Qin Mo Bai stood on the mountain ridge behind the village, gazing at the mountains shrouded in morning mist. The dawn wind carried a bone-chilling coldness, but he had no time to care about that now.

For three days, Chen Xiaoyu's ultimatum had hung over him like a suspended blade, and the falling point of this blade was his last chance for redemption.


"Since we've already gone down this path, we might as well go all the way." Mo Bai unfolded the map in his hand, his finger gently brushing over a marking—the tomb of the Qin family's ancestor, located in a forbidden area on the other side of the ridge, a place almost no one had ever set foot in. It was where the first generation of the Qin family settlers in this land was buried, which according to the family genealogy, had over two hundred years of history.

Since childhood, the family elders had warned them not to go near that area. "The peace of the ancestors must not be disturbed"—this was the precept passed down through generations of the Qin family.

But now, a bitter smile appeared at the corner of Mo Bai's mouth. If his great-grandfather might have been a traitor to China, if the family honor was built on lies, then what meaning did these precepts still have?


Three days ago, Chen Xiaoyu had said to him: either turn yourself in, or be reported. These words had kept him awake all night. When he picked up his bankbook and saw the money from selling cultural relics, it was like looking at the stains on his own soul. But turning back was impossible—where exactly did the path ahead lead?

The answer might be hidden in the tomb of the ancestor. Mobai needed to know the whole truth—when did his family's disgrace actually begin? Was it an inevitable choice made during the war years, or a seed planted much earlier?


The preparations were more cautious than ever before. Mobai knew that if clan members discovered him excavating the ancestor's tomb, he would face not only legal consequences but eternal banishment. He chose a special time: in the afternoon when the village had a ritual ceremony and everyone would gather at the ancestral hall. That forbidden area far from the village would belong to him alone.

Mobai retrieved his long-prepared tools from the secret room in the old house: professional archaeological shovel, flashlight, notebook, camera. This time, he was no longer a grave robber selling artifacts, but an explorer seeking truth.

At least, that's what he told himself.

The path from the village to the ancestral burial ground was almost completely covered by weeds. Mo Bai had to use his carried cleaver to hack open a passageway. The stone tablets along the way had long weathered, with only faint inscriptions telling the rise and fall of generations who had lived on this land. As the altitude increased, the air became increasingly thin. Mo Bai's breathing gradually quickened, whether due to physical exhaustion or his growing unease.

"It's not too late to turn back," a voice echoed in his mind. But another voice immediately countered: "You have no way back anymore." Mo Bai looked up toward the mountain peak. According to the map, the ancestral tomb was on a platform just below the summit, built on a feng shui treasure spot overlooking the entire village.

When he finally reached the platform, the sight before him took his breath away. Unlike the grand tomb he had imagined, the Ancestor's Tomb was so simple it was almost inconspicuous. A low stone tablet, surrounded by simple stones, without elaborate decorations or prominent inscriptions. On the tombstone were only three faded characters: Qin Lizhi.

"This is our family's ancestor?" Ben murmured to himself, feeling a strange sense of disappointment. He had expected an impressive burial site that would showcase the family's glory, only to find that the ancestor's final resting place was so modest.

He put down his backpack, took out his tools, and began carefully clearing the weeds around the tombstone. During the process, his fingers accidentally touched an indentation on the back of the stone. Curiosity drove him to examine it closely, and he was surprised to discover it was a small hidden compartment.

Before exploring the secret compartment, Mo Bai looked around to ensure no one was following him. The village lay below the mountain, and from this angle, the houses looked like scattered building blocks, tiny and distant. The smoke from the ancestral hall had already risen, indicating the sacrificial ceremony had begun.

He took a deep breath and pried open the hidden compartment with his small knife. Inside was a rusty metal box, just the right size to fit in his palm. Mo Bai's heart raced—this was clearly different from burial items, but something deliberately hidden here by later generations.

Opening the box required several minutes of effort. The rusted latch finally gave way under his prying. Inside was a stack of papers carefully wrapped in oiled paper, along with a small family crest seal.

"Documents again." Mo Bai smiled bitterly. These brownish-yellow papers seemed destined to change his understanding of his family.

He carefully unfolded the first page, where the writing had faded but remained clearly legible: "Journal of Determination, August of Guangxu 20th Year. I have decided to record these matters, not for the praise of posterity, but as a mirror for my bloodline. In this world of upheavals, right and wrong are difficult to judge. What I have done, only Heaven can witness, only future generations can judge..." Mo Bai's fingers trembled slightly. This was no ordinary diary, but a confession, a chronicle of the ancestor's lifelong inner journey.

As he read deeper, Mo Bai gradually pieced together a chilling story.

Qin Lizhi, the family's founding ancestor, lived during the tumultuous late Qing Dynasty. He had been a constable responsible for local security, but during one assignment, he became entangled in a complex power struggle.

"Today, while escorting a prisoner to the frontier, we encountered Qing soldiers who questioned us. They claimed the prisoner was a dangerous rebel who must be executed immediately. I knew well this was a false charge, merely the result of official intrigue. So I secretly released the prisoner and substituted a corpse instead. If this act were discovered, nine generations of my family would be exterminated. Yet I could not bear to see an innocent person wrongfully die, and am willing to risk myself..." Mo Bai paused, checking again the time period he was reading about—the Guangxu era, long before the Anti-Japanese War. He had originally thought his family's "stain" began during the Japanese invasion, never imagining that much earlier, his ancestors had already been struggling in the gap between morality and survival.

The diary recorded how Qin Lizhi walked a tightrope in the cruel official environment, outwardly serving as a loyal constable of the Qing court while secretly releasing wrongfully accused commoners multiple times. He resisted injustice in his own way, while bearing the risk of exposure at any moment.

What shocked Mo Bai even more was that the diary recorded Qin Lizhi's experience of being forced to participate in the suppression of the Taiping Army: "My superiors ordered me to join the suppression campaign. I was originally unwilling to turn my weapons against my own countrymen. But if I refused the order, my entire clan would be in danger. After much deliberation, I had no choice but to obey, though I secretly helped dozens of trapped people escape. Each life saved was a small comfort to my conscience. The officials called me a hero, but in reality, I was tormented by inner anguish day and night..."

Mo Bai put down the diary and gazed into the distance.

The sun was setting, its dying rays painting the sky blood-red.

He imagined his ancestor from over a hundred years ago, caught in tumultuous times, standing on these same ridges, gazing at the same sunset, his heart filled with contradiction and struggle.

He continued to read through and discovered a particularly striking passage in the diary: "Honor and truth often diverge from each other. Today, the officials honored me with the characters 'loyalty' and 'righteousness,' erecting a monument at the village entrance. The villagers rejoice, yet only I know that this 'loyalty' is not true loyalty, nor is this 'righteousness' true righteousness. However, in life, one is not always free to choose. One may have good intentions but cannot always act with perfect virtue. If any descendant should read these words, I hope they understand: in this world, few matters are simply black or white; most exist in shades of gray. My choices were made not for glory or shame, but only so my conscience might find peace..." These words struck Mobai's heart like a heavy hammer. The origin of the characters "loyalty and righteousness" was actually his ancestor's painful compromise, not a glorious deed. This was so different from everything he had learned through family tradition, yet it felt extraordinarily authentic.

Time passed as Mo Bai found himself completely immersed in the world of the ancestor. The diary recorded how Qin Lizhi preserved the family through the political transitions of the late Qing and early Republican era, and how during foreign invasions he employed a similar two-faced strategy—outward compliance but secret resistance—to protect his family and villagers.

This way of survival seemed to have become a hidden tradition of the Qin family, passed down through generations: maintaining an inner light of conviction beneath a façade of apparent submission.

He finally understood the deeper meaning behind that sentence in Qin Mingyuan's notes: "If we win, my brother becomes a hero; if we lose, we are all traitors. Heaven knows the truth, but future generations may never understand."

History is written by the victors.

And those who lived in the margins, no matter how much they struggled internally, could only accept the simplistic judgments of later generations: hero or traitor, loyal official or evil minister.

But real life has never been simply black and white.

Mo Bai suddenly felt a twinge in his nose, and a teardrop inadvertently fell onto the yellowed page. He had never imagined that his ancestors' circumstances would be so similar to his own—both were souls struggling between survival and principles, between family and justice.

They had outwardly cooperated with the enemy occupation while secretly resisting, and what about himself? Outwardly complying with regulations while secretly digging up graves, using the excuse of seeking truth while selling cultural relics. They were forced to compromise between life and death, while he wavered between subsistence and morality.

In essence, wasn't this the same struggle?

After sunset, the temperature on the mountain dropped sharply. Mo Bai lit a candle and continued reading. The last part of the diary contained reflections from Qin Lizhi's later years: "I am old now. Looking back on the past, I have many regrets. Yet whenever I think of those I saved, my heart still finds comfort. The world only sees appearances, but only oneself knows one's true heart. I hide this diary in the family grave, not to justify myself, but hoping that among my descendants, someone will understand: it is difficult to be a person, and even more difficult to be a person caught in a dilemma."

"Our family enjoys peace now, but I worry there will inevitably be turmoil in the future. So I leave these words: If one day, my Qin family descendants face a choice, remember that the apparent choice does not equal one's inner stance. Even if you choose the wrong path, you can still seek light in small places. Even if you make mistakes, you can still pull back from the brink. No matter where you are, just don't forget your original heart."

Mo Bai put down the diary and looked at the tombstone. In the candlelight, the ancient stone seemed to come alive, telling stories from a hundred years ago.

He finally understood that his ancestors were not as flawlessly perfect as described in the family genealogy, but neither were they the despicable traitors he had imagined. They were just ordinary people, making what resistance they could in extraordinary times.

In this moment, Mo Bai felt an unprecedented calmness. Yes, he had made mistakes—digging up ancestral graves, selling cultural relics—these actions were wrong no matter how one looked at them. But beneath those mistakes, his original intention to seek the truth had not been extinguished. Just like that glimmer of light his ancestors had held onto in the darkness, the longing for truth deep in his heart remained pure.

The moon rose, its clear radiance spilling across the mountains. Mo Bai knew he had to make a decision. He carefully packed all the documents back into the box, then took out a new notebook from his backpack.

On the first page of the notebook, he wrote: "Ben Mo's Journal, October 2023. Today I finally understand the truth about my family and see clearly my own situation. The struggle of my ancestors between survival and morality mirrors my own. They chose to outwardly submit while inwardly resisting, and I too find myself caught in this dilemma. But regardless of the past, the future remains a choice..." He paused, contemplating what to write next. A gentle breeze passed by, stirring the candlelight, causing shadows to dance on the tombstone.

Ben Mo continued writing: "I will turn myself in and confess to the crimes of excavating ancestral graves and selling cultural relics. I will surrender all discovered artifacts to the state, letting historians judge their value and truth. If my ancestors could maintain a glimmer of light in the darkness, what excuse do I have to sink further?"

"Whatever the outcome, I will preserve the true history of my family—not to celebrate glory, but to remember the truth. Honor may be false, but the painful struggles and inner choices are real."

After finishing this passage, Mo Bai felt a strange sense of relief, as if a burden of many years had finally been put down. He closed his notebook, carefully placing his ancestor's diary and his own records side by side on his lap.

He touched both documents simultaneously with his fingers, feeling the texture of the paper—one new, one old, yet both carrying strikingly similar fates. In the dim candlelight, Mo Bai's fingers lingered on the paper for a long time, as if through this simple contact, he had bridged the gap of time and reached some unspoken understanding with his ancestor.