Fifty years ago, at Changsha Biaozi Ridge. Four tomb raiders were squatting on a mound, no one speaking, all of them staring straight at the Luoyang shovel on the ground. The shovel still carried old soil freshly dug up from underground. Oddly enough, this cup of soil kept seeping with fresh red liquid, as if it had just been pulled out from an animal's wound.
"Looks like we're in deep trouble," Old Cigarette knocked his tobacco pipe on the ground, "there's a blood-soaked corpse down there. If we don't handle it well, we might all be buried down there."
"Are we going down or not? Just give a word, don't hesitate!" said the young man with one eye, "Old man, since you have trouble walking, you'd better not go down. My brother and I will go down. Whatever it is, we'll take care of it."
Old Cigarette laughed instead of getting angry, and said to a big-bearded man next to him: "Your second son talks nonsense. He doesn't know when he will get into trouble. You need to educate him more. Our business is not something that can be handled well just by having a box cannon."
The big-bearded man glared at the young man: "You little brat, how dare you speak to the old master like that. When the old master was digging soil, you were still eating shit in your mother's belly."