When Meng Qianzi awoke for the second time, she felt much better than the first.

Her eyes opened with confusion, but she looked around, trying to connect things. When Jiang Lian shone the flashlight, she frowned, pushed it away, and covered her eyes, saying: “Too bright.”

Jiang Lian set the flashlight down. After a while, she sat up by herself, holding her head as if it weighed a thousand pounds, and murmured: “What time is it?”

The Mountain Ghost’s basket contained a miniature watch face—electronic on the front, mechanical on the back—to prevent timekeeping failure in case of electronic interference. Jiang Lian checked both sides and answered: “It’s five in the morning.”

“Then…”

Jiang Lian knew what she wanted to ask: “After you were knocked unconscious, I carried you into the maze. With all its twists and turns, the earth dragon couldn’t follow us. I haven’t heard any more knocking sounds, and I didn’t dare make any loud noises for fear of attracting the earth dragon again—creatures living underground probably have particularly sensitive hearing.”

Meng Qianzi suddenly remembered something: “This earth dragon can stand, with developed front and back limbs. When on all fours, it looks like a dog. Is this an alligator?”

Jiang Lian wasn’t a biology expert and knew little about alligators: “Whether it is or isn’t makes no difference to us—either way, it’s a massive threat.”

That made sense. Meng Qianzi fell silent.

She calculated the time: at five in the morning, even if Sixth and Seventh Mama had received news in the middle of the night, gathered all necessary equipment, and rushed over, they wouldn’t arrive until noon at the earliest. That meant at least seven more hours until rescue arrived.

Seven hours—they couldn’t just sit around, especially since sitting around was also dangerous. Just because they weren’t moving didn’t mean the earth dragon wouldn’t.

She thought for a moment: “Well, let’s look around. If Shen Gun isn’t dead, it would be great to find him. If he is dead, at least we could recover his body.”

She thought to herself, if he was dead, he’d probably already been eaten, leaving no body to recover—but she kept her words tactful.

Then, pointing at the Mountain Ghost basket, she asked: “Is there anything in there for self-defense?”

She asked without much hope: Mountain Ghosts didn’t generally carry powerful weapons when entering the mountains, as they didn’t need to worry about attacks from mountain beasts.

Jiang Lian first pulled out a dagger.

Seeing it only made her angry. Meng Qianzi glared at Jiang Lian: “I told you it was dangerous and to withdraw immediately, but you still insisted on going into the water…”

Indeed. Jiang Lian immediately acknowledged his fault: “My brain wasn’t working properly, thinking I could fight an earth dragon with such a small blade. While you were unconscious, I realized that saving people requires capability, not luck. What I did was… completely inappropriate.”

Huh?

With him so eloquently taking all the blame, Meng Qianzi found herself unable to continue scolding him. Her nature had always been thus: if someone stubbornly refused to acknowledge their mistakes, she would berate them mercilessly; but if someone showed a good attitude and actively criticized themselves, she would find ways to soften her words and save their face.

She said: “It’s not that bad. You were just too anxious at that moment. Saying your brain wasn’t working is too harsh.”

Jiang Lian wanted to laugh, thinking to himself: But those were your words.

The two proceeded one after another, quietly searching through the maze. There were too many branching paths. At each junction, Meng Qianzi carved an arrow and wrote the number “1” beside it, indicating this was part of their first exploration route.

She had a stubborn idea: no matter how vast the maze, could it exceed numerical notation? At worst, they would embody the spirit of the Foolish Old Man who moved mountains, marking one place after another, from 1 to 10, and even to 100, until they exhausted all possibilities.

Gradually, however, she began to lose heart. The maze walls weren’t straight but curved, and worse still, the maze didn’t seem to be on a single plane. Some passages sloped downward or suddenly turned downward, only to be submerged in water, suggesting that there might be more space below. The good news was that it hadn’t rained since midnight, and the water was gradually receding.

The water in the circular chamber must also have receded. Meng Qianzi thought about Granny Duan’s words that had been submerged: “I wonder what those last few sentences said.”

This comment reminded Jiang Lian of something: “The message mentioned the Nine-Bell tribe—that would be the Sheng family who controls the bells, right?”

It should be, Meng Qianzi nodded.

Jiang Lian murmured: “Quite a lot of people were involved in this matter back then.”

Meng Qianzi didn’t understand.

Jiang Lian stopped in a dry side passage, carefully listened for any movement around them, and then quietly explained to her: “In Xuandan Feng Forest, the Huayao people were involved because of the knotted rope records; the Mountain Ghosts were involved because you needed to split the mountain to reach the ninth level; the Chiyou tribe might have also been involved because they were skilled in bronze and iron, and there were many bronze supports at the cliff entrance.”

“And here at the Phoenix Eye, the Sheng family was involved because they collected sixty-six sets of bones; the Chiyou tribe probably participated too, since there are large-scale cast bronze items here; the Kuang family may have also been involved, otherwise they wouldn’t be so familiar with this place.”

“As for the Water Ghosts, while they seem unconnected to all this, they had another ‘mission.’ They built Jintang Caves beneath great rivers, containing corpse nests, and they knew of a place called the Drifting Underground Cave.”

“Viewing any single family or incident in isolation might make it seem like just another mysterious family or strange event, impossible to understand no matter how hard you try. Only with a ‘holistic’ perspective, as Shen Gun said, putting everything together, can you discover that many people collaborated on one project—but afterward, they scattered like birds and beasts, weakening or severing their connections. Over generations, this led to the original truth being forgotten by all.”

Meng Qianzi fell silent.

Such a large scale, such manpower—what exactly were they trying to accomplish? Was it for “them” in the Drifting Underground Cave to return through borrowed corpses? And who were “they”?

Could those grape-like clusters in the Drifting Underground Cave be the Qilin Crystal? If so, had Yanluo also been to the Drifting Underground Cave?

No, Yanluo went to Kunlun Mountain. Perhaps, as previously speculated, although the Drifting Underground Cave drifted through generations, it periodically returned to its true origin?

And what was Shen Gun’s background? He openly stated he was looking for a “stolen box.” In his dreams, he placed the Mountain Gallbladder into the box, making him appear to be a guardian of the box…

Then there was the dead golden-winged phoenix, the giant dragon falling from the sky, the Phoenix Plume pressed beneath three coffins, the dragon bone ashes rising with the wind—what was the source of it all, and what did it mean?

She couldn’t think anymore. The more she pondered, the more overwhelming it became. Meng Qianzi clenched her fist into a hammer and knocked her head twice, as if this might somehow make her more enlightened.

Yet Jiang Lian wouldn’t let her rest: “Qianzi, let me ask you—what does ‘Whoever obtains the Qilin Crystal becomes divine and gains immortality’ mean?”

Did that even need asking? Meng Qianzi gave him a sidelong glance: “It means Yanluo gives birth to Yanluo—immortality.”

Jiang Lian shook his head: “No, the two most crucial words in that sentence are actually ‘becomes divine.'”

Meng Qianzi laughed: “That’s just exaggerated rhetoric, isn’t it? Does Yanluo seem divine to you? If he were divine, could we have contained him?”

Jiang Lian smiled: “Think from a different angle—have we perhaps conceived of ‘divinity’ as too omnipotent? We always imagine gods having powers that reach heaven and earth, reviving the dead with a breath, parting mountains with a wave of the hand—what if, in ancient times, the word ‘god’ didn’t carry that meaning?”

After some thought, he offered a simpler explanation: “For instance, there are yellow, white, and black races in this world. You know they’re all essentially human, just of different races. Even within the same race, there are further subdivisions, like by region, depending on your classification rules.”

“In the earliest times, perhaps gods and humans were simply different categories, like left and right, black and white, up and down. Neither was nobler than the other; they were just two human races divided by some rule.”

Meng Qianzi felt her brain couldn’t keep up: “Divided by… what rule?”

“By reproduction method, one side could self-reproduce, the other could reproduce sexually. They were simply different in how they reproduced, with no hierarchy between them. Those who self-reproduced were called gods, those who reproduced sexually were called humans.”

That seemed plausible. Modern science loves classifying organisms, and even within the same species, different reproductive methods might… warrant separate classifications.

Meng Qianzi couldn’t interject, so she just listened as he continued.

“But over the long years that followed, the two sides gradually grew apart. The ‘god’ race spared no effort in ‘deifying’ themselves, placing themselves above humans, making humans feel inferior and willing to bend their knees as servants to the gods. They truly elevated the others to divine status, and only then was the word ‘god’ imbued with so many meanings.”

Meng Qianzi grew more confused: “How did they grow apart? And how did they ‘deify’ themselves?”

Jiang Lian answered: “Through time.”

“One persistent regret in human inheritance is that the wisdom, knowledge, insights, and achievements of one generation can never be simply handed over to the next. Each new generation must start from scratch, and may not even surpass their predecessors.”

“The child of an outstanding musician might have no interest in music, perhaps not even reading musical notation; the daughter of a brilliant physicist might fail physics, content to be a waitress. We often lament that if a great scientist could live another ten or twenty years, they would certainly make more inventions and discoveries.”

Meng Qianzi began to understand: “But the ‘god’ race didn’t have this problem because they gave birth to themselves?”

Jiang Lian nodded: “If they started on the same starting line, the gap would begin to widen from the second generation. Imagine: a brand new, young body that already possesses a lifetime of accumulated knowledge, like a newborn with all of Einstein’s knowledge, researching profound scientific mysteries, while human infants are still learning to crawl. After several generations, how could there not be a vast gulf between them? How could humans not kneel in worship before such gods?”

Meng Qianzi’s heart pounded like a drum. Her lips moved, but she didn’t know what to say.

She just heard Jiang Lian continue: “With lifetime after lifetime, of course, they could conduct deeper explorations of this world and beyond. Even though human wisdom and knowledge can’t be directly transferred, after so many generations of reproduction, look at all we’ve achieved in science! How much more could they have accomplished?”

“Modern people are practical and scientific, but they seemed to take a metaphysical direction: learning to follow the laws of heaven and earth, emulating nature; breaking through dimensions to share the pulse of mountains, share the pulse of waters, and communicate with beasts; also researching where the soul goes after the body dies, whether communication with the deceased is possible… With their continuous rebirth, they must have made tremendous breakthroughs.”

With that, he changed direction.

“But everyone knows the reality: in today’s world, humans dominate. Self-reproduction is hardly heard of anymore. There’s a saying, ‘natural selection, survival of the fittest.’ In this survival competition between gods and humans, although the gods once held the advantage, humans were ultimately the chosen ones. They were defeated.”

Meng Qianzi remained silent, suddenly recalling Shen Gun’s recurring dreams.

—Shen Gun holding the Mountain Gallbladder, placing it into a box surrounded by countless other boxes, with someone nearby announcing “One Mountain Gallbladder” like an auctioneer.

Objects treasured and collected for generations by the Mountain Ghost family appeared as ordinary things in that scene.

—Towering mountains, a high-hanging moon, huge bonfires burning, many people sitting around the fire, wailing loudly.

They chanted: “The last Qilin has departed, and the golden-winged phoenix has reached its end… Where shall we go? Our glory and brilliance will fade like an extinguished bonfire, never to shine again…”

…

That scene truly exuded the melancholy and sorrow of a once-glorious race reaching its end.

Strictly speaking, Jiang Lian’s narrative was still hypothetical, but Meng Qianzi harbored almost no doubt. She followed this line of thinking: “So why were they defeated? Was it war?”

The most famous battle of ancient times was the one between the Yellow Emperor and Chiyou. But in mythology, both the Yellow Emperor and Chiyou were gods, so strictly speaking, it wasn’t a war between humans and gods.

Jiang Lian pondered for a moment: “This defeat shouldn’t have been from a single war, but rather a process—process of decline.”

“From the battle between the Yellow Emperor and Chiyou until Yu the Great initiated the era of human emperors. Yu’s father, Gun, could still produce Yu from his abdomen, but by Yu’s time, he married a woman of the Tushan clan and no longer self-reproduced—it gives the impression not that he didn’t want to self-reproduce, but that he couldn’t anymore.”

“Self-reproduction must have had some flaw that gave it an initial advantage, but gradually revealed its disadvantages. I just don’t know what that disadvantage was.”

Disadvantage…

Meng Qianzi mumbled, “There must have been a time limit. If they could be endlessly reborn without limit, Nüwa and Fuxi would still be alive today. By the Yellow Emperor’s time, there was no more mention of Nüwa and Fuxi.”

She looked up to find Jiang Lian staring at her strangely.

Meng Qianzi tensed: “Did I say something wrong?”

She feared she had said something foolish.

Jiang Lian shook his head: “No…”

He murmured: “Time limit… inability to reproduce…”

By the end, his throat had gone dry, his voice trembling with excitement: “No, Qianzi, perhaps gods and humans each had their advantages and disadvantages. Humans’ disadvantage was limited time, but their advantage was reproduction; the gods’ advantage was time, but their disadvantage was reproductive limitation!”

Did they have reproductive limitations?

Meng Qianzi stammered: “Don’t they… give birth to themselves?”

Jiang Lian knew she hadn’t understood yet: “Humans live much shorter lives than they did, but humans can reproduce generation after generation, with endless offspring; they extended their lives far beyond human lifespans through their reproductive method, but it was only an extension, not infinite. Their limitation was reproduction. After reaching the end of their self-generated life, they faced extinction. That is to say, although they enjoyed a period of unmatched glory, their race gradually died out, becoming fewer and fewer, and which side held the advantage became obvious.”

At this point, his heart was racing: “That’s when they had to make a choice.”

Meng Qianzi instinctively responded: “Like when Yu the Great married the woman of the Tushan clan, learning the human reproductive method, even intermarrying with humans?”

The offspring would no longer be themselves—”self” would completely disappear, but somehow it was better than nothing, at least preserving their bloodline.

But if that were the case…

She murmured: “Some must have disagreed.”

Jiang Lian continued: “Yes, some must have disagreed.”

Throughout history, every reform has been shadowed by conflict. Emperor Xiaowen of Wei faced tearful opposition from many old ministers just for moving the capital, let alone giving up the long-established divine status and bloodlines to become like common people.

Meng Qianzi felt a chill run through her body, unsure if it was from the underground cold or psychological effect: “The Yellow Emperor and Chiyou—they couldn’t have fought over this, could they?”

A voice in her heart replied: Why not?

Both sides must have had supporters, with Chiyou’s followers likely being numerous. Even those who originally served the Yellow Emperor might have changed allegiances.

The war dragged on for a long time but eventually produced a victor.

Yu the Great took the throne after Yao and Shun, aligning with the Yellow Emperor’s lineage. His father, Gun, may have been the last self-reproducer, while Yu completed the transition, ushering in the era of human emperors.

After the great battle, Chiyou was reportedly beheaded by the Yellow Emperor, but his followers retreated to remote borderlands, not even considered part of the orthodox Huaxia at the time. To this day, these mountainous regions still harbor mysterious, unfathomable arts, such as gu poison, considered a sophisticated system of insect medicine; talismans, seen as ingenious applications of natural laws; and corpse-driving, regarded as a study of human bodies after death…

More importantly, Xuandan Feng Forest, Phoenix Eye, Drifting Underground Cave, corpse nests—behind this entire series of installations ran a long, thin thread stretching back to ancient times, a thread that always hung with trembling reluctance.

Such elaborate setups must have had a purpose.