La tumba de Qin Shi Huang

Capítulo 1

The Return of the Soul - A Summer Night Ghost Story

Author: Blue-Purple-Green-Gray

How did I become a ghost?

I don't quite remember how I became a ghost. Memories of my past life are like a thick fog in my mind. I stumbled out of the fog, large clumps of fog swirling around me, and with each step I kicked away a wisp of white mist. The fog surrounded me, making me feel chilly. My lungs choked as I breathed, the cold air piercing my chest, pulling and tugging, stinging my nasal passages. The whole situation was just like those winter mornings when I was a child, carrying my schoolbag to school. The fog was so thick that you couldn't see anyone more than ten steps away, only the sounds of breathing, coughing, and soft muttering. The fog was pervasive, and as I walked, my hair was wet, my cheeks were icy, my hands and feet were numb, only a little warmth remained in my heart.

But now even that little bit of warmth is gone. I touched my chest, but there was no familiar beating beneath my palm. That familiarity had been with me for over twenty years, so familiar that I usually didn't even notice its existence. Only when my heart raced would I press my left chest and tell myself to calm down, to calm down.

But now it's so quiet, so quiet it scares me.

Ghosts get scared too?

I'm completely baffled. How did I end up becoming a ghost?

Wait a minute, I told myself, how do I know I'm a ghost?

I've never seen a ghost, nor have I ever been a ghost, so how do I know that I am currently a ghost?

I tried to recall, thinking about things from afar, to the very distant past, but I couldn't figure it out. My memory only went back a few minutes, when I inexplicably found myself in fog, with wisps of fog swirling around me, reminding me of going to school with my schoolbag when I was a child.

With just this much memory, where should I go?

Regarding ghosts, based on my remaining knowledge, I know they don't exist. I've said before that there are no ghosts in the world. If they did, humans have lived on Earth for hundreds of millions of years, and everyone who dies becomes a ghost, wouldn't we be living among ghosts? You'd bump into ghosts while walking, there would be ghosts when you sit down, you'd be with ghosts in bed, and you'd even encounter ghosts in the toilet.

Ugh, that's terrifying.

Some might say that when a person dies, they become a ghost, or soul, commonly known as a spirit. Ghosts are ethereal and light, so it doesn't matter if someone bumps into them. People are incredibly foolish; they never feel their body piercing through a ghost.

Perhaps some might say, "Don't ghosts go to be reincarnated after they die? Everyone rushes to be reincarnated after death, crossing the Bridge of Helplessness, drinking a bowl of Meng Po soup, looking around from the Terrace of Longing for Home, jumping off somewhere, and starting anew. All your previous learning and knowledge is wasted. All that hard work, just to drink a bowl of Meng Po soup? Isn't that a waste?"

Thinking back on the whole thing, I realized that the line "jump off somewhere and you'll be reincarnated" was something I made up. I don't know if that place even exists; I don't even know the name of such a famous scenic spot. Clearly, I made it up. Or maybe I really did jump off the Viewing-Homecoming Terrace?

Did I jump or not?

Did I drink that soup or not?

If I drank it, why do I remember so many random things? If I didn't drink it, why don't I remember the most important things?

For example, who am I? Sigh, that's a great philosophical question. I know the answer to this question, but I don't know the answer. Now I'm forced to answer it, which is really difficult for me.

For example, why did I die and become a ghost? I know I'm in my twenties, so it's more likely I died a violent death. But I vaguely feel that my heart isn't very good, so maybe I died of a heart attack?

Dying of a heart attack in one's twenties doesn't sound quite right; it's more likely that he died a violent death.

So, was I hit by a car? Caught in an elevator? Choked to death while eating? Fell to my death from a broken window after not seeing it? Wrongfully killed by a stray bullet? Drowned while swimming? Trampled to death while watching a commotion on the street? Died from the pain of childbirth? Died from overwork? Assassinated? Poisoned? Electrocuted while changing a fuse?

...

How many ways are there to die in this world?

Alas, the dead are gone, but the living can still be guided. Since they're already dead, let's not dwell on how they died. Instead, let's think about how we can make a better future here.

In this vast sea of fog, why am I the only one? No, a ghost? Where are the other ghosts? It doesn't make sense that all the ghosts have gone to reincarnate, leaving me alone to drift aimlessly as a wandering spirit. I might be willing, but the other ghosts wouldn't be, and even Yama, the King of Hell, wouldn't allow it. Isn't this disturbing public order? If every ghost were drifting like this, wouldn't the place be complete chaos?

Oh no! Chinese ghosts are under the jurisdiction of Yama, the King of Hell, but who is in charge of foreign ghosts? What if I become a foreign ghost in a foreign land, and I can't understand what they're saying?

Am I still a Chinese ghost? Still in China's ghost realm? Just like a country has airspace and sea boundaries, the ghost realm also has boundaries, right? Although studying abroad, traveling, sightseeing, and seeking knowledge in remote mountains are popular these days, one should take things one step at a time, just like a ghost. It's best to understand the situation first before going abroad for sightseeing. Anyway, I've already become a ghost, so I probably don't need a visa anymore. I can go wherever I want, so there's no rush.

Should I rush to be reincarnated, or wander around as a ghost for a while first?

Sigh, isn't that an insult? How did it happen to me out of sheer coincidence? Was it bad karma from my past life, or sins I'm committing in this one? How did I suddenly become a ghost?

After thinking for a while, I realized my situation was dire, and a wave of panic washed over me. I burst into tears. After crying for a while, I instinctively tried to wipe away my tears, but my face was dry; not a single tear remained. How could I be so helpless that I couldn't even shed tears? Thinking about this made me truly sad, and I burst into even louder sobs, heart-wrenching and excruciating.

I cried for ages, but no one, not even a ghost, paid me any attention. I had no choice but to suppress my grief and self-pity and start thinking about the future. Even though I had no tears left, I still wiped my face with my hand. It's a habit I've had for over twenty years, and it's hard to change it all at once.

I examined myself. My hair was perfectly straight, past my shoulders, and seemed to be in good condition—at least it wasn't split. I was wearing a long white robe that reached my feet; it looked new and hadn't been washed. The robe was also of good quality, thick and soft. After all my rubbing and kneading, it was practically wrinkle-free, as if it contained cotton, silk, and Lycra. Very good. I liked this robe. Although it was straight-cut with a slight flare, I could easily wear it out with a stylish belt.

Where are my feet? I glanced at them. I was wearing a pair of white cotton socks, long enough to reach almost to my calves, with ribbed cuffs. The socks weren't new; they were clearly washed, but there were no yellow stains or indelible old dirt on the soles or toes. These socks looked like they'd been washed, dried, and then washed again. What kind of conditions would lead to such a pair of socks? I know people who "nurture" jeans, not washing or ironing them for over ten years, determined to develop a second skin, but to put so much effort into a pair of socks? I'm not that crazy.

Where are my shoes? Shouldn't I have a pair of shoes? To come to a place like this barefoot in socks, really...

I touched my ears and neck again; there wasn't a single piece of jewelry, no rings on my fingers, not even a fingerprint. I was as clean as a newborn baby.

I reached down further and felt something was wrong. Why wasn't I wearing a bra or even panties under my white robe? What's going on? I'm a woman, for goodness' sake! Even if I'm dead, a female ghost, I still have some sense of shame. They didn't even give me underwear under my robe? What kind of people surround me?

Yeah, who are the people around me? And who am I? How did I end up in such a state?

Met a superstar

I wandered aimlessly, my feet barely touching the ground.

Being a ghost is really great; walking is effortless. A single thought is enough to make me "walk," and I move like the wind, brushing past the mist that covers my feet. The mist gathers and disperses beneath my feet, and I float like a fairy. Isn't this scene worth capturing? A surge of joy welled up within me, and I quickened my pace, waving my hands. I wanted to dance in this fairyland.

This body has never been so free, able to rise, fall, jump, and fly at will. I could strike a pose like a flying apsara from a Dunhuang mural, but I lack the suppleness of a waist; a mediocre "reverse-playing pipa-playing celestial musician" pose wouldn't do, as I don't have the fullness of a breast. I stroke my budding, childlike breasts, my flat waist, my slender thighs. This body is anything but beautiful.

This ordeal left me slightly out of breath. I instinctively checked my pulse—no pulse. I'd forgotten that I had no heartbeat, and therefore no pulse. So why was I still panting? Perhaps my body was automatically coordinating well, getting used to it, and I was panting as soon as I exercised? I remember that because of my heart condition, my parents never let me exercise.

Mom and Dad.

Am I slowly regaining my memories? I'm remembering my parents? Everyone has parents. Before becoming a ghost, a ghost was once human, so a ghost also has parents. And someone like me who died so young must still have parents alive. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do, so why don't I go visit them? They must be very sad that I'm dead. They say that no matter how old a child is, they're still a child in their parents' eyes. Even if I become a ghost, they won't despise me, right?

Once I made up my mind, I felt a little uneasy. First, I didn't remember where my home was, and second, I was afraid that the ox-headed and horse-faced demons would come and chain me up and take me back. I had just gained some experience as a ghost and had a goal in my ghostly life, and I didn't want to be captured so soon, fall into the cycle of reincarnation, become an infant, know nothing, and have to rely on my new parents for everything. Maybe my new parents were underage boys and girls, and if they were scared or confused, I would have to go to an orphanage; or maybe they were older adults who had drunk their fill of Western education, and would do everything according to the book, not even holding me when I cried, saying it was to exercise my lung capacity, and when I was hungry, they would take a bottle of cold milk from the refrigerator and stuff it into my mouth, saying that's how American children are raised.

Well, I think it's more reliable for me to be a ghost for a while first.

I'm going to visit my parents in the human world, taking a N-day trip between the ghost realm and the human world. These N days will see how the journey goes, whether I scare anyone, whether I disturb any demons or ghosts, and whether I can get used to life in the human world. If I don't, I'll just take a quick look and leave. While they're asleep, I'll whisper something in their ear, saying I'm fine, not suffering at all, and my health has improved. I don't need to worry about running, playing ball, or swimming anymore; some people are better suited to being ghosts. If they feel lonely, they should have another child if they can. Maybe if I stay in this remote place a little longer, I can survive until I can be their child again. If they can't have children, I'll adopt one. All my old toys, my old bed, my old textbooks with notes, my stamp and postcard collections, and my CDs and DVDs can go to her or him.

Thinking about it this way, I was deeply moved, and I almost wanted to shed tears to express my filial piety, but unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, not a single tear came out. If there's anything wrong with being a ghost, it's that you can't always shed tears to enhance the effect, which is really a bit of a killjoy.

I blinked my dry eyes and began searching for the path to the lower realm.

Suddenly I thought of Dante's journey through the three realms. How lucky he was to have his first love, Beatrice, as his guide. This lover was forever sixteen years old, beautiful and fragrant like the Italian countryside in summer, warm and sweet, surrounded by the scent of lemon blossoms, with tiny orange blossoms adorning her "seaweed-like long hair".

And I, in white robes and white socks, treading through wisps of white mist, had no idea where to go.

I, a lone ghost, wandered through the misty plains, oblivious to hunger and thirst, weary and restless, my eyes never closing, my nights sleepless. I don't know how long I drifted, but finally, I couldn't hold on any longer and collapsed. What did I fall on? I don't know. If I had known what I could lie on, lean against, or rest on after collapsing, I would have fallen long ago. It wasn't my unwavering resolve to complete the 25,000-li Long March, nor was it for an ideal, nor was it to drink the bitter loneliness of the 365-li journey. I was simply afraid that after I fell asleep, utterly exhausted, I would drift aimlessly to who-knows-where.

Fear kept me walking, and I recited a passage I had memorized that day to encourage myself: "All day I wander beyond the Realm of Sorrow, feasting on the Fruit of Secret Love when hungry, and drinking the Water of Sorrow when thirsty. Because I have not yet repaid the kindness of your nurturing, my heart is filled with an endless, lingering sorrow. It has this heart, and thus was fortunate enough to meet the ethereal and profound Master Kongkong, and be allowed to travel to the human world. I also have a heart to repay my parents, so why can't I go?"

I'm not being arrogant or trying to compare myself to the Crimson Pearl Fairy, it's just that my current state does have some similarities.

When I woke up, I opened my eyes. The fog seemed to have thinned a bit, and the light seemed brighter. But perhaps it was due to my own hope, or maybe I had gotten used to it, or perhaps I had transcended the mundane and become sharp-witted and perceptive.

I vaguely heard some sounds, just like when I was walking to school in the fog, there were familiar figures about five steps away. I would call out their names and they would answer. Then the two of us would hold hands and walk through the fog to school, sit in the classroom, and watch the dampness on our clothes turn into water vapor and rise into the air under the heater.

I tried calling out softly, "Hey, is anyone else here?"

A figure appeared gracefully from the mist, looking down at me with an detached expression. I looked up at him, speechless with joy.

Because he was an acquaintance. So acquaintance that everyone knew him, everyone could call him by name. He was a national idol, radiating imperial brilliance and enjoying presidential-level luxury, yet he died mysteriously in his apartment at the height of his life.

Speculation about the cause of his death has been rampant in the media: suicide, homicide, alcohol poisoning, drug use, a combination of alcohol and drugs, the CIA, the National Security Agency, espionage, a crime of passion, a revenge killing, a murder, debt from loan sharks, and a combination of debt from loan sharks and a crime of passion. Various combinations have emerged. His death has boosted print media sales and online readership.

His diary was discovered, but later confirmed to be a forgery; his suicide note was also discovered, but later confirmed to be fake. In the nine months following his death, at least six women claimed to be pregnant with his posthumous child, but it is difficult to verify whether this is true or false.

His parents are fighting over his inheritance because they were divorced long ago and have each remarried, each with three to seven children. His business partner and agent are also in court because the ownership of the assets is unclear. His ex-girlfriends and current girlfriend are also in court because he was too generous, seemingly promising each of them a mansion but failing to deliver, and now they're coming after him. His death has disrupted the peaceful lives of at least a hundred people.

Why do I remember his story so clearly, yet forget who I am? I plummeted from a state of elation, and remembering my predicament, a wave of sorrow washed over me. Alas, even a superstar can only keep my joy on my face for three minutes.

Perhaps it was the sadness on my face that moved him, for he came over and humbly asked me, "Miss, do you know me?"

I was stunned.

He didn't know who he was, just as I didn't know who I was. I thought a ghost could help me, but it turns out this lost superstar ghost was just as confused as I was.

How should I answer him? I thought about it and remembered that no celebrity wants to be recognized by fans in public places such as opening ceremonies, premieres, red carpets, studios, catwalks, and fashion shows. Besides, I am a self-disciplined and well-mannered city dweller who is knowledgeable and doesn't want to be looked down upon by a superstar like him, who might think I'm a shallow fan. So I cautiously replied, "No, I don't know you."

A deep disappointment crossed his face as he murmured, "I thought you were someone I knew because you seemed so happy."

"Uh..." I swallowed awkwardly. "It's because I saw people again. I've been gone for so long, so long that I don't remember how long, so I... well, I'm a little excited."

He seemed to understand perfectly, nodding and saying, "I know, I went through a similar period of figuring things out when I first arrived, but thankfully it's all over now." Then he looked at me thoughtfully and asked, "So, who are you?"

I was stumped by his question, heartbroken, and unable to shed a tear to moisten my bitter eyes. I was almost petrified. I managed to move my eyes and said, "I don't know either."

He nodded sympathetically and said, "I understand, I understand. We are in the same boat, both of us are wanderers in this world. Why should we need to have known each other before?"

I never expected him to be so eloquent. I thought people like him were all talk and no action, their words and actions all orchestrated by their agents and assistants. I felt deeply ashamed of my past prejudices, but thankfully, I neither broke out in a sweat nor blushed.

Then I remembered something, something so important that I had to ask, even if he called me gossipy. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; everyone has curiosity, even ghosts. Curiosity killed the cat, but curiosity also drives human progress. What I asked was: "How did you die?"

His handsome face revealed a philosopher's contemplation. He sat down beside me, rested his hand on his forehead, struck the perfect pose of a thinker, and pondered for a long time.

I was about to apologize for my rudeness when he spoke up, saying, "I've been here for so long just to know this."

Ten thousand years of seeking death and living

I feel immense sympathy for him. It turns out the troubles of a superstar are the same as mine; sympathizing with him is sympathizing with myself. But excessive self-pity isn't a good thing; a little self-pity in a roundabout way is fine.

With this in mind, I discussed this issue with him in detail: "Why don't we remember who we are or how we died? I remember some fragmented memories of my life, the books I've read, the people I know, and other people's stories, but why can't I remember the most important part? Also, why don't we go to the Terrace of Longing for Home to report, but instead drift in this world?" I paused, then asked, "What kind of world is this?"

He answered my question fluently: "This is a transitional zone between life and death. Some ghosts, haunted by unfinished wishes from their past lives, refuse to give up their search for answers and thus remain here."

I let out a soft "oh" and said wistfully, "It seems I died unjustly."

He glanced at me, puzzled that I had reached a conclusion so quickly.

I explained, "At my age, what major event could possibly happen to me? At most, my boyfriend might find someone else. But the fact that I calmly accepted the reality of being a ghost means I'm a rational person, a composed ghost. Similarly, I wouldn't cry over spilled milk. If this man doesn't like me, I'll turn the page and find someone else. I won't die for someone who can't recognize my charm. Therefore, it couldn't be suicide. If it was murder, my indifferent personality wouldn't likely provoke any rivals." "Besides, I'm of average appearance, so it's impossible for me to attract the attention of gangsters or thugs. Furthermore, this body has no injuries whatsoever, indicating natural death. If I had been in a car accident, I'd still have all my limbs. If I had eaten unwashed vegetables and been poisoned by pesticide residue, I'd definitely look pale and horrified, giving you quite a fright. Your expression is perfectly normal, so mine must look perfectly normal too. And dying from eating unclean food is perfectly normal; I could only complain about the cafeteria lady and then obediently move on to my new life, without getting caught up in this internal struggle."

I launched into a long, rambling monologue, which made the superstar frown. I stopped writing the next three thousand words, just so someone would keep me company instead of being scared away by my nagging. I hurriedly drew my conclusion, finishing this closing statement, "I must have died unjustly, otherwise I wouldn't have stayed." Suddenly, two lines of lyrics popped into my head, and I hummed them out in a whimsical way: "Actually, I don't want to leave, actually, I want to stay." Only after humming them did I realize how ridiculous it was. I laughed it off, amused by my own boredom and thick-skinnedness. It's amazing that I could entertain myself like this. I even wanted to pat myself on the shoulder in encouragement.

As a superstar, he had an incredibly good temper. After listening to my nonsense, he only frowned slightly, his starry eyes showing some curiosity, and said, "I seem to remember this tune. A man surnamed Zhou sang this song."

I was both amused and annoyed, thinking, "You don't just remember that you performed on stage with singer Zhou, that you were a guest at his solo concert." My sympathy for him outweighed my own; after all, celebrities receive far more attention and affection than ordinary people, so my overflowing sympathy for him was perfectly normal. But upon examining my own feelings, I realized this was merely an excuse for my own snobbishness. Why should he receive more sympathy? Just because he's a superstar? He's a womanizer, a philanderer, an mediocre actor, an amateur singer, hypocritical to fans, rude to reporters, indifferent to his parents, and ambitious in his career. That last one could be considered a virtue, but to put it nicely, it's ambition; to put it bluntly, it's scheming. I've heard countless stories about him, mostly about him stealing roles and screen time, snatching roles from supporting actors and actresses. On screen, his handsome face is always in the center, while the tearful actress can only manage a half-face. Poor thing.

Suddenly I understood how he died. He must have been bullied to death by his male colleagues, killed by the disapproving looks of his female colleagues, drowned in the resentment of directors and producers, and strangled by the hatred of his own agent. In short, his misfortune was caused by his own personality flaws. As for which kind of dissatisfaction ultimately led to his death, that requires my careful investigation.

I looked at his gentle face, my mind racing. He was so arrogant and domineering when he was a star, but now he's so refined and cultured. With such a real-life case of split personality right in front of me, why wouldn't I amuse myself with him? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! I was so excited I was almost trembling.

He watched my rapidly changing expression, his brows furrowing into a deep frown, and said sincerely, "Miss, although I don't know who you are, I'm certain you know who I am. And you're trying to take advantage of me, hoping to get something out of me. We both live in this desolate world, with nothing of value except the clothes we're wearing. Your excitement isn't because you've come up with a plan to trick me into giving you my clothes as a blanket, but because you've found something that can reveal my past or the cause of my death. I don't mind you making fun of me; I just want the answers I need so I can let go of my burdens and start anew. Miss, please tell me what you know, and when I leave, you can take my clothes, my shoes, and my shirt." He pulled out the folded white handkerchief that pretentious men always tucked into their pockets, handed it to me, and said, "I haven't used this before, please accept it."

If I could blush, my face would be as red as a boiled shrimp. His words had exposed my secret, leaving me utterly ashamed and with nowhere to hide. So, I retorted fiercely, "Judging from your voice, you seem like an educated person. How could you utter such reckless and shameless words? We're complete strangers, yet you gave me your handkerchief. Anyone who didn't know better would think we had some kind of ambiguous, secret affair. If the gossip reporters found out, my reputation would be ruined in no time. We have no past grudges or recent conflicts. Why are you trying to frame me like this? Even if I were just being a bit gossipy and inquired about your death, it wouldn't warrant this!"

He was speechless, waving his hands and saying, "No, no, I absolutely didn't mean that. I just wanted to know how I died so badly that I spoke without thinking."

His humble demeanor made me feel embarrassed, and I was about to offer words of comfort and find a reason to reconcile with him when he unexpectedly found a flaw in my words and started yelling, "You...you...what did you say? What entertainment reporter? What gossip? Why do these two words sound so familiar? Why do I feel that these two words are the most hateful in the world? Tell me clearly, and if you do, I'll let it go. If you don't, I will never let you off the hook."

I never expected him to be such an extremely intelligent person; I truly underestimated him. I thought he had forgotten that in his past life he was a cunning chameleon, and in this life he was just this seemingly dull and honest man. It's true what they say, old habits die hard; even as a ghost, he wouldn't forget his weakness. I've truly witnessed how celebrities fear entertainment reporters to the point that they can't forget them even in death.

But I'm not afraid. I'm neither his fan nor his bloodsucker manager. We're all just clashing, head-on. What I fear most is being ignored in this desolate place. But judging from his attitude, he'll only beg me, not keep his distance. My market value is high, so why should I be afraid of him? So I said firmly, "What do you hate most have to do with me? Why should I explain it to you? If you won't give up, what do you plan to do? What can you possibly plan to do?"

He froze, his towering arrogance vanishing instantly, replaced by his previous sorrowful expression. His eyes, heavy with grief, seemed to weigh a thousand pounds on his shoulders, his brows furrowed like towering cliffs before him. He said pitifully, "What can I do? In this desperate situation, there's nothing I can do. Miss, you're new here, you don't know how boring it is. Do you think staying here is fun? You come but can't leave, you get no results, you'll be here for ten thousand years trying to die. Trying to die, really trying to die, not just playing around. When I first came, I was just as unruly as you, but the long night has no end, even the most strong-willed person will be worn down. When I saw you, it was like finding the North Star in the darkness, a compass in the fog. You are my savior, you are my light, my electricity, my only legend."

I was so disgusted by his flattery that I almost threw up. He stopped his endless stream of compliments, as if he couldn't believe he was saying such nauseating things. I stared at him, goosebumps rising all over my body; he stared at me, his hands trembling like he had Parkinson's. We both let out a soft "uh" in unison, averting our eyes and avoiding each other's gaze.