The Mountain Records were drawn by mountain ghosts throughout the dynasties, documenting mountain shapes, terrain, and peculiar locations with extremely detailed annotations. Due to the principle that “Mountain Records never leave the mountains,” they were stored at various locations rather than being centralized at the Mountain Gui Study.

Meng Jinsong had already retrieved the Xiangxi Mountain Records from Cloud Dream Peak a few days ago, keeping them locked in a guest room. Upon hearing that she wanted to see them, he quickly instructed Liu Guanguo to bring people in to hang them up.

Xin Ci, who was staying diagonally across from Meng Qianzi, heard the commotion and peered out to look. She saw Liu Guanguo and Qiu Dong making repeated trips, carrying scroll containers from the guest room at the end of the corridor to Meng Qianzi’s room.

Drawing closer to look, she discovered they weren’t ordinary scrolls but rather cylindrical containers similar to those used for storing paintings and calligraphy. She couldn’t identify the grass or vine material they were made from, but they had a strange smell with hints of Chinese medicine, likely for repelling insects and preventing decay. Each container lid was labeled with markings like “Longitude Three Latitude Two” or “Longitude Six Latitude Eight.”

When the containers were opened, they revealed hide sheets that had been processed with nitrate, the color of aged cowhide. Both sides were coated with an unknown oil layer, giving the surface a frosted texture, covered with extremely fine ink brushstrokes.

Liu Guanguo and Qiu Dong moved tables and stools to clear a large wall, then used glue and nails to assemble the hide sheets in sequence. Xin Ci suddenly realized that the markings on the container lids were positioning coordinates—longitude for vertical and latitude for horizontal. The assembled map was enormous, nearly covering the entire wall, revealing mountains, rivers, roads, and villages in vivid detail.

However, Chinese traditional map-making resembled military sand tables, making the map look more like a “painting.” Some mountain peaks were even illustrated with dark green pines. Xin Ci moved closer to Meng Qianzi and lowered her voice: “Why bother with this complicated process? You could just use Google Maps—they’re satellite images, available whenever you need them.”

Unexpectedly, Liu Guanguo’s ears were sharp: “I know about those Google Maps and Baidu Maps you mentioned, but those only show the skin. Our Mountain Records reveal the bones beneath.”

Xin Ci smiled politely while mentally rolling her eyes: Did he think she couldn’t understand? The map was visible—what nonsense about “revealing the bones.”

After everything was arranged, Meng Qianzi dismissed everyone else but motioned for Meng Jinsong to stay.

Meng Jinsong understood perfectly. Without waiting for instructions, he opened the mountain ghost’s basket and took out a small bronze figurine about a span high. The figurine had a grimacing, ugly face resembling a wild ghost, with hands frantically scratching its head. Meng Jinsong gently twisted the figurine’s topknot, removing half of its head.

It turned out the bronze figurine was hollow, with a flat cross-section resembling a human eye. It was filled with solidified black grease, with a bright red wick exposed in the center—an ingeniously crafted candleholder. The candleholder had a built-in fire starter; one only needed to pull out one of the figurine’s legs sharply, then blow gently, and it would ignite, working on the same principle as a struck match.

After completing these preparations, Meng Jinsong retreated to the wall and turned off the light.

The room fell into complete darkness, with only the rustling sounds of Meng Qianzi moving about. After a while, there was a “scratch” sound as the fire starter produced an orange-red flame that quickly ignited.

The candlelight was strangely bewitching—fish-belly white at the wick, gradually shifting to crimson purple and cold purple, causing the surrounding grease to glow luminously. In the darkness, it resembled an eye suddenly opening—this was the specialized “Map-Reading Fire Eye” used for viewing Mountain Records.

Meng Qianzi held the Fire Eye close to the Mountain Records. Strangely, wherever the light shone, blood-vessel-like lines appeared on the hide surface, either annotations or outlines. These were the true findings of the mountain explorers—maps within maps, pictures hidden within pictures.

She called to Meng Jinsong, “Come look at this.”

As Meng Jinsong approached, he saw the Fire Eye’s flame reveal a winding, zigzagging border wall on the hide surface. This was the Miao Border Wall, also known as the Southern Great Wall. During the Ming Dynasty, the Miao people resisted imperial control. To prevent border troubles, stationed troops gradually built a nearly four-hundred-li wall to separate the “raw” and “cooked” Miao people. Everyone beyond the wall was considered “beyond imperial civilization,” and strict orders prohibited “Miao from leaving their territory and Han from entering Miao strongholds.”

Meng Jinsong commented: “There should be a smaller border wall too, right?”

Meng Qianzi nodded: “Exactly.”

She moved the Fire Eye upward, and sure enough, another intermittent line appeared on the hide surface.

Most people knew about the Miao Border Wall, or Great Border Wall, but few knew about the Small Border Wall.

Originally, the stationed troops feared an uprising from the “raw” Miao, but the Miao people also feared attacks from the troops. Although they lacked the manpower and resources to build a great wall, among the “raw” Miao were many shamans skilled in poison, charms, and the ways of creation and destruction. They utilized terrain, mountain formations, and natural barriers to set up mysterious mechanisms and deadly traps in a linear, scattered pattern—not a wall, but serving as one, commonly called the Small Border Wall.

However, the border troops feared the “raw” Miao and avoided them whenever possible. They had no interest in conquering such poison-filled, miasma-laden, desolate mountains. Over time, the Small Border Wall was gradually forgotten.

The Fire Eye moved past both border walls and continued inward, stopping at a vast forest of towering stone pillars.

This was Zhangjiajie’s typical quartz sandstone pillar landscape: massive stone columns, as if chopped and carved with axes and knives, standing tall throughout the immense canyon, densely covered with vines and lush vegetation. Legend had it that billions of years ago, this was an ancient ocean. After several tectonic shifts, weathering, and water erosion, this rare landscape formed. The floating mountains in James Cameron’s highest-grossing film, “Avatar,” were modeled after this very place.

Honestly, the great Wulingyuan area, known for its “three thousand peculiar peaks and eight hundred beautiful waters,” wasn’t inferior to Huangshan Mountain. Its failure to earn a place among China’s famous mountains in Xu Xiake’s rankings wasn’t its fault—Xu Xiake never visited Zhangjiajie. Wherever he went, he mostly recorded travel journals, but regarding Xiangxi, he wrote “Diary of Encountering Bandits on Xiang River.” While moored overnight, he encountered armed robbers wielding knives, forcing him to jump into the water to escape. He was left with only a waist-length undergarment and had to borrow rags from boatmen to cover himself. In the bitter winter, “the dawn wind cut to the bone, sand and gravel split the feet,” so he likely had no interest in appreciating or critiquing mountains.

Meng Qianzi slowly moved the Fire Eye across this area. Meng Jinsong’s heart pounded—this pillar forest wasn’t without significance. Mountain ghosts called it “Hanging Gallbladder Peak Forest,” the place where mountain gallbladders were stored. Meng Qianzi’s focus on this area surely indicated something unusual.

Indeed, she asked him: “What’s our most urgent task right now?”

“The dead deserve respect, and human life is paramount. We should devote all our efforts to finding Liu Sheng’s killer.”

Meng Qianzi nodded, then changed direction: “What were we originally coming to Xiangxi for?”

As she spoke, several lines of bright red official script, shaped like silkworm heads and wild goose tails, appeared beneath the Fire Eye. The beginning verses read: “Beauty’s head, hundred flowers ashamed, eyes dripping oil, tongue running wild, no liver no intestines empty hanging gallbladder, with death with life one lifetime heart…”

Meng Jinsong remained silent. This was an ancient mountain gallbladder gatha. Strangely, while records left by mountain ghosts were mostly detailed, with many drawings accurately scaled, certain gathas were deliberately vague and mysterious.

Meng Qianzi carefully examined those lines: “I suddenly had a thought. Our mountain ghosts have traditionally had no enemies or rivals. How did we suddenly encounter bloodshed and death upon arriving here? I also asked Liu Guanguo—the Wuling Mountain residents prefer paying money to avoid trouble and value harmony; they’ve never had conflicts with anyone.”

Meng Jinsong’s mind stirred, connecting the dots: “You mean the killer’s target wasn’t Liu Sheng, but rather to prevent us from opening the mountain?”

As the saying goes, some things shouldn’t be thought through too deeply. The more one thinks, the more it seems exactly right—Meng Qianzi came to Xiangxi for the mountain gallbladder. The grand banquet was merely a formality, but Liu Sheng’s murder abruptly shifted priorities, forcing the mountain gallbladder matter to be postponed…

Meng Jinsong’s heart pounded: “But only a few people knew about this…”

Their people would never speak of it to outsiders. If the Seventh Aunt had leaked information, it was an unintentional slip. Could Shen Gun have a big mouth, carelessly shouting about it where someone with ulterior motives might have heard?

Meng Qianzi shared this suspicion: “Where is that Shen Gun?”

“Shen Bang and Shen Wangu took him to Wulingyuan for mountain climbing. I told Shen Gun we’re still making preparations, so there’s no rush. I suggested he enjoy himself for a couple of days first, and he happily went along.”

They hadn’t yet had time to notify the two Shens about Liu Sheng’s murder.

Meng Qianzi pondered for a moment: “Have those two keep a close eye on him, staying vigilant even during sleep. Report immediately if that Shen Gun shows any suspicious behavior. Continue investigating Liu Sheng’s case as planned. Additionally, make ostentatious preparations for entering the Small Border Wall.”

If the killer’s true goal was to prevent her from opening the mountain, and seeing that murder hadn’t worked, they might strike again. She was setting bait, waiting for them to take it.

After giving these instructions, Meng Qianzi fell silent. She moved the Fire Eye downward, stopping beside that gatha.

There was an additional line of annotation in small characters: “What gatha, utter nonsense.”

Signed: Duan Wenxi.

At the same time, Shen Bang and Shen Wangu were having a late-night snack with Shen Gun.

These two men had no blood relation, but both shared the surname Shen, were similar in age, and had comparable personalities. Fortunately, they looked complementary, making them easy to distinguish: Shen Wangu was tall and fat with small eyes and sparse hair. The tuft on his head was particularly precious—covering the middle left the sides bare, covering the sides left the center exposed. Every day, he carefully arranged each strand.

Shen Bang, on the other hand, was short and thin with large eyes. Not only was his hair thick, but he also had excessive body hair, especially leg hair that was almost long enough to braid.

One was too dry, the other too wet, but similar souls appreciate each other. They hit it off immediately, often pairing up for tasks, collectively known as the Two Shens.

Coincidentally, they were eating a “three-pot meal” and had also ordered barbecue, accompanied by pickled radish and glutinous rice wine. After spending about ten hours together, the three had become quite familiar. Shen Gun took a sip of wine, his face flushed, and continued regaling the two with tales of his earlier wanderings and dangerous encounters.

“When I saw it, that poison insect was this thick and this long.”

He gestured to indicate the size.

Shen Wangu frowned: “How does this poison insect look like corn? I’ve heard old folks say that in our Xiangxi, some old women raise poison insects, but theirs are only this small.”

He indicated a length shorter than a span, then shortened it even more.

Shen Bang listened with fascination and complained about Shen Wangu’s interruption: “Didn’t they say the insects are fed with human flesh? Better nutrition, right? Besides, Brother Gun encountered Dian Black Miao poison, which is different from our Xiang Miao poison. They’re completely separate traditions—maybe their region produces larger varieties.”

Shen Gun continued: “I chopped down with one knife, but to my surprise, it split into two pieces, and both could still move! What if they escaped? With a mighty roar, I sat on one half, crushing it to death, while my hands didn’t waste time—slash, slash, slash, chop, chop, chop—taking care of the other half too.”

Shen Bang’s entire face scrunched up: “Was your backside okay?”

“How could it be okay? Bone fracture! Couldn’t lie down, had to sleep on my stomach for several months.”

Shen Wangu sucked in a breath, quickly pouring wine for Shen Gun: “Amazing, amazing! Brother Gun, you’re so brave. Let’s drink to…”

He initially wanted to say “drink to your backside” but felt it wasn’t elegant enough: “Bottoms up! Drink!”

Shen Gun was pleased, emptying his cup in one gulp. He couldn’t handle alcohol well—even this sweet rice wine made his head swim after just two cups, his eyes becoming hazy.

With drunken eyes, he tilted his head to look at the dark mountain peaks above. The great Wulingyuan mountains were massive, and even at some distance from the scenic area, they seemed to be pressing down overhead in the night: “I read in a tourism brochure that these mountains have a history of two to three hundred million years.”

Shen Wangu had just put food in his mouth, his cheeks bulging, making his speech muffled: “That’s right. Even a small pebble you accidentally kick was around before your ancestor’s ancestor.”

Shen Gun was quite emotional: “Then why are humans, supposedly the lords of creation, living such short lives?”

We love to build houses but don’t outlive them; we love to accumulate wealth but don’t outlive gold and silver; we love to acquire fields and land…

Heh, forget it, we don’t outlive those either.

Shen Bang expertly stripped all the lamb meat from a skewer into his mouth: “Brother Gun, it’s not about the height of the mountain, but whether immortals dwell there. Life isn’t about length, but quality—humans focus on living with quality. What’s the point of being a stone? Even after two or three hundred million years, it’s still just a stone, can’t even speak.”

Shen Wangu interjected: “Some people live long lives, too! That guy, what’s his name, Peng Zu, didn’t he live to eight hundred and eight?”

Shen Bang scoffed: “You believe such nonsense.”

Shen Gun said, “Little Bang Bang, that’s narrow-minded of you. Peng Zu, he was probably… the last… hmm… the last…”

The alcohol was taking effect, making his tongue heavy. Shen Bang strained to listen for a long time but couldn’t make out what “the last” referred to.

The last what? The last emperor? But wasn’t that Puyi?

Early the next morning, Meng Qianzi was busy examining the wound on her left eye in the mirror.

With medical gel and the mountain ghosts’ ointment, her recovery had been remarkably fast, but a woman’s standards for appearance know no satisfaction. Meng Qianzi felt her eyelid was still swollen, making her look hideous.

Thinking about how Jiang Lian was to blame, anger caught in Meng Qianzi’s throat, making the room feel stifling. She abruptly pulled open the curtains and pushed the window outward.

Last night’s continuous drizzle had cleansed the air, leaving it fresh with hints of soil, grass, and forest in the morning mist. Unfortunately, this beautiful dawn was spoiled by one rotten apple.

Meng Qianzi saw Jiang Lian standing in the courtyard, hands in pockets, looking carefree. No one paid attention to him, but he was entertaining himself—pacing a few steps, then crouching down to poke at insects in the flower bed with grass tips. His head turned left and right, revealing a whorl at the crown that suggested he would start balding from that spot when middle-aged.

After a while, Jiang Lian seemed to sense something, looking around puzzled. By the time he looked up, Meng Qianzi had already returned to the arhat couch.

She fanned herself for a while, gradually slowing down, then tossed the fan aside and walked to the door, yanking it open with a thud.

Meng Jinsong happened to be at her door and jumped in fright.

Good, now she didn’t need to call for him.

Meng Qianzi gestured toward the window: “How did that Jiang fellow end up at Cloud Dream Peak?”