Grandpa, the Urn in Our Ancestral Hall Exploded Again.

Before he died, my grandfather held my hand and said: "There is a rule passed down from our ancestors - whoever's urn explodes has not lived enough and must come back to pay off the debt." I thought it was an old man talking nonsense. Until the day I sent my grandfather away, there was a muffled "bang" in the ancestral hall, and the urn I had just sealed exploded. That night, my grandfather was sitting on my bedside wearing a shroud, crossing his legs and eating melon seeds: "Grandson, don't panic, our ancestors have been bombed for eighteen generations." The next day, my dad's jar exploded. On the third day, great-grandfather's jar exploded. Now, in my ancestral hall, eighteen urns are lining up to pop out, and generations of ancestors are standing in a circle, staring at me for a meeting. Great-grandfather slapped the table: "This kid is not very talented, how about we stop counting on him?" Grandpa knocked his pipe and said: "Fart! My grandson must inherit our old Chen family's ancestral business -" My dad quietly added: "The problem is, what our family's ancestral business is, we ourselves have forgotten." Until last night, the moment my great-grandfather's jar exploded, the whole ancestral hall shook. A figure walked out of the gray fog and patted me on the shoulder: "My child, come with me to the underworld. Your great-grandmother is fighting with the King of Hell, and we have to go and start a fight."