Jiang Lian and Shen Gun returned to the camp.

The mountain dwellers had accepted bizarre phenomena far beyond what ordinary people could, but this time they were still considerably shaken. Moreover, since the vast majority of mountain dwellers were unaware of the inside story, such realistic scenes suddenly appearing before their eyes inevitably caused some distress.

They gathered in small groups, discussing quietly but intensely.

“What were those things? Freaks?”

“Could it be a movie shoot? Like some human-versus-demon battle, and the mirage pearl recorded the filming scene?”

“Bullshit, movies have actors but where were the cameras and crew?”

“They don’t look like aliens either. Aliens have advanced technology and flying saucers.”

…

Xian Qionghua listened with amusement, then beckoned Meng Jinsong over. “This… you need to find a way to control it. Since they’ve seen it, discussion is inevitable, but don’t let it spread outside.”

Meng Jinsong was well-practiced in handling such matters. “How about we do like we did with the Cave God incident and have them sign confidentiality agreements?”

The mountain dwellers were quite rule-abiding, and amusingly, they took pride in participating in confidential events. These confidential events were generally named in the format of “date + location,” and having several such events listed after one’s resume was like wearing a string of medals, showcasing one’s extraordinary and bizarre experiences.

Whatever worked to achieve the goal was fine—Xian Qionghua nodded.

Meanwhile, Jing Rusi had already strode up to Jiang Lian and his companion, bluntly asking, “Did you see it?”

Jiang Lian was stunned for a moment before realizing she was referring to the God’s Eye technique.

He nodded, “The cowhide scroll in Yanluo’s hand was double-sided. The side he was looking at was a route map. The reverse side had many characters written on it, very likely some records left by Kuang family ancestors.”

Jing Rusi still seemed skeptical. “You can remember all that?”

She recalled that Jiang Lian had been chasing after the bull inside the scene, jumping and leaping, one moment in front of the bull, the next to its left—the entire mirage had shifted away after just a few seconds. If it had been her, she feared she wouldn’t even be able to tell whether the cowhide scroll contained text or drawings.

Jiang Lian smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

Since the conversation had reached this point, Jing Rusi couldn’t say much more. She changed the subject: “Just now, what were you two discussing while standing there?”

This topic wasn’t suitable for public discussion. Jing Rusi noticed Jiang Lian’s concern and invited him and Shen Gun into Meng Qianzi’s large tent, leaving Meng Jinsong outside to handle miscellaneous matters.

Jiang Lian kept it brief, sharing the speculations he and Shen Gun had made.

Meng Qianzi asked curiously, “Do they all look like that? But I’ve seen portraits of the Yellow Emperor, and he looks quite normal.”

Shen Gun chided her, “Miss Meng, what do you mean by ‘normal’? You’re falling into the trap of ‘human-centric’ aesthetics again.”

Jing Rusi seemed thoughtful. “That reminds me. I often stay near Mount Hua, not far from Baoji. There’s a Yan Emperor Shrine there that I’ve visited. The statue of the Yan Emperor has bull horns, and the introductions say the Yan Emperor had a bull’s head on a human body.”

Saying this, she looked toward Xian Qionghua. “I always thought it was just an artistic symbolic technique—since the Yan Emperor was involved in agriculture, they portrayed him as a diligent ox.”

Xian Qionghua didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Jiang Lian pondered for a moment. “They might not all look the same. I think it’s about half and half. Some might look humanoid, while others look nothing like humans.”

Because counting and sealing treasures in boxes would be a major event for the divine race, it was unlikely that ordinary humans would participate. Later, when the great dragon fell, those people gathered around the bonfire, singing mournful songs, clearly lamenting their fate. If there had been ordinary humans among them, wouldn’t it be ridiculous for them to join in crying about “glory no more, where shall we go”?

Besides, their appearances were varied anyway—some with bull heads, some with mantis heads. It wouldn’t be strange if some looked somewhat human.

Meng Qianzi blurted out, “Then the Yellow Emperor’s side must have had a higher proportion of human-like beings, making it easier to be friendly with humans. Chi You’s side was the opposite—no wonder Chi You was more resistant to integration with humans. He probably thought himself quite beautiful with pure bloodlines… perhaps he even looked down on the Yellow Emperor’s appearance. It’s like, if you told me I’d turn into a monkey in the future, I wouldn’t want that either.”

Jiang Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but Meng Qianzi’s analogy was quite insightful: perhaps in Chi You’s tribe’s eyes, human appearance was equivalent to what a monkey’s appearance was in Meng Qianzi’s eyes.

Shen Gun cleared his throat. “Historically, the Yan Emperor and Yellow Emperor also fought, but later the Yan Emperor submitted, possibly accepting the Yellow Emperor’s practices. The Yellow Emperor had wives and children. As for the Yan Emperor, I know he had a daughter called Jingwei, but Chi You—whether in legend or history—has never had any such records.”

Meng Qianzi muttered, “He probably reproduced by himself.”

Xian Qionghua suddenly thought of something, her heart tightening. “If deformed appearance was considered perfect, then… those who were transformed into water ghosts back then, were they successfully transformed?”

Jiang Lian shook his head. “We can only say they achieved the appearance criterion, but what they valued most should have been the ability to self-reproduce. In that aspect, the results were simply disastrous.”

The ideal situation would be lasting for thousands of years, generation after generation. In reality, few could survive more than twenty years. Instead, non-water ghosts like Yanluo took the lead in longevity after rebirth. Jiang Lian had a feeling that Zong Hang’s lifespan wouldn’t be shorter than Yanluo’s either.

Jing Rusi murmured, “So only water ghosts’ rebirth can achieve ancestral appearance? Why? The water ghosts I’ve seen look no different from us.”

Meng Qianzi corrected her, “How could there be no difference? In my opinion, choosing water ghosts was correct. Weren’t the first forms of life on Earth from water? Water ghosts can share the same pulse and breath as water; their physique is naturally quite suitable for this kind of… transformation.”

Whatever the case, water ghosts were outsiders after all, and Jing Rusi’s concern for them was limited. She brought the topic back to the main issue: “Madam Duan and Yanluo appeared here, our eight-person team also came here, and Shi Xiaohai had an incident here. Does this mean we’ve… reached the place?”

Jiang Lian nodded. “Yanluo was holding a route map, clearly comparing it while searching for something. The map likely marked the final destination. If we can recreate the map, we should be close to finding Madam Duan’s… corpse.”

And close to finding that box as well.

Jing Rusi was excited upon hearing this and blurted out, “Can you do it as quickly as possible? The sooner you draw it out, the sooner we can… make arrangements.”

Before Jiang Lian could respond, Meng Qianzi spoke first. “Let’s not, Fourth Aunt. Using the God’s Eye at night is inconvenient and potentially unsafe. It’s already midnight—let Jiang Lian rest first and do it tomorrow morning. It’s not too late.”

Jing Rusi paused, but still managed a reluctant smile, saying, “That works too…”

Seeing the disappointment on both Jing Rusi and Xian Qionghua’s faces, Jiang Lian’s heart skipped a beat: wasn’t this precisely his moment to shine?

He said, “I can try. After all, it’s important—not just for Madam Duan, but also for the four missing mountain dwellers. Finding them sooner might still give us hope, and everyone won’t have to keep worrying.”

These words truly resonated with Jing Rusi. She couldn’t hide her delight and nodded repeatedly. “Yes, yes, Young Jiang truly… understands what matters. Thank you for your effort.”

Meng Qianzi, standing to the side, glanced at the two of them irritably. Look at them, playing off each other—she was being cast as the villain for nothing.

Although Jing Rusi had never personally witnessed the God’s Eye technique, she had heard much about it. “Then shall we… make arrangements right away? Do you need someone to assist you? Would Jinsong work? He’s quite reliable.”

Meng Jinsong?

That would do, although he wasn’t the one Jiang Lian had hoped for. Since Jing Rusi had already suggested it, Jiang Lian was about to nod when Shen Gun suddenly interjected, “That won’t work! It must be a woman. That’s the rule in their God’s Eye sect. Last time I wanted to help little Lian Lian with the God’s Eye, I was disqualified.”

Jing Rusi exclaimed, “Ah! The God’s Eye have such requirements?”

Damn it!

Jiang Lian had almost forgotten about this twist. It was a rule he had made up himself, and now he had to stick to it to avoid embarrassment. “Yes, in our… sect, we have this rule.”

He felt quite sheepish saying this.

Fortunately, Jing Rusi knew very little about the God’s Eye technique, and even less about its different sects.

A woman…

She looked toward Xian Qionghua, originally wanting to ask whether she or herself should help—Meng Qianzi had been watching the mountain mirage for half the night, and Jing Rusi didn’t want to trouble her further.

Unexpectedly, Xian Qionghua said, “Let Sister Zi do it. She and Jiang Lian are familiar with each other; they should coordinate better than we would.”

Meng Qianzi lowered her eyelids and said indifferently, “I don’t mind either way.”

Meng Qianzi had injured her leg and couldn’t move easily, so the “God’s Eye” procedure was conducted in her tent.

After preparing paper and pens, everyone else withdrew. To maintain quiet, besides ordering complete silence, they also moved the nearby tents further away.

Jiang Lian had been hoping for an opportunity to be alone with Meng Qianzi for some time, but now that everyone was helping and “strongly supporting” their private time, he felt somewhat uncomfortable.

Outside, the wind alternated between strong and gentle, like countless feet—some light, some heavy—scraping across the tent roof. Jiang Lian smoothed out the paper in front of him.

There were no pencils. When searching in the mountains, carrying one or two pens was already decent. The mountain dwellers had collected about ten pens. Jiang Lian examined them one by one, then looked at Meng Qianzi. “I probably won’t need to switch pens frequently. If you find it tiring, feel free to rest.”

Meng Qianzi mimicked Jing Rusi’s voice: “Young Jiang truly… understands what matters. Thank you for your effort.”

Then she snorted coldly: “Whatever I say seems to fall on deaf ears.”

Jiang Lian sighed. “I’m not close to Fourth Aunt, I don’t owe her money, nor am I after her property. If she points east and I dash east, if she points west and I roll west—who am I doing this for?”

Meng Qianzi burst out laughing.

She sat down beside Jiang Lian, helping him arrange the pens, and asked, “The route map and records shouldn’t need to be drawn too meticulously, right? It should be quick?”

Jiang Lian shook his head. “Not necessarily. I only glimpsed that record, and it was all in traditional characters. I don’t know how to write traditional characters, which means I’ll have to ‘draw’ those characters like I’m sketching. And look at this pen…”

He removed the pen cap, his brows furrowing.

What problem could there be with the pen? Was it out of ink? If so, just replace it.

Meng Qianzi leaned over to look, and almost simultaneously, Jiang Lian suddenly turned his head and gently pecked her on the lips.

Before Meng Qianzi could react, before she even had time to be stunned, he had already returned to his original position as if nothing had happened, saying, “Alright, I’m starting now. Don’t talk.”

With that, he held the pen, closed his eyes.

What the hell…

Meng Qianzi raised her hand, intending to smack the back of his head, but stopped midair, seeing that he was truly entering a focused state, and couldn’t bring herself to follow through.

How could he do this? Not even giving a warning, and then not allowing her to speak, seriously getting to work, acting all proper…

Meng Qianzi gritted her teeth, slowly withdrawing her hand, but she couldn’t explain why, as if possessed, she extended her finger and lightly touched her own lips.

That spot felt soft and slightly moist. She suddenly felt her cheeks burning, as if she had done something shameful. She hastily retracted her hand, awkwardly adjusting her sideburns and smoothing her hair, nervously glancing around as if someone might be watching.

She was being paranoid: could anyone outside see? Though they were in a tent, with the light inside, their shadows would be cast on the tent fabric.

It’s okay, it’s okay, she reassured herself. It was just a momentary overlapping of head shadows—it could have been them passing something to each other.

She remained lost in these thoughts for quite a while, until the scratching sound of the pen on paper brought her back to reality.

Glancing at the paper, she saw that Jiang Lian was first drawing the Kuang family’s written record—traditional characters in vertical columns. He was writing characters with a drawing technique, which looked somewhat amusing, but this didn’t prevent the characters from forming neat columns.

Meng Qianzi had a thought: these were characters—as he wrote, she could read along, without waiting for him to finish everything.

She quickly propped herself up with her hands, using one leg to move herself to the beginning of the text. The characters were indeed in traditional form, but thanks to the similarity between simplified and traditional Chinese, there weren’t major obstacles to reading them.

The first column read: Oral account of the Kuang family ancestor, thirty-ninth transcription, Republic of China Year 22.

This concept was familiar to Meng Qianzi. Some texts among the mountain dwellers had similar notations. Simply put, when some documentary materials became old or damaged, the content needed to be transcribed onto new paper. Since these weren’t meant to be timeless literary masterpieces, they generally didn’t need to be word-for-word; getting the meaning across was sufficient. For example, original classical Chinese might be transcribed into plain language in modern times.

This transcription from the Republic of China Year 22 leaned toward plain language. But naturally, being an ancestor’s oral account, what was spoken couldn’t be too obscure.

The second column was the Kuang family precept: Sons of the Kuang family shall not serve in official positions, daughters shall not marry outside the family, leave the soil but not the box.

Without knowing about the box, reading the last line would be puzzling, even mistaken for a misspelling of “leave the soil but not the homeland.”

There was another column of notes beside it: Over the years, three Kuang family daughters have married outside, seven have left home, disappearing without a trace, never to be heard from again.

Meng Qianzi felt a pang of sympathy. With such family rules and teachings, there would inevitably be violations or rebellions. These “three who married outside, seven who left home” probably all died from illness while away.

Before the main text began, there was another column of characters, which wasn’t from the ancestor’s oral account, but added by some unknown transcriber: These teachings are rumored to be false, like talking of dreams within dreams, passed down through generations—just listen with a grain of salt.

This meant…

Meng Qianzi’s heart skipped a beat.

This ancestral oral account of the Kuang family had been meticulously recorded and preserved by filial descendants, but they didn’t believe it.