140: Below Suld, brass is used as a catalyst.

On the day of the Chagan Suluke Ceremony, before dawn, the Ejin Horo Grassland was already bustling with people.

Vehicles and crowds converged from all directions like countless streams, eventually surging toward the same destination—the magnificent Mausoleum of Genghis Khan.

The air was filled with a unique aroma of green grass, butter tea, and burning juniper branches. The deep, powerful sound of the horse-head fiddle and the chanting of the chanters echoed across the vast grassland, creating a solemn and dignified atmosphere.

Lin Feng and Wang Dalong joined the crowd. Wearing ordinary windbreakers, they looked somewhat out of place among the people dressed in magnificent Mongolian robes, yet this also made them inconspicuous.

Seeing such a scene for the first time, Wang Dalong was in a state of high excitement. Holding his camera, he continuously photographed the Mongolian men and women in their festive attire, as well as the spirited Darhad elders with their deep gazes, while constantly exclaiming "Holy crap" and "Awesome."

Lin Feng was much quieter. His gaze did not linger long on the gorgeous costumes and grand scenes; instead, he was observing the people.

He was observing the Darhad tomb guards.

There was a temperament on their faces that differed from ordinary herders. It was a sense of pride and mission etched into their bones, their eyes calm and resolute. Every move they made followed some ancient ritual, meticulous and precise.

The main sacrifice was held in the square in front of the Mausoleum Palace. Led by respected elders, people bowed to the "Eight White Palaces" symbolizing the spirit of Genghis Khan and the Sulde spear, offering Hada and sacrifices. The entire process was ancient and mysterious, filled with primitive religious power.

Lin Feng stood quietly on the periphery of the crowd, listening to the ancient Mongolian blessings he couldn't understand at all, while a question occupied his mind.

Guarding.

Was what the Darhad people guarded merely this Mausoleum Palace? Or was the palace itself just a part of their guarding mission, the part floating on the surface?

The ceremony lasted the entire morning.

After it ended, the crowd did not disperse but instead surged toward a vast temporary market set up next to the Mausoleum Palace.

This was the part Wang Dalong was looking forward to the most.

The market stretched for miles, with no end in sight. Everything was for sale. There were herders with sturdy Mongolian horses and camels, women selling homemade milk tofu and dried meat, and even more stalls selling various handicrafts. Silver bowls, Mongolian knives, saddles, leather paintings, coral and agate jewelry... a dazzling array filled with a rich grassland flavor.

Wang Dalong was like a mouse in a grain bin, looking and touching everything, curious about it all.

Lin Feng's goal, however, was very clear. He bypassed the brand-new, shiny goods obviously meant for tourists and specifically sought out the remote, quiet corners.

He believed that truly good things would not be placed in the most conspicuous positions.

He walked past stall after stall, his gaze quickly scanning the dust-covered old items. Rusted stirrups, damaged leather bags, copper pots of unknown age... most were just ordinary old goods from the pastoral areas, with nothing special about them.

Wang Dalong followed behind him, somewhat puzzled: "Brother Feng, what exactly are you looking for? What's so interesting about this scrap metal?"

"Looking for something that doesn't belong here," Lin Feng replied without looking back.

Over an hour later, just as Wang Dalong was about to lose patience, Lin Feng's footsteps stopped in front of an inconspicuous stall.

The stall owner was a man in his fifties, looking weather-beaten and wearing a faded blue Mongolian robe, napping behind a pile of miscellaneous items. On his stall, things were piled haphazardly: a few old leather coats, a wooden box with peeling paint, and a pile of blackish metal parts of indistinguishable purpose.

A typical "junk stall."

There were almost no customers visiting.

Lin Feng's gaze, however, was drawn to one item among the pile of metal parts.

He crouched down and gently picked up a palm-sized brass fragment from the mixture of ironware and copper pieces.

The brass piece was very thin, and because of its age, the surface was covered with a layer of dark green patina. Its shape was irregular, like a fragment that had fallen off something.

But in the center of the brass piece, an extremely complex symbol was etched using an intaglio process.

It was a pattern composed of countless swirling lines, like a vortex. The lines of the pattern were intricate and fluid, carrying a mysterious sense of rhythm, looking both like a tribal totem and the orbital path of some celestial body.

Wang Dalong also leaned over, took a look, and curled his lip: "Isn't this just a piece of scrap brass? What's drawn on it, a mosquito coil?"

Lin Feng ignored him.

His fingers gently brushed over the cold engraved lines on the brass piece. At this moment, his heart uncontrollably skipped a beat.

This symbol, he had seen it before.

Not in any publicly published history book or archaeological report.

But in an extremely obscure photocopy of private notes on Mongolian Shamanism research, written by a Russian explorer in the late Qing Dynasty. He had scavenged that notebook from a second-hand book website.

The notes recorded that this symbol, known as the "Wheel of Eternal Reincarnation," was the core pattern on ritual implements used only by ancient Mongolian court shamans when performing the highest level of sacrifices. It symbolized the flow of energy between the eternal blue sky and the earth, acting as a key to communicate with the spirits.

According to the Russian explorer's research, after Genghis Khan unified the Mongolian tribes, this symbol became the exclusive mark of the Golden Family. No one was allowed to use it except the Great Khan himself and the Great Shaman who presided over national sacrifices.

How could a symbol that should have belonged only to the core secrets of the Golden Family appear on an inconspicuous brass fragment, mixed in a pile of junk at this market?

"Boss," Lin Feng looked up at the napping stall owner.

The stall owner opened his bleary eyes, glanced at Lin Feng and the brass piece in his hand, and asked lazily, "Want this? Fifty."

"What is this?" Lin Feng asked calmly.

"Don't know," the stall owner yawned. "Passed down from my ancestors, found it in a pile of junk. If you want it, take it."

Passed down from his ancestors?

Lin Feng's heart stirred again. He picked up the brass piece and observed it carefully against the sunlight.

Suddenly, on the broken edge of the brass piece, he discovered an extremely tiny mark that almost blended in with the patina.

It was a Western Xia character.