After seeing Qin Zhengde off, Mo Bai stood in the courtyard, watching as villagers dispersed in small groups, but he clearly sensed that each backward glance carried a new interpretation—they had begun to view his every move through the filter of "mental instability."

What troubled him most was that when he turned to go back inside, he saw Qin Zhengde stopping at the village entrance in the distance, talking with a familiar figure—it was Old Wei, who had purchased artifacts from him. What were they saying? What connection did they have?


Mo Bai stood on the threshold of the old house, feeling more lonely and lost than ever before. He seemed to be standing at the center of a labyrinth, surrounded by walls woven from lies, truths, suspicions, and history, and he couldn't see clearly where the exit was.

"The item is good, well preserved." Old Wei took out a thick envelope from his bosom and likewise handed it to Mo Bai under the table,

"Twenty thousand, cash, not a penny less."


Mo Bai didn't immediately verify the amount; his hand gripped the envelope, but he suddenly couldn't move. At this moment, he clearly felt that he had crossed a certain line—from someone obsessed with seeking the truth to someone who sold out history, sold out his family, and even sold out his own principles.

"What are you hesitating for? Having regrets?" Old Wei keenly noticed his unusual behavior.


Mo Bai let out a long breath and stuffed the envelope into his inner pocket: "Nothing. The deal is done. I have other matters to attend to, so I'll be leaving first."

"Don't rush." Old Wei stopped him and smiled mysteriously, "I have more good news to tell you. I heard there's another old grave on the mountain behind your village, said to be your great-grandfather's cousin who also passed away during the Anti-Japanese War period. If you're interested, I can pay another sum of money."

Mo Bai narrowed his eyes: "How do you know all this?"

"In our line of work, being well-informed is normal." Old Wei said dismissively, pouring Mo Bai another glass of wine, "What do you say? Consider it? The price is negotiable."

Mo Bai didn't respond, just silently drank that glass of wine.

Old Wei didn't seem to be in a hurry either and changed the subject: "By the way, your uncle had tea with me yesterday, he seems very worried about your recent behavior." Mo Bai tensed up immediately: "You know my uncle?" "I know everyone in town who has connections."

Old Wei smiled meaningfully, "But don't worry, I'm very discreet and won't tell him about our little transaction."

Mo Bai recalled the scene he had witnessed that day—Qin Zhengde talking with Old Wei at the village entrance. Now it seemed that was no coincidence. He felt a chill spreading from his spine throughout his body—Old Wei had known about these tombs all along, and might even understand the history of the Qin family better than he did himself.

"Thank you for your generosity," Mo Bai said expressionlessly. "However, I believe this should be our last collaboration."

Old Wei's smile faded slightly: "Don't rush to conclusions. After you see more secrets, you might change your mind. Some truths are better known by fewer people, but keeping them hidden isn't a long-term solution either."

These words sounded half like advice, half like a threat.

Mo Bai got up to take his leave. Walking out of the restaurant, the night breeze cleared some of the alcohol from his mind, but the unease in his heart grew stronger. How much did Old Wei know? What did Qin Zhengde know? What was the relationship between them? These questions swirled in his mind, yet he could find no answers.

The cash in his pocket felt as heavy as a thousand pounds, reminding Mo Bai of his choice with every step he took. However, even though his conscience was secretly aching, he knew he had no other choice—at least that's what he was trying to convince himself to believe.

And tonight's plan was not yet over.

The bright moonlight illuminated the path leading to the hillside, as Mo Bai adjusted his backpack and walked toward the old graveyard behind the village. As Old Wei had said, there was indeed another grave—belonging to Qin Mingzhi's rather mysterious cousin, Qin Mingyuan.

Regarding this person, the clan records were extremely brief: "Died young, with unfulfilled aspirations," even the dates of birth and death were recorded vaguely.

The excavation process was already much more skilled than the previous two times. Mo Bai's movements were more swift and precise, as if he had become accustomed to this act of desecrating ancestors. This "habituation" itself was the most terrifying thing—the collapse of morality is often not a violent crash, but an accumulation of countless small compromises.

In the moonlight, the sound of the shovel piercing the soil seemed particularly jarring. Each thrust downward felt like carving a new crack in Ben's conscience.

Fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead, not just from the physical labor, but more from his inner struggle.

When the shovel struck something solid, Ben slowed his movements, carefully clearing away the surrounding soil, revealing a metal box similar to his previous discovery. But this box was noticeably larger and newer, with less rust on its surface.

Ben put on gloves, gently removed the box, and opened it to examine the contents. What was inside surprised him—besides some photos and documents, there was also an exquisite leather-bound notebook and a military pocket watch. The watch was engraved with the emblem of the Japanese army, and on the inside of the cover was a small photograph—a young Chinese man standing side by side with a Japanese woman wearing a kimono.

Mo Bai suspected that the man must be Qin Mingyuan, but he had never seen this person in any family albums. Why would he keep a photo with a Japanese woman? In that era of blood and fire, what did such a relationship signify? With these questions in mind, Mo Bai opened the notebook. To his surprise, the content inside wasn't entirely in Chinese, but a mixture of Chinese and Japanese.

Mo Bai struggled to decipher the characters he could only partially understand. From what he could read, this was Qin Mingyuan's work journal during the Japanese occupation period. As he read deeper, Mo Bai gradually felt a suffocating sense of oppression.

Qin Mingyuan's records were far more complex than he had imagined—they contained both pandering to and cooperation with the Japanese army, as well as covert intelligence transmissions. More shockingly, that Japanese woman appeared to be one of his informants, risking her life to help him relay intelligence.

"She told me today that the artillery unit will be relocated in three days. I must inform the People's Army immediately. But in doing so, her situation will become even more dangerous..."

Another page reads: "Three more resisters were executed today. I had to stand by and pretend to be indifferent. Every such scene makes me sick. But if my identity is exposed, the intelligence channel will be cut off, and more people will die..." Mo Bai's hands trembled slightly.

These words depicted a soul living in the gap between dual identities—outwardly a collaborator, but in reality a resister who risked his life to pass intelligence. Qin Mingyuan's situation was more dangerous and more painful than Qin Mingzhi's—he had to witness firsthand the atrocities of the Japanese army to whom he appeared to be "loyal," yet could not reveal even a hint of emotion.

So, what role did Qin Mingzhi play?

Mo Bai flipped to the latter part of the notebook and discovered some records about his great-grandfather: "Brother Mingzhi's stance has become increasingly uncertain. He believes that direct resistance will only bring more bloodshed, and advocates temporarily bowing down to preserve strength. We had an argument. I told him that once certain bottom lines are crossed, they can never be recovered. Will the different paths we choose eventually turn us into enemies?"

Mo Bai paused his reading and gazed at the starry sky. Qin Mingzhi and Qin Mingyuan, two brothers facing the same hardships, chose different paths. One chose apparent submission, while the other chose apparent betrayal but actual resistance. History recorded the former as a "suspicious character," while the latter was almost completely forgotten.

Who was right and who was wrong? Where was the line drawn? He continued to read through the notebook, and the last few pages caught his attention.

That was Qin Mingyuan's final record: "The intelligence has been transmitted through Mingzi. The Japanese army will conduct a cleansing operation against the village in three days. Brother Mingzhi has been informed, but he seems not to believe me. Years of disguise have made me appear as a true traitor even in the eyes of my family. This is perhaps the most ironic punishment..."

"Mingzi has been discovered. She will be executed. I must try to save her, although there is almost no chance of success. If I don't make it back alive, I hope someday, someone will find these words and understand the truth. I don't care how I am remembered, I only hope people will know that even in the darkest moments, there are still those who uphold a ray of light..." The notes end abruptly here.

Mo Bai closed the notebook, his heart heavy. Qin Mingyuan had obviously sacrificed himself in that rescue mission. What was more painful was that his sacrifice seemed not to have been properly remembered by the family—he didn't even receive a complete record in the family genealogy.

A question emerged in Mo Bai's mind: if even heroes like Qin Mingyuan were forgotten or misunderstood by history, how many more truths were buried under layers of deception? His family history seemed far more twisted and complex than he had imagined.

As he was immersed in these heavy thoughts, a light footstep sounded from behind. Mo Bai turned quickly, shocked to find Chen Xiaoyu standing at the edge of the cemetery, her face pale in the moonlight.

"I followed you here," Chen Xiaoyu began, her voice slightly trembling with suppressed anger, "I thought you might be doing one last survey, or perhaps had a change of heart... but now I understand, you plan to empty out even this ancestral grave."

Mo Bai stood up, trying to explain: "This isn't what you think. I'm not doing this for money..."

"Not for money?" Xiao Yu sneered, her gaze falling on the notebook and pocket watch in his hand, "Then these are also for 'historical research'? Just like how you just sold another batch of artifacts to Old Wei?" Mo Bai felt a surge of panic—she had clearly seen the entire transaction.

"You followed me?"

"I can't believe you actually did this," Xiao Yu's voice was filled with disappointment, "Those are national cultural relics! They belong to everyone as historical heritage! Yet you're selling them as personal items for profit!"

"You don't understand the whole situation." Mo Bai stuffed the notebook into his backpack, his tone becoming defensive, "This is my family's history, I have the right to decide how to handle it."

"No, you don't have that right," Xiao Yu said firmly, "This violates the Cultural Relics Protection Law. Privately excavating ancient tombs and trading artifacts are criminal acts. As a citizen, I have the responsibility to stop and report such behavior."

Mo Bai's face turned pale: "You're going to report me?"

"I had hoped you would pull back from the brink." Tears glistened in Xiao Yu's eyes, "I really thought you were just confused because of financial pressure. But seeing what you've done tonight, I can no longer remain silent."

"You can't do this!" Mo Bai's voice suddenly rose, "I told you about my situation! I need that money to survive!"

"So survival is your excuse for betraying your morals?" Xiao Yu countered, "I've learned about you, Qin Mo Bai. You were once one of the most principled appraisers in the industry. Now look at yourself, what have you become?" These words pierced Mo Bai's heart like a sharp blade. Yes, he was once someone who would rather lose his job than compromise his principles. And now, he was standing before an ancestral grave he had dug up himself, preparing to sell his ancestors' relics to black market collectors.

"Do you think it's easy to stand on the moral high ground?" Mo Bai's voice was distorted with pain, "When you have nothing left, when everyone treats you as a failure or a madman, can you still uphold those so-called principles?"

"I don't know," Xiao Yu answered honestly, "I haven't experienced your situation, so I dare not say what I would choose in your place. But I know that once you go down this path, it's very difficult to turn back. Teacher Mo Bai, please don't destroy yourself." Mo Bai's chest heaved violently, anger and shame intertwining in his heart. He knew that what Xiao Yu said made sense, but he also hated her moral judgment.

"What are you going to do? Call the police right now?" Xiao Yu was silent for a moment: "I'll give you 24 hours. Either you turn yourself in to the cultural relics department and explain the situation, which might result in a lighter punishment; or... I will report it myself. I'm truly sorry, but I have no other choice."

She turned and left, leaving Ben alone standing in the moonlight, with anger and despair burning in his chest. He slammed the shovel violently onto the ground, clutching his hair with both hands.

Damn morality! Damn principles! These hollow words had brought him nothing but pain and failure.

Ben gathered his tools, stuffing the precious notebook and pocket watch into his backpack. Instead of going home, he walked straight to the village's only 24-hour convenience store and bought several bottles of strong white liquor.

As the night deepened, Ben sat alone on a stone bench at the village entrance, numbing his nerves with alcohol. As the alcohol content rose in his bloodstream, his thoughts became increasingly chaotic.

Chen Xiaoyu's accusations, Old Wei's smile, Qin Mingyuan's notebook, Qin Zhengde's warnings... these fragments spun in his mind, forming an unsolvable knot.

He stared at the bottle in his hand, and suddenly had a thought—why not burn everything? Burn those damned documents, burn those graves, burn all evidence that could point to his crimes. Without evidence, Chen Xiaoyu would have no way to report him. Even if she said something, it would be just her word against his.

Mo Bai took out the lighter from his pocket, stood up unsteadily, and walked toward the graveyard. Alcohol and desperation gave him a twisted courage; he wanted to set fire to it all, burn away the past that troubled him, burn away the evidence that accused him.

Back at the cemetery, Mo Bai stood in the moonlight, the lighter's flame flickering in the night breeze, casting eerie shadows. He stared at the dug-up grave, his fingers gripping the lighter tightly.

At that very moment, his gaze fell upon the corner of a notebook peeking out from his backpack—it was Qin Mingyuan's last words: "I don't care how I am remembered, I only hope people know that in the darkest moments, someone still held fast to a ray of light..." Mo Bai's fingers froze.

The small flame trembled slightly, illuminating his tear-streaked face.

His ancestors had been able to hold onto a ray of light in such darkness, yet he was planning to devour this history with flames, just to escape his own guilt? He slowly closed the lighter, staggered backward a few steps, and finally collapsed to the ground. The pungent smell of alcohol mixed with the scent of earth as Mo Bai finally broke down in tears, like a lost child who had finally realized just how desperate he truly was.

The first ray of dawn light penetrated through the clouds, spilling onto Mo Bai. His swollen, red eyes gazed toward the east, where the sky was gradually changing from inky darkness to a pale white. He stood up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and tucked the lighter back into his pocket.

The grave remained there, open, waiting for a decision.

Mo Bai took a deep breath, bent down to pick up the shovel, and began to fill the soil back in bit by bit.