Just past ten o’clock, the camp dismantling was complete. Everything on the cliff top had been collected and picked up, restoring its previous desolate emptiness, as if the bustling activity and coming and going of people over the past two days had been merely a dream of yellow millet.

Only a little white monkey with a red dot on its forehead remained, sitting alone among a large pile of fruits and pastries specially left for it, blankly watching as one person after another descended the cliff. When Meng Qianzi went down, she followed a few steps with reluctance, but only reached the top of the ladder, timidly peering down before daring to go no further.

Born in the jungle below the cliff, the farthest distance it had traveled in its life was up to the cliff top at Meng Qianzi’s behest. This was already a world beyond its world, a heaven beyond its heaven.

It dared not venture any farther. Its attachment and longing for Meng Qianzi could not overcome its fear of the unknown.

It darted back and forth at the edge of the ladder top, chattering chaotically, until finally it stopped calling. It crouched there, holding a banana to gnaw on, staring blankly as the wave-like crowd of people disappeared into the dense forest.

Seen from a distance, it resembled a monkey-shaped stone, crouching.

Meng Qianzi turned back and waved to it: “Go home. When there’s an opportunity in the future, I’ll come to see you again.”

Xin Ci walked downhill with the others, his mind somewhat dazed. Not paying attention, his foot stumbled, and he nearly fell. Fortunately, someone nearby was quick-eyed and swift-handed, grabbing his arm and concernedly saying: “Be careful.”

That voice…

Xin Ci looked up, feeling somewhat flattered by the attention.

It was indeed Meng Jinsong.

Since when had this Old Meng changed his ways and started caring about him?

He didn’t know that Meng Jinsong had been scolded by Meng Qianzi, who had said: “Xin Ci was doing my hair this morning, his hands trembling as if he had Parkinson’s disease—let me tell you, if anything happens to Xin Ci on this trip, if he develops any mental illness or trauma… you’ll be responsible.”

So, Meng Jinsong had no choice but to pay special attention to him. Seeing Xin Ci’s listlessness, he felt it might be a sign of some latent illness: “Are you all right?”

If any other mountain dweller had asked this, Xin Ci would probably have just made an affirmative sound and been done with it. But care from Old Meng was like a warm wind from the South Pole, making him feel exceptionally important, as if his value had increased—he had to respond seriously.

He said: “I’m fine, fine. My nerves aren’t that fragile.”

Meng Jinsong sighed with relief but still sought further confirmation: “Then why do you seem so absent-minded?”

Xin Ci again became melancholic at his words: “Isn’t it because of that… Miss Bai?”

Earlier that morning, before being dismissed by Meng Qianzi for his ineffective hair-brushing, he had chatted briefly with her. Though he didn’t fully understand, he vaguely learned that Bai Shuixiao had been drained of her bodily water by the Cave Spirit, used as a “booster” for external communication.

He felt somewhat sad: “You didn’t see it. Before Miss Bai’s incident, she was telling me that what she had with the Cave Spirit was true emotion, looking down on worldly love, feeling it was about money rather than heart, believing her feelings transcended everything… To be honest, for a few seconds, I was almost brainwashed by her argument. Who knew that right as she was speaking, she would…”

Remembering Bai Shuixiao’s miserable state, Xin Ci involuntarily shuddered, murmuring: “It just feels… too ironic.”

For this? Meng Jinsong had little respect for him: no wonder they call the Chief Eunuch the Chief Eunuch—too effeminate, always mourning over matters of love and affection.

He said: “Women being deceived by men happens in two ways: either men deceive women, or women deceive themselves.”

“Could that Cave Spirit truly love her? How long has the legend of the Luohua Cave Women existed? Over the years, how many Luohua Cave Women have there been? They were merely tools tricked by the Cave Spirit, used for its amusement and service.”

He concluded: “In my view, there’s nothing ironic about this, nor worth feeling sad about. The root cause was that Bai Shuixiao overthought things. Sometimes, when a man loves a woman, his love might not be that deep, but the woman overreads into it, collecting various behavioral signs, insisting these are expressions of love.”

Xin Ci was indignant: “Old Meng, how can you be… so inhuman?”

Very good. With such a sharp tongue, his fighting spirit was strong, with absolutely no possibility of any “mental illness or trauma” aftereffects. Meng Jinsong somewhat regretted the care he had just shown Xin Ci: he should have let him trip and fall. A good fall might have knocked out some of those affected, sentimental thoughts.

He replied: “As a man, I speak roughly, but the rough words contain truth.”

Then he walked away.

Xin Ci stood there for a while.

He vaguely felt that Meng Jinsong’s words seemed to be mocking him about something.

But exactly what was being mocked? He couldn’t figure it out.

Meng Jinsong felt a little smug: he had successfully mocked Xin Ci obliquely.

But he worried his mockery might have been too subtle for Xin Ci’s intelligence to grasp. Moreover, it was a case of “darkness rubs off”—having become familiar with Xin Ci, he had started playing these verbal games that he had always despised.

So his smugness quickly faded to indifference.

He looked around, trying to locate Meng Qianzi to accompany her. While searching, someone called from behind: “Jinsong.”

It was Qiu Beiying. Meng Jinsong responded, quickly going over to her and adjusting his pace to match hers.

Qiu Beiying walked very slowly, deliberately so. Soon, the two had fallen behind the main group, creating some distance.

Meng Jinsong felt uneasy, sensing that Qiu Beiying had something to tell him.

Sure enough, after walking a bit further, Qiu Beiying lowered her voice: “Jinsong.”

With no one nearby, there was no need to speak softly, indicating that the matter required caution and secrecy. Meng Jinsong also lowered his voice: “Yes?”

Qiu Beiying said, “Didn’t I tell you? When age-appropriate men with acceptable conditions appear around Little Qian, you should inform us promptly.”

Meng Jinsong felt embarrassed: “It’s like this—things happened suddenly. Jiang Lian and Qianzi have only known each other for a few days…”

Qiu Beiying interrupted him: “Romance isn’t like building structures or planting crops—does it need to go through seasons to be discernible? There’s a phrase, ‘one glance for ten thousand years.’ I think it’s a bit exaggerated, but, after a few glances, shouldn’t you know whether there are feelings or not?”

Meng Jinsong still wanted to defend himself: “Initially, they were always in conflict…”

Qiu Beiying smiled, though her eyes lacked joy: “Very well, initially there was conflict, and in just a few days, it’s resolved—let me tell you, experiencing life and death together once creates a bond stronger than three years of peaceful days. In your young people’s trendy terms, it’s called ‘irreplaceability.'”

“People who send you flowers, take you to dinner, show you kindness—these are easy to find. But those who save your life from a fire, accompany you down a cliff, help you cut open gallbladders—how many such people will you meet in a lifetime? Even if Qianzi lives to eighty, she’ll remember: there was a year when she went down a cliff and was almost killed by a swarm of burning bats, and Jiang Lian saved her.”

That’s right, irreplaceability. Even that swarm of burning bats had irreplaceability—how many such dangers does one encounter in a lifetime? It’s bound to leave a deep impression, something to recall from time to time: “That time, just thinking about it is terrifying, surrounded by tens of thousands of burning bats, almost unable to return.”

…

Meng Jinsong remained silent for a while before replying: “Fifth Aunt is right.”

Qiu Beiying wanted to scold him further, but seeing his respectful and sincere demeanor, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Over the years, Meng Jinsong had been diligent, always putting Meng Qianzi first—something everyone recognized.

She sighed, saying, “You should be more attentive.”

When Jiang Lian went down the mountain, he had initially planned to walk with Shen Gun, but in such hiking and downhill activities, people with different physical abilities could never synchronize. Somehow, he ended up paired with Liu Guanguo.

Being with Liu Guanguo was pressure-free, and Jiang Lian was content to travel with him, chatting along the way as time passed.

When they discussed Qiu Beiying, Liu Guanguo felt that this Fifth Aunt quite appreciated Jiang Lian: “Early in the morning, she had me take her to find you. Not bad, Brother Jiang—our Fifth Sister rarely values people this much.”

So in Liu Guanguo’s eyes, this was appreciation?

Jiang Lian smiled bitterly, though he wasn’t wrong. In this world, some forms of valuing are for recruitment, while others are for vigilance.

He suddenly remembered something: “Miss Meng calls all of them ‘Mother’—they must be very close?”

Liu Guanguo said, “Of course! Raised by them in rotation since childhood, all seven of them have a mother-daughter bond.”

Jiang Lian revisited an old topic: “Then… which one is her biological mother? Or should I not ask? Never mind, pretend I didn’t ask.”

Liu Guanguo paused briefly. This matter wasn’t often discussed among the Mountain Ghosts, but it wasn’t a secret either; many people knew—he initially didn’t want to say, but since Jiang Lian was so understanding, he felt it wouldn’t matter: “None of them are.”

Fearing Jiang Lian might misunderstand, he lowered his voice: “But don’t get the wrong idea. Her biological mother is still alive and well. It’s just that, according to Mountain Ghost tradition, someone with Miss Meng’s exceptional talents shouldn’t be raised by her; her womb was merely borrowed for the birth. So after confirmation, the child was taken away to be raised by the aunts.”

Jiang Lian was startled: “Her biological mother… was willing?”

Liu Guanguo smiled: “What’s there to be unwilling about? Giving birth to a Mountain Ghost throne-holder is quite an achievement. Besides, the aunts didn’t mistreat her.”

“Does… Miss Meng knows?”

“She knows. She didn’t know as a child, but learned when she grew up.”

“Has she… gone back to find her biological mother?”

Liu Guanguo quickly made a shushing sound, looked around, and discreetly waved his hand at his side. He cleared his throat and pretended to watch the path until the nearby mountain dwellers had passed, then answered: “No, she refuses to.”

His voice dropped several degrees: “I’ve heard that our Miss Meng is very stubborn, the kind who… if you don’t want me, I definitely won’t seek you out, each going their way… that kind.”

Jiang Lian remained silent.

After a while, he raised his head, wanting to see where Meng Qianzi was.

He spotted her walking with Meng Jinsong and Qiu Beiying. Probably because she was surrounded by close people, her steps were very light. She seemed to have heard something amusing and was laughing uncontrollably.

Jiang Lian watched for a moment, then withdrew his gaze.

He imagined her in her early teens, glaring, furrowing her brows, her eyes rimmed red, yet unyielding: “I won’t look, I just won’t.”

Yes, that was her.

Reaching the foot of the mountain, they boarded vehicles in order of arrival.

First come, first go—there was no waiting for others. Jiang Lian still shared a car with Liu Guanguo. This area was truly remote; they drove for a good hour before gradually seeing signs of human habitation, though not Han people. The men’s clothing was relatively normal, but the women’s attire was…

Blue garments with black skirts adorned with white flowers were one thing, but what was strangest were their hats: colorful and gaudy, which was normal for ethnic minorities who tend to pile on vibrant colors; what was odd was the size—extraordinarily large, like round plates—and the peculiar shape, resembling inverted bamboo hats with the top part hollowed out. This meant that when worn, the top of the head remained exposed, unprotected from rain or sun.

Jiang Lian asked curiously: “These aren’t Miao people, are they?”

Liu Guanguo chuckled: “You outsiders only know about the Miao and Tujia ethnicities in Western Hunan. We have many ethnic minorities here. This is a branch of the Yao ethnicity, called Hua Yao.”

As they spoke, the car stopped at the edge of an ancient village. Someone from the car ahead called out: “It’s noon, let’s take a break here.”

The mountain road had been bumpy, and the cramped passengers were exhausted. Hearing this, they all got out.

Higher up, several cars were still slowly descending the mountain road. The last was Qiu Beiying’s motorcycle. Despite having only two wheels, its engine roar was more imposing than the four-wheeled vehicles.

The village was small, without walls or gates. Black-roofed, yellow wooden houses were scattered across the mountainside. The villagers coming and going wore attire similar to that seen on the road—indeed, this was a Hua Yao village.

Jiang Lian noticed many ancient trees surrounding the village. Under the trees were small porcelain bowls for offerings or unburned incense stubs—clearly, these trees were objects of worship.

Liu Guanguo said: “Wherever there are Yao people, there must be ancient trees—it’s a Hua Yao custom. That’s all I know; you’d have to ask Shen Wangu, his wife is Yao.”

After waiting a while, the cars behind gradually arrived, making the village entrance crowded and lively. Some people ate dry food, drank water, and chatted; others entered the village to buy local products like cured meat, honeysuckle, or fried tofu; still others were purely sightseeing, taking selfies or photos of others.

It was then that Jiang Lian spotted Shen Gun.

He stood by the road, hands behind his back, looking serious, brows furrowed, seemingly deep in thought. Not far behind him stood the two Shens. Shen Wangu even attentively stepped forward to offer Shen Gun an open bottle of mineral water. Seeing no response from Shen Gun, he didn’t verbally remind him but quietly retreated.

Shen Gun’s expression was truly at odds with the peaceful and harmonious scene before them. Jiang Lian went over and teased him: “What’s with that face? Did someone owe you money and not pay?”

Shen Gun’s train of thought was interrupted, and he gave Jiang Lian a dissatisfied look: “I’m pondering important matters here.”

Still pondering?

Jiang Lian asked curiously: “Aren’t all matters concluded?”

Shen Gun looked at him with exasperation: “Little Lian Lian, not to criticize you, but you lack the spirit of exploration. Concluded? Far from it. In my view, things are just beginning.”

He enumerated items for Jiang Lian.

“In that stone chamber below the Nine-Layered Mountain, there was a large rock wall with knotted rope records. How should this be decoded? Little Lian Lian, you need to apply your eyes and draw the exact appearance for me.”

“Why did strange images appear in my mind when I held the mountain gall? What’s the relationship between the mountain gall, the box, and the dragon?”

“The Cave Spirit was monitoring the mountain hall. The knotted rope records date back at least to the Yellow Emperor era or earlier. Based on this, the mountain gall was likely placed there around that time. What about the Cave Spirit? Could it also be from the Yellow Emperor’s time?”

“Who exactly was it? Why was it guarding the mountain gall? To whom was it reporting?”

“So many mysteries, it’s mind-boggling. Yet you say matters are concluded.”

This made sense; his wording had been imprecise. Jiang Lian complimented him: “You’re quite dedicated.”

Shen Gun was pleased: