Chapter One: The Secret of the Terracotta Warriors

The Fifth Kind begins, fittingly, with a matter of life and death.

I received an email from an archaeologist friend, telling me that he’d be arriving early tomorrow morning by plane to see me. This friend of mine has never been one for haste; for him to reach out so urgently could only mean something out of the ordinary had happened.

I tidied up the documents on my computer, saved a backup of the things I’d written online, and lit a cigarette. As I mused about this old friend, I realized three years had slipped by without notice.

I remembered that three years ago, when we had last seen each other, he had told me he was heading off to study the Terracotta Warriors in Xi’an, following his advisor’s research. Then he vanished for two years, not a word, until last year when he faxed me some internal material on the Terracotta Army. It wasn’t particularly sensitive, but at the end of it, he left a note: some confidential government agencies had sent people to join the research.

I didn’t bother to investigate which agencies these were, since he didn’t specify, and it seemed inappropriate to ask. After that fax, I heard nothing more from him until today.

This story involves the Terracotta Army, so I had to dig out some relevant references:

The Terracotta Warriors are burial pits accompanying the mausoleum of the First Emperor, located about a kilometer and a half east of his tomb. They were discovered in 1974 when local farmers were digging a well. Subsequent drilling revealed three pits in total. The largest, Pit 1, covers 14,260 square meters. Over 700 terracotta soldiers, more than a hundred chariots, over 400 horses, and more than 100,000 weapons have been unearthed from the pits. The figures stand between 1.75 and 1.85 meters tall and, depending on their attire and expressions, are classified as generals, warriors, or charioteers. Weapons excavated include swords, spears, halberds, and curved swords—bronze arms that, despite being buried for over two millennia, remain sharp and gleaming.

The internal material my friend faxed me contained mostly a retelling of the discovery of the Terracotta Army and its scale—information that’s readily available online, hardly confidential. Yet, in the final document, highlighted in red, a few lines stood out:

First: the bronze swords unearthed from the Terracotta Army were astonishingly sharp, practically as bright as new, with some showing no signs of rust at all, and were crafted with remarkable precision. Tests revealed their surfaces had undergone chromic salt oxidation treatment—a technique that, according to records, wasn’t known in Germany until 1937 and in the United States until 1950. That it existed in China over two thousand years ago is a marvel of metallurgical history.

Second: the method of crafting these warriors remains a puzzle. My friend conducted two simulation experiments, explaining that modern replicas are made in segments, fired separately, and then assembled. But the ancient warriors were fired whole, which raises two major challenges: First, how was the ratio of shrinkage from wet to dry clay controlled? Second, how did they account for the shrinkage from soft to hard during firing? Third, with parts of the figures varying in thickness, how was the heat regulated to ensure even firing? Fourth, what was the optimal ratio of clay to quartz sand? How were such technical obstacles overcome in that era?

Though I’d never looked deeply into these questions, they certainly seemed mysterious. Yet, work left me no time for such research—studying these matters would be as difficult as investigating Genghis Khan’s tomb or the First Emperor’s mausoleum, or attempting to unravel the curses of the pyramids. It could only ever be conjecture, and I simply didn’t have the energy.

Receiving his letter today was a surprise. As I flipped through his materials, I felt certain his visit this time must be connected to all this. I pondered to myself: Old Liu must be in some kind of trouble again.

Being a bachelor, my place was small—a simple apartment on the outskirts of Guangzhou. Every morning, a housekeeper came to tidy up. The next day, after buying me breakfast, she helped pack my things.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Wang, had worked for me for over a year and was quite familiar with my solitary habits. She was always kind.

The doorbell rang.

It was rare for me to have visitors. Mrs. Wang looked surprised.

When she opened the door, a middle-aged man with glasses spoke up, “Hello, is this where Mr. Changfeng lives? I’ve just arrived from Xi’an.”

Hearing Old Liu’s voice, I hurried to invite him in. He had brought a guest: a young man in sunglasses, dressed in casual jeans and a black leather jacket—a look that suggested underworld connections.

Mrs. Wang, having never seen me receive guests, sized him up with some concern and glanced at me.

I smiled reassuringly and said, “Mrs. Wang, you can leave the cleaning today; I’ll take care of it myself.”

She understood and, after pouring some water for my guests, left.

Once seated, my guests wasted no time with formalities, draining their glasses as if parched.

Before they could speak, I teased, “Liu, it’s been years without a word—have you gotten so rich in Xi’an you forgot about me?” I smiled coolly.

Old Liu, knowing my temperament, let it pass and gestured to his companion. “Changfeng, this is Ren Tianxing, Brother Ren. He’s the officer sent down by the authorities to protect our research.” The way he referred to “the authorities” hinted at something significant.

Ren Tianxing stood, shook my hand politely, and said, “Brother Liu spoke highly of you back in Xi’an—an honor to meet you.”

I recalled the mention of secret departments in the materials I’d read yesterday, and now I was told Ren Tianxing was here as a police officer assigned to protect the work. If he were truly just police, he wouldn’t be part of any classified agency—clearly, his police identity was a cover. He must belong to that so-called secret department.

Out of courtesy, I shook his hand. The moment our hands met, I felt his grip tighten like a steel clamp, suddenly locking onto mine.

I forced a wry smile. Clearly, he was testing me. I gathered my inner strength to neutralize his force.

With a touch of sarcasm, I said, “Officer Ren, what a generous gift for a first meeting. I suspect you’re more than just a policeman, aren’t you?”

Ren Tianxing’s expression shifted; he regarded me with newfound respect. “Impressive—very impressive!” he exclaimed.

Unable to gauge my abilities, he was clearly unsettled. After all, those assigned to protect sensitive research undergo rigorous training and are capable of holding their own against many. An ordinary person’s hand would have been crushed by his grip, but I showed no pain nor any attempt to retaliate.

Annoyed by his lack of restraint, I turned coldly to Old Liu, “Liu, you didn’t come all this way just for a reunion, did you?”

Old Liu coughed and got straight to the point: “If it weren’t absolutely necessary, I wouldn’t have come for your help.” He glanced at Ren Tianxing, then continued, “Changfeng, did you ever look closely at the fax I sent you a year ago?”

I laughed. “What you sent was nothing special—anyone could find more detailed information online.”

At this, Ren Tianxing snorted impatiently, “If it were classified, even Cabinet members couldn’t access it without approval.”

“Then why send it to me?” I shot back, giving them no room for excuses.

I understood that Ren Tianxing meant genuine classified documents weren’t available to ordinary people. What I’d seen was all public knowledge. I turned to Old Liu, waiting to see how he would explain.