Fearing that any delay might cause the “light door” and light spots to disappear once the sun rose higher, Meng Qianzi descended quickly. Fortunately, the uneven walls of the bottomless pit made climbing not too difficult.
She didn’t call to the snow pheasant, but it seemed to consider itself her chicken after eating her food and quickly followed her down. It wasn’t as adept at climbing as she was, frequently losing its footing and tumbling before flapping about in panic.
Earlier, when collecting the cowhide fragments, Meng Qianzi had only descended about ten meters. Since her flashlight couldn’t reach deeper, she had assumed it was a bottomless pit. Now, seeing the light spots at a depth of a hundred meters during the transition between dawn and dusk, she realized her mistake: The pit might be around a hundred meters deep, with the line of light spots illuminating the bottom.
A hundred-meter depth converted to building floors would be over thirty stories. Without a safety rope, this wasn’t something that could be accomplished in just two or three minutes. Meng Qianzi held her breath, proceeding cautiously. Halfway down, she noticed the air circulation was more apparent than before, unlike what one would expect near the bottom of a pit.
Doubt crept into her mind. After descending further, she finally saw clearly, and her calves began to tremble.
Damn it, those weren’t light spots at all. There were several swaying ropes stretched from one side of the rock wall to the other, approximately thirty meters in length, like a rope bridge suspended in midair. Two of the rope lines had palm-sized, mirror-like objects attached to them. These “mirrors” reflected light, making them appear as light spots from above.
Meng Qianzi had descended to a position directly opposite the “light door,” meaning that to reach the doorway, she would first need to cross this strange “bridge.”
Anger flared within her: Who the hell designed such a treacherous contraption?
Reaching the bridge’s end, she could see more clearly. There were four ropes in total—the upper two presumably for handrails, the lower two for footing. The “mirrors” were distributed alternately on the lower two ropes, with the distance between each pair roughly matching a person’s stride, meant to be stepped on when crossing.
Meng Qianzi reached out to test the bridge’s stability. Made of some unknown material, it showed no signs of decay and felt quite solid. But truthfully, in such a place, crossing a suspension bridge alone made her extremely nervous.
Who knew what tricks this bridge might conceal?
Her gaze fell on the snow pheasant beside her. Although snow pheasants couldn’t fly long distances, a few dozen meters should be no problem. If only she had known, she could have driven a whole flock in. One couldn’t carry her, but perhaps a group could?
Meng Qianzi crouched down and spoke to the snow pheasant: “I think we need to cross to find out what’s going on… don’t you think?”
She missed Jiang Lian and Shen Gun, unaccustomed to having no one to consult with. She needed to say something, even if it meant talking to a chicken.
After speaking, she stroked the pheasant’s slender neck. Unlike others, her “Subdue Mountain Beast” ability genuinely allowed mountain beasts to understand her intentions, just as she had commanded the small white monkeys in Xiangxi.
She gestured toward the rope bridge: “Why don’t you go across first and let me see what it’s like? You can fly anyway, so at worst, you can flap your way back.”
The snow pheasant must have been terrified, as its small eyes instantly widened. When Meng Qianzi motioned to push it toward the bridge, it desperately dug in its feet, attempting to anchor itself through friction between its claws and the rock.
Meng Qianzi said to it: “Fine, you only have a chicken’s courage after all.”
Then she tapped its head with her finger: “Keep watch here. Whether something comes from above or below, call out if there’s any movement, understand?”
With that, she stood up, flexed her fingers, and shook her arms before grabbing the ropes and stepping onto the bridge.
After just two steps, her palms were already drenched with sweat. She was the Mountain Ghost Throne, true, and had undergone rigorous training, but she wasn’t a circus performer. The rope swayed incessantly once she was on it, and the mirrors were slippery under her shoes.
Meng Qianzi gritted her teeth, finding words to encourage herself: Yama had crossed over. If Yama could do it, why couldn’t she?
This self-encouragement worked well: Most people can accept being unable to do something, but they can’t accept that someone they look down upon succeeded where they failed.
Thinking of Yama, Meng Qianzi suddenly remembered something.
Ancestor Kuang’s note had said “box as tooth key, mountain ghost knocks at the door,” suggesting that in sequence, one should first have the box, then knock on the door.
But now, there was no sign of the box. Could she still knock on the door?
A thought struck her: What if Yama hadn’t taken the box out but had left it here? Was that why when they entered, the “box as tooth key” checkpoint had been bypassed?
Very possible.
When Shen Gun had explained it to her, he mentioned that “tooth key” was the oldest key model, initially used to untie complex knots—thinking about it now, with the nine mountain intestines, the Nine Winding Intestines, mountain ghosts had explored Kunlun before but had never discovered such bizarre mountain intestines. Could it be that, in ancient times, these intestines were tangled together like a dead knot? Never opened?
After Yama came, “box as tooth key,” like a key unlocking tangled knots, these intestines finally stretched out, slowly writhing within the mountain’s belly. And those stone insects and stem creatures parasitizing within the mountain intestines also revived?
It must be so. Meng Qianzi’s heart pounded with excitement. For the first time in years, she discovered that occasionally, she could be… extremely clever.
But what a pity—this rare moment of brilliance had no audience. She could only be clever for herself.
…
Swaying back and forth, taking each step with extreme caution, Meng Qianzi finally stepped onto the last mirror.
Here, still one or two meters from the grand “light door,” her abilities would allow her to leap across, but she dared not act rashly—some mechanisms could be fatal with just one wrong step. Without confirmation, she preferred to stay put.
She looked up at the light door and nearly cried out in surprise.
All along, she had known her shadow was cast on the light door, but because she had been moving, the shadow was enormous and swaying. Combined with her focus on her hands and feet, she hadn’t looked closely.
Now, finally standing still, she realized that what was above didn’t seem to be her shadow.
It was a skeleton shadow!
Startled, Meng Qianzi leaned back sharply, then suddenly noticed something. She paused briefly before standing firm again.
She understood now. This skeleton shadow moved with her movements—when she leaned back sharply, it also leaned back sharply; when she stood still, it didn’t move.
This was indeed her shadow, yet unlike a normal human shadow. It looked like an X-ray, with every bone, joint, spine, and pelvic shape distinctly visible. Looking at it for too long became uncomfortable, making her feel like a monster or truly like a mountain “ghost.”
What next? Should she “knock on the door”? Meng Qianzi raised her hand in a knocking gesture, but didn’t know where to knock. Seeing the skeleton elbow joint on the “light door” raise, with five long, sharp fingers suspended in midair like an ancient skeleton puppet show, she felt a chill and quickly withdrew her hand.
How exactly should she knock, or was there something mysterious about this door?
Meng Qianzi didn’t dare lift her feet, fearing something might happen if she left the mirror beneath her. She gripped the handrail rope tightly, leaning as far as possible toward the light door, and shone her flashlight repeatedly at the door.
Finally, she discerned something.
On the door was a very shallow human-shaped indentation, crouched in a strange posture. But this strangeness meant little to her, as mountain ghost talisman techniques often involved odd postures.
Moreover, the part of the human-shaped indentation below the knees almost perfectly aligned with the contour of her lower legs, indicating she was in the right position.
Meng Qianzi suddenly understood.
“Knocking at the door” didn’t mean knocking—here, “knock” referred to kneeling in worship.
Of the nine uses of the golden bells, she knew the techniques for the first seven talismanic patterns: “Stir Mountain Beast,” “Subdue Mountain Beast,” “Repel Mountain Beast,” “Split Mountain,” “Cut Gall,” “See Tower,” and “Mountain Wind Inducement.” Only the last two, “Knock at the Door” and “Activate Heavenly Ladder,” remained unknown to her. But it didn’t matter. Her journey across the rope bridge was the footwork; kneeling in the designated position according to the illustration was the body technique. As long as she followed each step correctly, she was performing the long-lost “Mountain Ghost Knocks at Door” ritual.
Meng Qianzi exhaled deeply, shifted her body slightly to stabilize her stance, then released the handrail rope and, following the figure in the illustration, bowed her head in worship.
Shen Gun hadn’t expected the mountain ghosts’ second batch of reinforcements to arrive so quickly.
At the time, he had just finished lunch and was sitting by Jiang Lian’s side, clutching that sheet of paper in a daze, occasionally lifting his foot to kick the swinging rod hanging the road bell—Old Shi had said the bell needed to keep ringing to ensure Little Lian Lian’s consciousness wouldn’t drift further away. But constantly holding the bell and swinging it seemed foolish, so he had someone make a swinging rod with a circular ring to hang the bell beside Jiang Lian’s bed, kicking it occasionally when he remembered.
After kicking it who knows how many times, there was suddenly a commotion outside. He heard someone excitedly shout: “Third Aunt is here!”
Oh, Old Three had come. Shen Gun poked his head out to look. He felt the seven aunts of the mountain ghosts were like the Calabash Brothers—when one got into trouble, another would come to the rescue.
He had no interest in what kind of person Third Aunt was, but was curious: How did she arrive so quickly? Did she fly?
From the discussions of people nearby, Shen Gun learned that indeed, she had flown. In recent years, after learning from abroad, helicopter tourism on the Tibetan Plateau has developed. On certain routes, with Chinese Civil Aviation permits and airspace usage approvals, flights could operate. For example, in Tibet, the round trip from Lhasa to Yamdrok Lake used to take at least a day by off-road vehicle, but now, for a price, one could fly there and back with sightseeing in just two hours. The Kunlun Mountain area was also in trial operation. Although the complex terrain and magnetic fields prevented them from penetrating deep into this area, borrowing a portion of the flight still saved considerable time.
About fifteen minutes later, Tao Tian hurriedly approached with an 18-inch coded suitcase. Shen Gun glanced at it once, and his heart began racing uncontrollably.
Seven-colored flowing light emanated from the suitcase. Inside must be the phoenix feather.
Far more than that—after entering the code and opening the case, there were several boxes of varying sizes inside, all carefully wrapped in bubble wrap. Tao Tian urged him: “Hurry and check. Seventh Aunt specifically requested these for you. They’re all in there. Confirm there’s no problem so I can report back to Third Aunt.”
Shen Gun fumbled hurriedly, opening boxes to check.
Phoenix feather, present; mountain gall, present; and bubble-wrapped large mirrors, truly excellent, practical items.
Little Tong’s vial of blood was packed in the largest box, as it also contained various items sent to him, mostly snacks. A note was pinned to one bag of rice crisps, with crooked writing saying, “11 Uncle, these are what I love to eat, sending them to you.”
Shen Gun’s heart melted with sweetness. This must have been sent by Yue Feng’s little one. “1” represented a stick, so “11 Uncle” meant “Stick Stick Uncle.” The little one was so thoughtful, willing to share his favorite foods with him, more promising than his father.
He nodded vigorously: “Yes, yes, everything’s fine.”
He should have offered a bag to Tao Tian, but he couldn’t bear to part with them, and kept pulling them closer to himself.
Jiang Lian felt he had experienced the longest and most exhausting dream of his life.
In the dream, he had approached the eerie fog bank twice. Upon arriving there, one became extremely agitated, constantly colliding with it, as if mad or possessed. Fortunately, a bell would sound each time, bringing him back to the vicinity of the camp.
The second time he returned to the camp, he wandered for a long while. Initially, he could still see Meng Qianzi, Shen Gun, and those mountain household members. Later, everyone disappeared, leaving only him, alone with the impenetrable night and those empty tents. Several times, he couldn’t help wanting to leave, feeling this place had lost its meaning, but for some reason, whenever the bell sounded, his mood would calm.
Finally, he sat quietly, counting one by one how many times the bell had rung, with a vague thought lingering in his mind: All this must end, after one of the bells rings.
That moment finally arrived. He looked up and saw a blood-red circle appear vertically suspended in the distance, in the night.
He stood up and approached to look. The other side of the blood-red circle was hazy, impossible to see through. As he was looking around it, he suddenly felt a powerful pull, and his entire body toppled into the circle.
…
Jiang Lian finally opened his eyes.
At last, he was awake. What a long sleep it had been—even his vision was somewhat blurry.
He closed his eyes, opened them, then closed them again. After repeating this several times, his vision gradually clarified, revealing Shen Gun’s messy Middle Eastern-style curly hair and the large face beneath it, wearing stylish, scholarly glasses.
Shen Gun was both shocked and delighted: “Little Lian Lian, you’re finally awake? Do you know you’ve been asleep for three months?”
Good grief, three months?
Jiang Lian’s scalp tingled. He looked around, then relaxed: “Three months, and you didn’t even get me a better environment, but left me in this shabby tent?”
Shen Gun was excited: “Your intelligence is intact, Little Lian Lian, you haven’t been sleeping on stupidity!”
He sorted through his pile of snacks, steeled himself, and handed over his smallest bag of shrimp crisps: “Not three months, but thirty-six hours for sure. Everyone was worried you might never wake up. Here, for you, congratulations on coming back.”
Thirty-six hours?
Jiang Lian paused, slowly propping himself up to sit, then accepted the shrimp crisps: “Why did I sleep so long… Where’s Qianzi?”
Shen Gun sighed: “Everything’s changed, Little Lian Lian. While you were sleeping like a starfish, many things happened. Let me sort them out for you, one by one.”
He counted on his fingers: “First, twenty-five people have gone missing, including Miss Meng, Fourth Aunt, the Xian family girl, and Meng’s assistant.”
Starting with such bombshell news, Jiang Lian hadn’t processed it yet. He just smiled, fiddling with the bag of shrimp crisps, the plastic wrapper crackling: “What kind of joke is this?”
Shen Gun glanced at him, then continued: “They’ve been missing for almost twenty-four hours now. The camp is currently under the charge of Third Aunt Ni Qiuhui. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve heard she holds a very high position. Like Miss Duan back then, she’s a Mountain Hair Bun.”
Jiang Lian’s smile gradually faded: “Are you serious?”
Shen Gun raised his hand, showing him the binding ropes: “Your big brother… my ancestor was probably a traitor back then. Also, Ancestor Kuang’s dictation seems to have been… written by me, because I continued with words that didn’t appear on those pages: After ‘mountain ghost knocks at the door, its cave appears by itself,’ comes ‘descend nine steps, sacrifice the phoenix feather, burn the dragon bone…'”
Damn it, what was all this about? Jiang Lian’s mind was in chaos. He said, “Wait, wait, tell me one thing at a time. What happened to Qianzi? How did she go missing?”