only care about one: "Seventh in the World".

The seventh-ranked tomb raider in the world.

Since ancient times, there has been no first place in literature and no second place in martial arts. In any industry or field, no one would admit to being second-rate, let alone seventh. But Scalpel has done it, and has been firmly in seventh place for many years.

It's a bit cloudy tonight, and there are no stars in the night sky. After getting off the ring expressway, even the streetlights are gone.

The Mitsubishi turned on its off-road spotlights and drove forward, the beams of light like four lightsabers, ruthlessly cleaving through the complete darkness. Judy's driving skills were superb; she easily navigated four consecutive S-curves in the mountains, and after another five minutes, a dark, somber mountain villa came into view.

The villa is built on a hillside, covering a vast area, and is surrounded by a three-meter-high wall.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered that the top of the wall was covered with a dense network of high-voltage electric fences, and there were six-meter-high pillboxes at each of the four corners. Judging from the occasional flickering cigarette butts on the top of the pillboxes, these pillboxes were not decorative ornaments, but fortifications with real combat significance.

The massive iron gate slid open slowly to the side, and the car entered the villa.

I glanced over and saw that the four tall guards by the electric gate all had the latest American submachine guns hanging from their chests.

This place doesn't resemble a tourist villa; it's more like a heavily guarded prison for serious offenders.

The car continued forward until it stopped in front of the main building's steps. Along the way, guards with wolfhounds could be seen cautiously patrolling behind the flower bushes and trees.

A thin, middle-aged man in a white uniform opened the car door for me and said respectfully, "Welcome, Mr. Yang. I am Lanon. The host is on the Rose Terrace. Please."

As you can tell from the name, the terrace is naturally covered with roses of all colors.

Sure enough, Scalpel sat in a recliner on the terrace, a glass of wine in his hand. Stepping onto the terrace, the air was filled with the rich, sweet scent of roses, making me feel dizzy for a moment.

"Welcome, Feng." Scalpel smiled faintly and raised his wine glass. His pale face, illuminated by the candlelight on the table, emitted a jade-like glow, almost eerie. The candlelight cast a deep shadow on the side of his high, straight nose, making this middle-aged man of mixed Chinese and Spanish descent appear even more melancholy.

I sat down, and Lanong immediately brought me a glass of wine, with a professional and humble smile on his face.

"Lanon, you can go down now." The scalpel spoke with a heavy nasal tone.

I've long been accustomed to the coldness of the scalpel. If it weren't for this "coldness," how could it be called a "scalpel"?

I shook the ice cubes in my glass in silence. The scalpel was my elder brother's closest friend and my academic guardian, more like a father figure than a brother or friend.

"You've heard of the two people who came tonight, Bancha and Guye, haven't you?"

I majored in theology, history, and artifact appraisal in university, and I have a systematic understanding of contemporary experts in these three fields.

“I’ve heard of it.” I nodded.

“They’ve come for the ‘Eye of the Vermilion Bird.’ Just listen, don’t say a word.”

Scalpel's words were always concise and to the point, and as he spoke, his azure eyes always flickered with an uncertain light, like a precious sword immersed in ice water. He took a sip of wine, then with his free left hand, he made a simple and powerful downward chop, resolutely repeating, "Remember, don't speak." Then, he put down his empty glass, leaned his head back in his chair, closed his eyes, and drifted into a state of half-asleep.

In my memory, Scalpel rarely spoke; often, a few gestures and a few words were enough to arrange a grand and dramatic operation perfectly. That was what made him terrifying—just like a scalpel that, once it made a move, could either save or kill.

Banchai, Thailand's top tomb raider, is responsible for almost all the treasures from the Thai royal tombs circulating in the antique market.

Tanino, a Japanese man, excavated the entire Northeast Asian cemetery, encompassing Japan, South Korea, North Korea, Northeast China, and eastern Russia. He possessed all the inherent vices of the Japanese, including greed, cold-bloodedness, ruthlessness, and extremism, earning him the nickname "Dr. Jackal."

As for the "Eye of the Vermilion Bird," it comes from a legend in ancient Chinese tomb raiding books: "The eye of the Vermilion Bird, the claw of the Black Tortoise, the scale of the Azure Dragon, and the tongue of the White Tiger are the four poles of heaven. When the four poles arrive together, combined with the pivot of the gods, they can turn the world upside down and reshape the universe."

The gist of the story is that there are five strange gems in the world: the eye of the Vermilion Bird, the claw of the Black Tortoise, the scale of the Azure Dragon, the tongue of the White Tiger, and the pivot of the gods. By combining these five gems, one can have the power to turn the tide of the world.

Legends are just legends. I don't believe that anyone in the already formed Milky Way and solar system could have the power to change the movement of planets.

Many ancient Chinese books contain fantastical theories and grammatically incorrect sentences, which are not credible.

"You don't believe me?" The scalpel, with its eyes closed, suddenly asked, accompanied by a soft cough.

I was taken aback for a moment, then replied, "I don't believe it."

The scalpel chuckled silently: "I don't believe it either, but I can't help but believe his words." There is only one person in the world whom he dares not call out by name, whether to his face or behind his back, and that is my elder brother, Yang Tian, the King of Tomb Raiders.

"He is the undisputed king of tomb raiding. Everyone in this industry knows that no one in the past five hundred years can surpass his achievements. Every word he says is the truth, an unparalleled truth." He said so much in one breath, then suddenly coughed violently, clutching his chest with both hands, coughing as if his heart was being torn apart.

For a full two minutes, his coughing didn't stop; the sound drifted down from the terrace, and I guessed it could be heard in every corner of the entire villa.

Volume One: The King of Tomb Raiders

The First Egyptian Tomb

— Chapter 2 — Fifteen Years of Living Dead —

I pressed the leather box in my pocket through my clothes, feeling an urge to get to the bottom of things.

The booklet was given to me by Scalpel. After my older brother disappeared, and with both my parents long gone, Scalpel was my only relative in the world.

"He's still alive—well, would you believe me if I said that?" He chuckled softly, snapped his fingers, and Lanon hurried in carrying a tray. On the tray, in an ice bucket, was a bottle of dark purple Martell, the bottle itself extremely antique, at least a hundred years old.

I almost jumped up, unable to hide my shock, my eyes fixed on the side of the scalpel on my cheekbone. If it weren't for Lanong's presence, I would definitely have had a dozen questions to ask, but I held back. Four years of university life had gradually transformed me from a passionate young man into a calm and composed young expert.

I silently took a deep breath, swallowing those questions along with the air.

After Lanong left, the scalpel gave me an approving smile: "Not bad, patient and resilient, you're made for great things."

I smiled, picked up my glass, and let the ice cubes sway gently in the wine. What needs to be said, the scalpel will say; what shouldn't be said, there's no use in rushing.

"Thud," a thin stack of photos was thrown onto the coffee table next to me.

I glanced at it casually; the top one was dim and blurry, seemingly taken in a vast palace or on the set of a horror movie. In the upper right corner, a man's limbs were stretched out, suspended in mid-air. The background was dark, and only upon closer inspection could one discern strange stone carvings—all depicting ferocious animal heads, savage humans, and unidentifiable totems.