Watching Meng Qianzi’s departing figure, Jiang Lian felt somewhat resentful.

He rubbed his nose and looked toward the brightly lit camp, feeling a slight bitterness in his heart: so many tents, and they couldn’t spare him even one corner.

But it was fine, he consoled himself. At least there would be a bottle of mosquito repellent.

Might as well take it if offered.

He waited in place, affectionately patting his stomach.

After a while, someone hurried over, calling out to him: “Are you… Brother Jiang Lian?”

Jiang Lian recognized Liu Guanguo and also noticed his empty hands. A bad feeling rose in his heart: what, was he going to tell him that they had run out of mosquito repellent?

Liu Guanguo beckoned to him: “Come, come, Miss Meng has asked me to arrange a place for you to stay.”

Huh?

Jiang Lian didn’t react immediately.

Liu Guanguo urged him: “Don’t just stand there, come on.”

Jiang Lian followed Liu Guanguo through most of the camp to a relatively secluded area with only four single tents. Three were already occupied, and one was temporarily empty—his. Thick, sealable black garbage bags were tied to the sides of all the tents.

The Mountain Ghosts’ tents seemed to be custom-ordered in batches. They were larger than ordinary outdoor tents, not as cramped, and were one-piece, requiring no assembly. They were also double-layered for rain protection, meaning each tent had an outer layer covering it. The door flaps were also double-layered, with the inner layer made of mesh for insect prevention and ventilation. The lower corners of the outer layer were connected to support poles; when the sun was strong, the door flap could be pulled out to create a rectangular canopy, providing shade in front of the door.

Having shown him to his place, Liu Guanguo hurriedly left. Jiang Lian heaved a sigh of relief and crawled inside.

Looking around at the four walls, he felt extremely satisfied: tonight, his body could finally stretch out flat instead of curling between tree branches.

Just then, someone outside called: “That Jiang Lian… Brother Jiang Lian, which tent are you in?”

Jiang Lian poked out his head and also extended his hand to indicate his presence.

It was a small, skinny man. Seeing that he had found the right place, he trotted over, half-squatted, and with a slap, stuck a yellow talisman paper on the door frame. It had vermilion lines and patterns drawn on it—the posture was just like in Hong Kong zombie movies when sticking a talisman on a zombie’s forehead.

What did this mean? Was he trying to “subdue” him in the tent?

The small man pointed to the talisman: “Miss Meng said you insisted on having a bottle of mosquito repellent, but we don’t use that stuff. This is a simplified Mountain Ghost talisman for ‘avoiding mountain beasts.’ You were with Miss Meng last night and saw the effect of ‘moving mountain beasts.’ With this talisman, no crawling insects or flying bugs will enter. Who needs mosquito repellent?”

Jiang Lian tried to explain that he hadn’t asked for mosquito repellent, but the small talisman man didn’t give him the chance. He walked away with his head held high, the contemptuous expression on his face as if disdaining him: ignorant, only knowing about mosquito repellent.

The night breeze passed by, making the crooked talisman rustle loudly. Jiang Lian held the corner of the talisman to examine it closely: the pattern looked quite familiar, very similar to one of the patterns on Meng Qianzi’s gold bell plate that he had traced, only much simpler. So this was for “avoiding mountain beasts.”

Of the Mountain Ghosts’ nine talismans, he now knew at least two: moving mountain beasts and avoiding mountain beasts.

Another shout came from outside: “That Jiang… young Jiang, which tent are you in?”

This time, he didn’t need to poke his head out; the person found him on their own. It was a slightly plump man carrying a plastic bag, about fifty years old, clearly someone in a technical profession rather than a manual laborer.

The man squatted at the entrance, turned the plastic bag upside down, and with a rustle, its contents spilled out onto the ground.

They were all medical supplies. With just a glance, Jiang Lian saw medical bandages, small bottles of alcohol, as well as antibiotic ointments and oral medications for treating infections.

The plump medical man said, “Miss Meng said you insisted on using all-natural medicine. Young man, don’t be too extreme. Looking down on synthetic drugs produced on assembly lines—do you know how many patients use processed synthetic drugs? In this world, not everything natural is necessarily good.”

Jiang Lian tried to explain: “I’m not…”

The plump medical man didn’t give him a chance either, shaking his head and sighing as he walked away with the empty plastic bag.

Jiang Lian pulled the medications toward him, sorting through which ones to use, when someone else arrived.

This time, the person didn’t call out; he smelled the aroma and proactively stuck his head out.

This should be a cook, as he was carrying a tray full of dishes and bowls and wearing a large white apron stained with oil. Jiang Lian moved back, sweeping away the pile of medicines to make room for the tray.

The man set down the tray and said in a deep voice, “Miss Meng said you’ve already eaten. But we’ve prepared extra meals for the injured, and there’s quite a bit left. See if you can help finish a portion or half.”

Jiang Lian said: “I’ll… try my best.”

…

These visitors came one after another like a revolving lantern, truly overwhelming. Although each had a “misunderstanding” about him, and these misunderstandings must have come from Meng Qianzi’s instigation…

Jiang Lian found it reasonable. After all, it was Meng Qianzi.

He surveyed everything before him, and ultimately, physiological needs took precedence: after all, food is the first necessity of the people.

The meal for the injured was truly abundant, with appropriately rich oils and thick sauces, unlike the typically bland fare one might expect. Jiang Lian had only sampled two dishes, and his appetite was already fully awakened. For a young man in his twenties, this was an age of robust sleep and appetite. He had not slept well for several days and had only been able to eat some wild berries, which had left him quite starved.

As he was heartily enjoying his meal, a cool voice floated down from above: “Weren’t you hungry?”

Jiang Lian’s body froze.

After a moment, half-holding his bowl, he slowly looked up.

Meng Qianzi was leaning against the doorway, looking down at him with a somewhat disdainful gaze. She wore a denim jacket, and because she had her arms folded, the jacket casually wrinkled along her body’s curves, making her appear all the more at ease, which in turn made him seem all the more embarrassed.

Jiang Lian said: “Well…”

Meng Qianzi gestured for him not to speak yet, then pointed to the corner of his mouth: “Rice grain.”

Damn, there was even a rice grain—what kind of image was this?

Jiang Lian very calmly raised his hand holding the chopsticks and used his bent knuckle to push the rice grain into his mouth, still trying to salvage something: “This, I should explain…”

Meng Qianzi let out a light snort and turned to leave.

The mountain breeze carried her parting words back: “Dying for face, living in suffering.”

She walked back with her head held high, passing through the camp with its alternating lights and shadows. Along the way, mountain dwellers continuously made way for her, and she nodded in acknowledgment. When she reached the shadowy area near her tent, she looked around to make sure no one was there. The more she thought about it, the funnier it seemed, and unable to hold back, she burst out with a “pfft” of laughter.

Meng Jinsong happened to lift the tent flap and come out. The soft yellow glow from inside the tent flowed out with this movement, enveloping Meng Qianzi: people look good when they laugh, especially someone as beautiful as her. Add to that the night setting and the flowing light, and the scene was as beautiful as a painting.

A painting that would make any observer feel comfortable and content.

Meng Jinsong couldn’t help but smile too, asking her: “Qianzi, what’s making you so happy?”

Someone was there. Meng Qianzi slightly restrained her smile.

She raised her head, brushing the long hair that had fallen to the side of her face back over her shoulder, and said: “Nothing, just laughing.”

After Meng Qianzi left, Jiang Lian held his bowl for a while.

To eat or not to eat?

Eat it—after all, he’d already been ridiculed; not eating wouldn’t redeem anything. Besides, every grain comes from hard work; it shouldn’t be wasted.

He continued to eat with his head down. Just as he was reaching the most enjoyable part of his meal, someone spoke at the entrance: “Are you… a guest of the Mountain Ghosts?”

Damn! Another visitor! He thought that with Meng Qianzi’s departure, it would be over, but unexpectedly, there was still a grand finale!

Jiang Lian swallowed a mouthful of rice and reluctantly looked up.

Only a head appeared at the doorway, and though it was just a head, it made quite an impression: this person was about forty or fifty years old, with curly hair and brand-new black-framed glasses on his nose. That face, those eyes, that expression, all combined, were somehow comical. As for his body…

The camp had many light sources, and even through the tent, one could vaguely see the black shadow cast by this person’s body. Goodness, it wasn’t easy—he had contorted himself over from next door.

It seemed this person was his neighbor.

Jiang Lian hesitated, then made an affirmative sound.

The man beamed with delight: “What a coincidence! Me too! Everyone else here is Mountain Ghost, they’re all family. I’m an outsider, it feels a bit awkward… I’m called Shen Gun. And you?”

Also, a guest of the Mountain Ghosts?

Jiang Lian thought briefly, immediately understanding: no wonder he felt these few tents were somewhat isolated—they were for “outside guests.” It seemed the Mountain Ghosts drew a clear line between insiders and outsiders.

He responded, distant but not impolite: “Jiang Lian.”

“Oh, Jiang Lian.”

Shen Gun was extremely familiar, crawling in further. At first, only his head had invaded, but now more than half his body had entered: “You have a high standard of living…”

Really? Even in such a disheveled state, his high standard of living was apparent. It must be that his quality outshines others. Jiang Lian almost broke into a self-satisfied smile.

“…I just heard in the tent that you even insist on natural medicines…”

Jiang Lian almost dropped his bowl.

Shen Gun clicked his tongue in admiration: “I’ve met people who are picky about food—organic ingredients, no chemical fertilizers, grown with mountain spring water—but I’ve never heard of someone who insists on natural medicines. I thought right away that I had to meet this person. How unique!”

If not for Shen Gun’s sincere expression, Jiang Lian would have thought this person had come specifically to satirize him. He didn’t know how to continue the conversation, so he just indicated that he was still eating and casually said: “They’re well-prepared here, with all kinds of dishes. Usually outdoors, you can only eat dry rations.”

“Indeed!” Shen Gun seemed unaware of what a hint was and crawled in, sitting cross-legged and adopting the warm posture of someone settling in for a long chat: “They’re well-equipped. Down at the cliff bottom, down there…”

He pointed downward with his hand: “There’s Base Camp One, where all the vehicles are, constantly supplying fresh chicken, duck, fish, meat, and vegetables. No matter how long you stay up here, you’ll never lack a hot meal. And also, also…”

He reached out, rustling the black garbage bag at the side of the tent: “You see this garbage bag? It’s particularly thick. When it’s full, you tie it up and send it down. Very environmentally friendly… They all carry batons and even knives. At first, I thought they were for dealing with wild beasts, but when I asked, I learned that they’re Mountain Ghosts—they don’t harm animals. I admire these principles. You know what…”

He leaned closer to Jiang Lian, mysteriously: “I’m thinking of joining the Mountain Ghosts.”

Do the Mountain Ghosts even have a recruitment system?

Jiang Lian replied: “…Wish you success.”

He realized that trying to subtly hint for this person to leave was unlikely to work, but being too direct would be rude. After all, the other was a genuine guest of the Mountain Ghosts, unlike himself, who had no proper status.

Whatever, let him chat as he wished; he would just focus on eating.

Jiang Lian pretended he didn’t exist.

But Shen Gun seriously considered the matter: joining the Mountain Ghosts would truly be infinitely beneficial. He’d heard they had branches on all major mountain peaks, providing food, accommodation, and equipment. With such support and backing, how could his exploratory research work not advance by leaps and bounds!

It’s just that, well, he didn’t quite appreciate that Meng Qianzi: when they first met, she wore an eye patch and told him her left eye had two eyeballs. But today, when she came up the cliff, he saw clearly—there was clearly just one!

…

The person beside him was alternately happy and somber, but Jiang Lian paid no attention. He quickly finished the dishes, then tapped the edge of the plate, reminding Shen Gun to make way so he could return the dining tray.

Shen Gun finally reacted, using both hands and feet to make room for him, then asked: “So… why are you here?”

Jiang Lian said, “Taking care of some business.”

He casually tossed the question back: “And you?”

Shen Gun answered quite straightforwardly: “Me? I’m here to find a box.”

Jiang Lian was stunned. After a moment, he put down the tray and sat back in his original position.

So this was the person Meng Qianzi had mentioned, who was also looking for a box.

“What kind of box are you looking for?”

Shen Gun was completely unguarded. Except for the matters related to the Mountain Gallbladder that Xian Qionghua had instructed him not to reveal, he disclosed almost everything else. Of course, for his affairs, being guarded had little meaning anyway—telling was the same as not telling.

But Jiang Lian couldn’t help but ask a few more questions: both coming to Xiangxi and both looking for boxes—tell him it was just a coincidence, he really wouldn’t believe it.

“You only know the approximate size of the box?”

“Yes, yes,” Shen Gun gestured again, “about this high, this wide…”

“And you know it was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think it was stolen?”

Shen Gun was stumped by the question. After a long while, he answered: “It’s just… a feeling.”

Jiang Lian shook his head: “It’s a feeling from your dream that extended into reality. But even in dreams, feelings don’t arise without reason; they must be anchored in certain circumstances. At that time, you must have seen something, but after waking up, you forgot it and only remembered the feeling.”

It made a lot of sense. Shen Gun furrowed his brow.

These days, he had been dreaming frequently. In his dreams, he traveled to different places looking for the box—sometimes in the great desert of the Northwest, sometimes on Fengzi Ridge in the Qinling Mountains, or in the cave where he had once heroically chopped up poisonous insects with a knife…

Perhaps all those scenes were places he had personally experienced, linked to his stories from earlier years, causing him to focus only on those scenes. He hadn’t carefully considered: why did he think that box had been stolen?

And among those who had heard him talk about this: his friends were already accustomed to his odd behavior, listening to him as if the wind was passing through their ears; strangers thought he was missing a screw, treating him as abnormal, dismissing his ramblings with a laugh.

No one had ever really pondered his words repeatedly and then raised the question—

Why do you think that box was stolen?

There must have been some trigger.

He stared with his eyes open, his mouth half agape, his gaze gradually becoming unfocused. Occasionally, his brows would twitch, as if trying hard to recall something.

He had indeed started dreaming about searching for the box after hearing the words “Mountain Gallbladder” from Xian Qionghua’s mouth. The first night’s dream should be crucial.

What did he do that night?

—During the day, he had tailed Xian Qionghua but was quickly discovered and roughly had his arm twisted and leg kicked, suffering some physical discomfort.

—Xian Qionghua wrote on his T-shirt, telling him, “Our sister Zi is formidable.”;

—He happily folded that T-shirt and placed it by his bedside, pulled the blanket up to his chest, and turned off the light…

Then it seemed he quickly began to dream…

Jiang Lian didn’t speak. He knew that when someone is intensely trying to remember something, they need a relatively quiet and enclosed environment. He even very gently lowered the door flap.

Multiple layers of fabric for soundproofing were good, too.

Shen Gun’s lips moved slightly, his gaze still unfocused, as if the image projected in his pupils was not Jiang Lian.

He murmured: “A big bonfire, the flames very high, very high. Actually, not one box, many, piled together, couldn’t see clearly, could only see the outlines of the boxes, all this long, this wide, many.”

Jiang Lian’s heart pounded heavily. He held his breath: that’s right, when the Kuang family fled in distress, they brought many boxes. In his godfather’s words, more than thirty or forty.

“And there were human figures, also unclear, just knew there were people, quite a few… some standing by the bonfire, some standing by the pile of boxes.”

Were they the bandits? Jiang Lian’s heart tensed: after stealing the valuables, did they burn the useless boxes? Then… what about that prescription? Would the bandits have deemed it worthless and discarded or burned it along with everything else?

He wanted to ask more, but forcibly restrained himself. Shen Gun’s current state, almost like sleepwalking, should not be disturbed.

Shen Gun suddenly widened his eyes: “Wow, what a big bird! No, no, it’s the firelight casting a bird’s shadow on the mountain wall, so big, several zhang high, and it’s moving.”

Jiang Lian remained patient: light projection can indeed magnify the shadow of an object many times, which is the imaging principle of projectors. Perhaps a bird had mixed into the scene where the bandits were burning the Kuang family’s boxes.

However, Shen Gun became fixated on this bird.

“Not quite like a bird, the head somewhat like a chicken’s, no, no, no, there seemed to be something growing on its head, somewhat like a plume, like liberation, no… much prettier than our liberation.”

Jiang Lian was utterly confused.

Our liberation… wasn’t that in 1949? Why would something growing on a bird’s head be prettier than China’s liberation? These aren’t even comparable things.