Everyone descended into terrified chaos. They realized their assumptions seemed to have been disastrously wrong.
They had always thought this must be a Western Zhou tomb.
But now they saw the corpses suspended overhead, beginning to writhe continuously.
This did not look like something the people of Western Zhou would have done.
Even when they buried people alive as funerary sacrifices, they would not have been this meticulous.
Calling a human sacrifice meticulous might have sounded cruel, but that was the truth. By comparison, Yin-Shang had developed an entire system of sacrificial procedures—women for the River Deity, young men for the Wind God, one person killed this way, another killed that way.
The Zhou Dynasty had been far simpler. With so many corpses here, all suspended overhead, this clearly was not the work of Western Zhou.
But if it was not Western Zhou, whose work was it?
Could it have been the people of Ancient Shu?
Impossible. Ancient Shu culture had several layers. "Silkworm Cong and Yu Fu—how dim and distant the founding of their kingdom." That verse referred to the civilization of Ancient Shu.
Yet the greatest problem now was that even Ancient Shu could not have afforded so many Human Sacrifices.
Their resources would not have allowed it.
As everyone trembled in fear, something seemed to drip from above their heads. The thick liquid landed on them, and they involuntarily looked up.
"What is that?"
Someone asked in a muffled voice behind his gas mask, but no one answered. One of them raised the weapon in his hands.
His meaning, however, was clear.
Raising his weapon had been an instinctive response. He had no desire to launch an attack. What he meant was: run!
Run first!
Lin Feng smashed through the stone before him and stared at