Jiang Lian didn’t want to go, but his body wouldn’t obey.

He turned around and walked in the direction opposite to the camp. The journey wasn’t smooth; he felt like walking took great effort. Sometimes climbing upward, sliding downward, sometimes passing through deep and narrow passages, finally, he arrived.

What lay before him was completely indescribable.

It resembled a fog bank, enormous enough to connect heaven and earth, with no visible edges to either side. The mist surged and swirled, thin in some places, dense in others, its thickness changing in an instant.

No one spoke to him, but his nerves were extraordinarily sensitive. Just as wings can feel the flow of wind, he could sense the emotional signals released by the flowing mist.

Contemptuous, mocking, viewing him like a clown, despising…

Jiang Lian wasn’t someone who angered easily, but somehow, in this place, he was quickly provoked.

Moreover, an enormous desire rose within him: without any reason, he simply wanted to throw himself into it, to merge with the fog. Whether terrible things might happen after entering didn’t concern him at all.

He continued walking forward, but after just two or three steps, he could proceed no further. There seemed to be a soft barrier that firmly blocked his path.

Jiang Lian began to grow agitated. He reached out to grab, scratch, pull, and twist. He kicked and stomped with his feet, backed up several steps, then charged forward desperately to crash through. In the end, like a reckless beast, his eyes bloodshot, his face contorted with rage, he tried to bite and gnaw his way through.

He couldn’t get in, simply couldn’t enter. Jiang Lian was nearly driven mad—the more he couldn’t enter, the more intense his desire to go in became. Like an addict craving drugs, he was willing to abandon all principles and do any degrading, despicable thing, as long as it would let him enter.

…

Who knows how much time passed when suddenly a thread of bell sound streaked through like lightning, as if tearing open the sky above. Jiang Lian’s whole body trembled, and he suddenly became somewhat clearer.

He remembered who he was and recalled that he had originally intended to return to camp. How had he suddenly come here, as if possessed? And what was inside that place? Why did he so desperately want to enter?

Jiang Lian backed up several steps to better see the full extent of the fog bank, but failed. The mist was too vast—he was like a solitary ant before a giant mountain. Jiang Lian felt he was developing a fear of enormous objects. He continued backing away, but his legs wouldn’t move again—just like before, deep in his heart, the desire for the fog bank reignited.

In other words, his reason told him to stay away, but his body’s instincts and desires constantly urged him to approach.

Jiang Lian broke into a sweat.

Fortunately, a second bell sound came, followed quickly by a third, like sharp but continuous waves cutting into this world he couldn’t comprehend. Jiang Lian didn’t know the source of the sound, but he instinctively felt that wherever the sound came from must be safe.

He turned and ran frantically in the direction of the bell sounds, his calves trembling uncontrollably. Occasionally, for brief moments, the sound suddenly stopped—he didn’t know that was when Meng Qianzi’s wrist grew tired and she paused to rest—he only knew that when the sound stopped, the world immediately fell silent, and he lost all sense of direction.

Fortunately, the bell sound, though intermittent, continued to ring. Following this sound, Jiang Lian finally returned to the camp, gasping for breath.

It was still the nighttime camp. Meng Qianzi sat in the tent with Jing Rusi and Xian Qionghua beside her. The mountain dwellers were shutting down the spotlights, those bright beams gradually retreating from the darkness with soft clicks.

Jiang Lian called out to her: “Qianzi.”

Meng Qianzi turned toward Xian Qionghua, speaking softly and nodding, clearly exchanging opinions.

Jiang Lian had an ominous feeling and tentatively called again: “Qianzi?”

This time, he was certain.

Meng Qianzi couldn’t see or hear him.

After persisting for about two hours, Meng Qianzi gave up.

She said to Shen Gun: “I can’t keep shaking a bell that won’t ring like some fool.”

Shen Gun hadn’t expected this outcome either. Only now did he realize that Jiang Lian’s deep sleep wasn’t so simple: “This can’t be… How could this happen?”

It was already afternoon, and since it was overcast, the sky looked as if dusk was approaching. Meng Qianzi asked Shen Gun, “In this situation, can you still help? You’ve been ‘researching’ for decades, and I thought I could count on you. If you can’t help, tell me now so I can arrange to find someone else.”

Shen Gun swallowed: “I can find… an expert to ask. Do you have a satellite phone? I’ll ask Old Shi—he understands this stuff. Or we could find Little Tongzi. Both of them have experience.”

There was a satellite phone, but the signal was poor here, meaning they’d need to walk at least three to five kilometers away from camp to connect with the outside world.

At a time like this, dispersing personnel was inadvisable. Sending Shen Gun to make the call would require at least four or five people to accompany him, but what if something went wrong on the way?

It was a difficult decision. Meng Qianzi called Xian Qionghua for consultation. Seeing Jiang Lian’s condition, Xian Qionghua also feared that the longer they waited, the worse it might get: “Let’s do this—three to five kilometers, quick there and back, should be doable within two hours. I’ll take five people to accompany Shen Gun. With me there, it should be safer. But Jie’er, you’ll need to be extra vigilant at the camp. We already had plenty of people, but now we’re spreading thinner and thinner—not a good sign.”

Who could disagree?

After Xian Qionghua’s group left, Meng Qianzi felt the camp atmosphere grow more oppressive. She tucked Jiang Lian into his sleeping bag, then kept watch at the tent entrance, facing the snow-capped peaks, with binoculars in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

Jing Rusi’s group had long since disappeared from view. She tried to communicate with Jing Rusi, but most of the time, there was only static or complete disconnection. Only very occasionally could she hear faint but chaotic human voices.

…

The sky darkened further, and snowflakes began to fall from above. In Meng Qianzi’s bad mood, each snowflake looked like decayed, gray cotton wadding.

A mountain dweller brought her a cup of ginger tea. In the silicone folding cup, the tea was scalding hot, with some of the instant ginger tea granules not yet fully dissolved…

Just then, Meng Qianzi’s nostrils suddenly flared.

A smell had appeared—foul, hot, scorching, rank—not just one, but perhaps three to five different odors, coming from the mountain.

Meng Qianzi’s heart tightened. She instinctively grabbed the walkie-talkie and started to say “Fourth Mother” before remembering the communication failure. After a moment’s hesitation, she shouted: “Toward the mountain, fire two red signal flares!”

This was a pre-arranged backup plan: red meant danger—one flare to signal your danger, two to warn others. Green represented a call for help, and yellow meant retreat.

Unless necessary, Meng Qianzi didn’t want to use signal flares. Once a flare went up, everyone could see it—the military, helpful civilians—and if they mistakenly thought someone was lost and seeking help, they might organize a rescue mission, causing no small trouble. But in emergencies, rules could be bent, and there was no time to worry about such things.

The nearby mountain dweller moved quickly. Within seconds, two bright red shooting star signals zoomed skyward.

The sky was too dark now. Dense fog had descended from the snow-capped peaks to the middle of the mountain. Binoculars were no longer effective. Meng Qianzi’s eyes were fixed on that spot, the walkie-talkie creaking in her grip.

Soon, Xian Qionghua’s call came through. The camp’s signal reception was poor, making her words broken: “Zi… what… happened? I… go… phone…”

She had likely seen the signals and was asking about the situation. Meng Qianzi didn’t care whether Xian Qionghua could hear her: “Focus on your task first, complete one thing at a time.”

Time passed second by second. About fifteen minutes later, gunshots rang out.

Meng Qianzi’s mind jolted.

Guns had been fired—the situation was thorny. She had fired signal flares from the valley, and those sounds weren’t much of an issue. But firing guns at the peak could trigger an avalanche. Unless the situation was urgent, who would fire guns?

It wasn’t just one shot, but several: bang, bang, bang, bang. The mountain was silent, and the camp, situated in an almost enclosed valley, had excellent acoustic effects, so the gunshots seemed amplified several times. Each shot made Meng Qianzi’s scalp tingle. This wasn’t even the worst part. After the gunshots, there was silence for a moment, then a muffled rumble came from the mountaintop.

A sharp-eyed mountain dweller pointed upward, shouting: “Look! Look! Is that an avalanche?”

Avalanches were fierce at high altitudes, with tons of snow cascading down, but due to the natural resistance of mountain terrain, they generally stopped at higher elevations. More severe ones might reach the middle of the mountain, but rarely rush to the foot—the camp in the valley bottom wasn’t directly impacted, only feeling the vibrations.

Looking in that direction, the mountaintop area appeared wrapped in rolling gray-white smoke, its color a shade or two deeper than the surroundings.

Meng Qianzi told herself, “It’s an avalanche.”

This was the worst-case scenario; surely things couldn’t get worse…

However, it wasn’t over yet.

A green shooting star signal flare suddenly pierced through the thick snow fog, blooming at the zenith.

This was a call for help.

In other words, the attack was real, the avalanche was real, but after the avalanche, someone had survived and was calling for assistance.

Seventh Mother hadn’t returned yet. Waiting for her to come back would take at least another hour or more—they couldn’t wait.

Meng Qianzi looked around. The mountain dwellers were still in shock, mouths half-open as they gazed upward. Looking back, Jiang Lian was still in deep sleep—perhaps that was good; he was always busy, always on the front lines. This time, it was fine for him to take it easy.

Meng Qianzi said: “Unhitch three yaks immediately. I need four people to attach slings to the yaks.”

For this mountain expedition, they had four yaks carrying people and equipment. Meng Qianzi only needed three, keeping one in reserve for Xian Qionghua, who would arrive later.

As for the slings, they borrowed from ancient cavalry tactics: to avoid becoming targets while riding, cavalry would ride sideways or even curl up under the horse’s belly for concealment. Few people could support themselves by arm strength alone, so over time, slings were developed.

The camp didn’t have ready-made slings, so they improvised with sleeping bags. Meng Qianzi had someone help her into the lead yak’s sling, while the remaining four people were distributed between the other two yaks. They looked rather like round, bulky sacks hanging from the sides of the yaks.

With her departure, only about ten people would remain at the camp, with no one in charge. Meng Qianzi regretted sending Meng Jinsong with Jing Rusi. Had she known they would split into four groups, she would have kept Meng Jinsong behind no matter what.

She singled out someone who looked clever and instructed, “The camp is temporarily in your hands. Guard Jiang Lian well. Everyone form a perimeter, load your guns, draw your crossbows. No matter what happens, don’t move until Xian Qionghua returns.”

The person turned pale with anxiety, nodding frantically.

Meng Qianzi adjusted her position, trying not to disturb her injured leg, then reached out with one hand to grasp the yak’s curved horn.

Yaks are mountain beasts, and as mountain beasts, they can be subdued.

After a while, the yak made impatient snorting sounds. The two behind seemed infected by this mood, constantly shaking their heads, stamping their hooves, and swishing their tails. Then the lead yak let out a long moo, lowered its head, and galloped rapidly toward the mountain entrance. The other two didn’t lag behind but quickly followed. The three yaks, in a single file, their hooves landing heavily, actually kicked up rolling dust as they ran.

Inside the sling, Meng Qianzi was truly being tossed about violently.

Some tactics were never used unless necessary, and for good reason: these yaks ran wild, and even on flat ground, someone hanging in a sling would certainly feel dizzy and nauseous within three minutes, let alone in mountainous terrain. Moreover, yaks didn’t care about your comfort; when encountering ditches or boulders, they would simply leap over them. Twice, if Meng Qianzi hadn’t been holding on tightly, she would have slipped out of the sling.

She strongly suppressed the nausea in her heart and the washing-machine-like shaking, controlling the direction while trying to protect her leg.

Due to the avalanche, the strange smells and human scents at the mountaintop had been almost completely covered, but fortunately, the help signal flare’s remaining smoke helped her fix the position. “Driving” the yak wasn’t difficult, working on the same principle as riding a horse: if she felt the direction veering right, she’d pull the yak’s hair to the left, and vice versa. The two yaks behind simply followed the lead yak and wouldn’t fall behind.

…

After who knows how long, the origin point of the signal flare appeared ahead. Meng Qianzi grabbed some yak hair and pulled downward, stopping the yak. She could no longer hold back and stuck her head out of the sling, vomiting with a loud “wala” sound.

The few people behind her weren’t much better off, their eyes rolling back, vomiting until the world spun. Yak riding up the mountain was certainly fast, but speed came at a price.

Meng Qianzi couldn’t afford to vomit excessively, fearing that while she was happily throwing up, she might relax her vigilance and deliver herself to the enemy. She wiped her mouth, strung her wrist crossbow, and extended her other hand to pat the yak’s body, signaling it to move forward.

The yak exhaled white breath from its nostrils and resumed its former slow, leisurely pace. After the avalanche, the surroundings were unnervingly quiet. A faint smell of smoke brushed past her nose, and her vision was hazy with suspended snow particles that hadn’t yet settled.

The yak’s hooves pressed into the snow, making a continuous “sha-sha” sound. If not for her still-functioning nose, Meng Qianzi would truly suspect someone with malicious intent was following behind.

The other two yaks had caught up. Of the four mountain dwellers, two guarded the left and right, while two watched the rear. Five people and three yaks formed a perfect offensive and defensive circle.

After walking another dozen steps, a shadowy human figure appeared ahead.

Meng Qianzi’s scalp tingled, and she immediately stopped the yak.

In that instant, countless thoughts raced through her mind: this figure could be a mountain dweller, or it could be an enemy…

She extended her left arm, aiming the crossbow’s arrow port at the figure, curling her body as much as possible under the yak’s belly, and asked: “Who’s there?”

The person didn’t move at all.

After this standoff for about ten seconds, Meng Qianzi sensed something was wrong: a living person absolutely could not remain motionless for so long. Moreover, it was extremely cold on the mountain; a person’s breath would react to the cold, inevitably producing a cloud of white vapor.

This person… seemed not to be alive.