Chapter 223: Tressure hunted??

27 Years Ago

Henan Province, China

Morning mist clung to the stone steps of the Shaolin Temple, drifting through pine trees that had witnessed centuries of silence and discipline. The temple bells had already rung. The courtyard still carried the echo of synchronized breaths and striking palms.

A teenage boy in traditional Shaolin attire stood at the edge of the training hall.

Zhāng Yǔzé.

His robe was simple. His posture perfect.

He bowed deeply.

“Master, you called me?”

The old master sat on the wooden platform, spine straight despite his age. His beard fell neatly against his chest. His eyes were calm, but there was something heavy in them today.

“Yǔzé,” he began slowly, “my disciple. You have committed your childhood here. You have trained harder than many who were born into comfort. Your dedication surpasses those outsiders who come here to learn our art and later mock it before modern technology.”

The master paused.

“You are not an outsider to us.”

Zhāng Yǔzé remained bowed, unmoving.

“However,” the master continued, “you have great potential. I am afraid I cannot ask you to stay here and serve this temple forever. That would be a waste of such talent.”

Zhāng Yǔzé slowly lifted his head.

“Master,” he said softly, “you are like a father to me. You took me in. You taught me things I never deserved to learn. You took me around the world to demonstrate our art. I am indebted to you and this temple.”

His voice wavered for the first time.

“I do not know where to go.”

The master smiled gently.

“You must find that answer yourself now.”

He stood, walking slowly toward the open courtyard where sunlight touched the stone tiles.

“Explore the world. Visit different places. Learn to live and earn. Build your own family.”

The wind stirred the prayer flags above them.

“Remember,” the master said, turning back to him, “this is your home. You may always return if you need us.”

Zhāng Yǔzé bowed again.

“I understand, Master.”

“Come closer.”

Zhāng Yǔzé stepped forward.

The master reached behind him and lifted something wrapped in cloth.

He carefully unfolded it.

A straight sword.

Its blade was clean and perfectly balanced. Not ornate. Not decorative. Practical. Sharp.

“This,” the master said quietly, “is your parting gift.”

Zhāng Yǔzé’s eyes widened slightly.

“Master…”

“Take it. A warrior must know when to strike and when to sheath. Remember what we taught you. Discipline above strength. Patience above speed.”

Zhāng Yǔzé bowed deeply and accepted the sword with both hands.

“Thank you so much, Master.”

The temple bells rang again as he walked down the long stone steps that day.

He did not look back.

The world beyond the temple was vast and unforgiving.

He traveled.

He fought.

He worked.

He learned how modern men used ancient arts for business, for pride.

He earned a name.

He earned wealth.

He earned respect.

Years passed.

The teenage disciple became a man of few words and unshakable presence.

Eventually, he settled.

He founded his own martial arts school, blending tradition with experience, shaping students who feared discipline more than pain.

The world came to know him by many titles.

But among the treasure hunters, beneath the calm face and steady voice

Zhāng Yǔzé was simply known as

“The Monk.”

Present- Inside the Ruins

The underground chamber felt heavier than before. The air was thick. Warm. Restless.

Elias stepped forward, boots scraping against ancient stone.

“Miles Sterling, time for you to open the door.”

His voice echoed faintly through the hollow chamber.

Hilda’s headlamp flickered above her brow. The beam dimmed, then brightened weakly again. She tapped it twice with her palm.

“Battery is dying,” she muttered under her breath.

Kaelo stepped aside from the group and leaned against a carved pillar near the wall. He lit another cigarette slowly, deliberately. The small flame briefly illuminated his sharp cheekbones.

He did not come closer.

He kept his distance from the massive vault door.

His instincts were screaming.

Something behind it was wrong.

On the other side, the Monk stood silent, hands tucked within his sleeves. His gaze was not on the door.

It was on Maddock.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

The way Maddock shifted his weight.

The way his breathing remained steady despite the tension.

The way his stance adjusted unconsciously to guard Miles.

The Monk’s mind searched through old memories of tournaments, underground circles, demonstrations in distant cities.

Where had he seen that technique before?

Miles knelt down calmly.

He pulled out a small glass container from his pouch.

Transparent. Sealed. Double layered.

Inside, liquid shimmered faintly.

He placed it on the stone floor.

Then he signaled Maddock with a slight tilt of his chin.

Maddock immediately unzipped his tactical bag and took out a compact gas torch. He handed it over without a word.

Miles put on a protective mask.

The faint hiss of the torch filled the chamber.

He heated the outer glass layer carefully.

The container began to glow slightly under the flame.

Then he adjusted the angle and let the acid inside begin reacting with the specially weakened section.

A faint crack.

Then another.

Slowly the outer shell melted away.

Acid began dripping onto the stone platform.

The moment it touched the surface, smoke rose violently.

The stone hissed.

White fumes spiraled upward.

“Step back,” Maddock warned quietly.

The smell was sharp. Corrosive. Toxic.

Men covered their mouths with sleeves.

Hilda coughed.

Kaelo stepped even farther away.

The acid seeped and carved through the weakened layer until the outer casing collapsed entirely.

Inside it, a smaller sealed tube remained intact.

Miles picked it up carefully with a tool, broke the top with precise force, and reached inside.

He pulled out a metallic key.

Heavy.

He stood up slowly.

Elias’ eyes gleamed.

“Come on. What are you waiting for? Open the door.”

Miles walked toward the massive door.

Maddock moved behind him instinctively, hand resting near his blade.

Every gun in the room was slightly raised.

Every breath held.

Miles inserted the key into the keyhole.

Metal scraped softly.

Everyone leaned forward.

This was it.

The culmination of blood, traps, and death.

The key turned halfway.

Then

A faint ticking sound echoed.

But not from the door.

From behind them.

Downstairs.

Miles Smirked.

A sudden muffled explosion erupted from below the chamber.

The ground trembled violently.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

Hilda startled

Kaelo dropped his cigarette.

Men turned around instantly, weapons raised.

“What was that?” Elias shouted.

At that exact second

Miles smiled.

Subtle.

Calm.

He rotated the dial of his wristwatch anti clockwise.

A hidden mechanism clicked.

The vault door in front of him gave a deep mechanical groan.

It had never been locked.

With one firm push

The door swung open.

Elias spun back toward Miles.

“What was that explosion?”

Artem’s voice came quickly, trying to sound composed.

“It might be lightning. The rain in the forest is cruel.”

Miles stepped slightly aside from the now open doorway.

“The door is open.”

And beyond it

Darkness waited.

The doorway swallowed them whole.

One by one the treasure hunters stepped across the threshold, beams from their headlamps slicing through the thick darkness. Their lights struck white surfaces inside, reflecting sharply back at them.

White.

Too white.

Elias’ voice cut through the silence.

“You get in first.”

He pointed the barrel of his gun toward Miles.

Miles let out a tired sigh.

“As you wish.”

He stepped forward without hesitation. Maddock followed closely behind him, posture alert, shoulders squared.

The rest entered slowly, boots echoing against smooth stone.

For a few seconds, nothing was visible beyond the reach of their lights.

Then

Click.

A faint mechanical sound echoed from above.

Click.

Click.

Click.

One by one, ceiling lights flickered on in sequence, stretching deep into the hall like a waking serpent.

The sudden illumination made several men shield their eyes.

The facility revealed itself.

It was enormous.

A vast hall extending farther than their beams had initially suggested.

The floor was polished marble, veined and clean. The walls were painted white, pristine, untouched by time.

Rows upon rows of sealed wooden containers were stacked in careful order across the entire hall. Large crates. Medium crates. Small crates. Organized like inventory in a military warehouse.

It did not look ancient.

It looked maintained.

Elias’ brows furrowed.

“How come there are bulbs here?”

Artem scanned the ceiling.

“This is suspicious.”

Kaelo’s cigarette fell from his fingers unnoticed.

“Someone definitely renovated this place.”

Elias slowly turned his head toward Miles.

“Maybe it was Timothy Sterling who did it.”

The words lingered in the air.

Miles raised an eyebrow.

“What? Like I said. I never met my grandfather after childhood.”

Elias smirked.

“Whatever.”

He spread his arms slightly, as if presenting a stage.

“We are finally in the treasure vault.”

His voice grew louder.

“So it’s time to settle things now.”

Artem stepped forward, eyes gleaming.

“The tribals are dead. The only thing left is to transport these things to the sea.”

Elias laughed.

“It will take time. But all the treasure will be ours.”

He lifted his gun slightly and shouted into the hall.

“Years of waiting. Years of planning. Finally we reached it!”

His laughter echoed violently off the white walls.

Artem joined in.

Kaelo’s men grinned.

Some of them cheered.

Only Hilda stood still.

Her expression did not change.

She was playing her role.

Exactly as instructed by the Ghost.

The Monk remained silent. His hands folded calmly before him. His eyes were observant. Calculating.

Miles smirked faintly.

Elias turned slowly toward him.

“Miles Sterling. You were such a pain.”

He raised his gun fully now, aiming directly at Miles’ chest.

“It’s time to settle this.”

Maddock stepped half a pace forward.

“You”

Silence dropped like a blade.

The hall felt smaller suddenly.

Heavier.

Then

Miles started laughing.

At first it was low.

Then louder.

Then uncontrollable.

A deep, unrestrained laugh that bounced off the marble and walls like mockery itself.

It did not sound like fear.

It did not sound like panic.

It sounded like someone who had been waiting for this exact moment.

Everyone stared at him.

Artem frowned.

“He’s gone mad because he’s going to die.”

But Maddock suddenly began laughing too.

Not forced.

Not nervous.

Genuine amusement.

Now the hall felt wrong.

Elias’ eyes narrowed.

“What’s so funny?”

Miles wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“Treasure?” he said between laughs. “What treasure?”

He gestured toward the crates.

“Have you even opened these containers?”

The laughter returned.

“You all are idiots.”

The word hung there like a slap.

Artem’s face stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

Kaelo moved toward the nearest crate. His boots echoed loudly against the marble.

He grabbed a small crowbar from one of his men and forced it between the lid and the frame.

The nail heads groaned.

The wood cracked.

The lid snapped open.

Kaelo leaned forward to look inside.

He froze.

Completely still.

Elias grew impatient.

“What is it, Kaelo?”

Kaelo did not answer.

His face had drained of color.

His fingers trembled slightly against the crate’s edge.

Something inside that box had terrified him.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep