It was past ten in the evening, more than three hours after the incident. The temperature on the ridge continued to drop, with ice particles starting to mix with the drizzle, pattering on the tent roof.

Shen Gun wrapped his clothes tightly and wrote word by word in his notebook: Live body sealing of ominous slips, all five people lost consciousness, bodies rigid, no heartbeat, no breathing, but not death.

Under the six large characters “definitely not death,” he drew two heavy horizontal lines.

He wasn’t an expert in human death research, but he understood common sense.

They say that one minute after death, due to blood changes, the skin of the entire body changes color—but theirs hadn’t. They maintained that momentary smile, their complexions vibrant with life.

About five minutes after death, with no blood pressure in the body, the eyeballs gradually flatten from their spherical shape, but theirs hadn’t. Their eyes still shone, and looking closely, Shen Gun could faintly see himself holding the phone to take photos.

It was as if time were an invisible, secret great river, with all people bustling from birth to death walking along its bottom, while these five had suddenly been lifted above the surface.

Shen Gun looked to the inside of the tent. The five people—he had expended great effort to move them all inside, huffing and puffing, like a laborer moving exhibited statues, arranging them in their original positions and covering them with blankets.

Cao Jiefang was quite excited at first, probably thinking he had discovered some new game. He walked around the people, stopping occasionally, even butting his head against Cao Yanhua’s backside. Eventually losing interest, he lazily crawled under the blanket and nestled on Yi Wansan’s crossed legs.

How comfortable and warm—truly a natural chicken nest.

The tent flap wasn’t tightly closed, and wind constantly invaded from below, bringing distant, mournful wolf howls. Shen Gun grabbed a few items from the bag of fireworks and firecrackers, lifted the tent flap, and threw them all into the gradually diminishing campfire.

Strangely, the firecrackers were duds. Instead, a beautifully packaged small firework shot up with a whoosh, like a sky-climbing monkey, soaring halfway up before bursting into a brilliant ring, illuminating the outline of the ridge head on that side, like placing a lonely flower on the phoenix’s head.

Shen Gun waited for two days. Except for sleeping, he updated his notebook observations every two hours, but there was no new content—just “same as above” written repeatedly.

He hadn’t anticipated this situation, and the food he had brought was limited. After gnawing on compressed biscuits for a few meals, his supplies ran out. The high platform was a wind tunnel, and even hiding in the tent, he shivered with cold every moment. On the second night, he had a dream where many seasons had passed, and the five people were covered with thick dust, like plastic mannequins stored in an old warehouse for years. He used a hair dryer on them, turning it to maximum, and the dust drifted away like snow, revealing familiar, clear outlines. Each face still wore a smile.

In the middle of the night, Tong County welcomed its first snow. It wasn’t heavy, and just as Luo Ren had predicted, the three phoenix heads of Fengzi Ridge were the first to turn white. The gathered branches were all wet; the fire couldn’t stay lit for long. Inside the tent, all breath turned to water vapor that couldn’t be dried, making the temperature inside and outside almost the same.

After waking up, Shen Gun was dizzy with hunger. He punched a new hole in his belt to tighten it further, rubbing his hands, breathing on them, stamping his feet, and running in circles. Cao Jiefang, however, displayed an amazing adaptability—mountain chickens were cold-resistant and hardy, able to move and forage in icy conditions as low as minus thirty-five degrees. When Shen Gun was at his hungriest, thoughts of Cao Jiefang crossed his mind, but he eventually gave up for three reasons:

1. Fatty Cao had instructed him to find a good home for Jiefang, and a “good home” was not his stomach.

2. He was weak with hunger, but Jiefang had become increasingly agile. He probably couldn’t catch him, and reportedly, when Cao Jiefang went berserk, his fighting power was quite formidable.

3. Even if he caught Jiefang and plucked his feathers, conditions here were too poor. He could only roast him, which would be flavorless—for a chicken to lose its life and not be treated according to KFC family bucket seasoning standards would be too miserable.

Shen Gun told himself to wait and see. You can’t tell fair from foul until evening; nothing could be concluded until the final moment.

He endured another night.

That night brought light rain mixed with ice particles. The tent was damp and cold, but it was indeed time—the weather forecast must have been repeatedly broadcasting the arrival of the first wave of strong cold air, reminding the general public to stay warm.

Shen Gun was too cold to sleep, his stomach twisted as if containing a mouth waiting to be fed. In the latter half of the night, he heard wolf howls, suddenly realizing they were much closer than the previous night. He rolled over and sat up.

He had heard that during cold, snowy weather, when wolves couldn’t find food, they would actively take risks, attacking people or sneaking into nearby villages.

He gripped the stun gun tightly, not daring to close his eyes again. Later in the night, the rain turned to snow, and the soft sound of snow falling on the tent was like an eternal sigh across heaven and earth.

Finally enduring until daybreak, he opened the tent door to see shallow white covering the mountains. Looking back at Luo Ren and the others, his heart suddenly jumped. He rubbed his eyes and looked again: indeed, their faces all seemed to have an unusual redness.

Had they regained sensation? Shen Gun’s heart pounded with joy. He grabbed his notebook and rushed over, but when he saw clearly, his heart sank. He quickly lifted the blanket to check their hands.

It was frostbite. The temperature was too low, and because they weren’t moving, being exposed to low temperature and moisture for an extended period had caused their surface blood vessels to spasm. Their skin was beginning to redden and swell.

Everyone was affected to varying degrees. Perhaps because girls were more sensitive to cold, Mu Dai and Hongsha’s conditions were more severe. The mountain temperature was dropping day by day, and the strong wind accelerated the heat loss. This frostbite would only worsen—skin, subcutaneous tissue, muscles, and even bones could die.

They weren’t dead, but their bodies would die, like fragile reeds that a single cold spell could harvest.

Before entering the mountains, Luo Ren had given him the decision-making authority.

—You’ll need to make a decision: stun us and tie us up, or… clean up.

Shen Gun quickly made his decision.

Even if they never woke up in their lifetime, he needed to protect their bodies well. Now, the priority was to get out; otherwise, the low temperature, severe cold, and lack of food would cost everyone their lives.

He needed to hurry and find help in the village.

Shen Gun fastened everyone’s collars tightly, placing them side by side and wrapping them all in blankets. He stuffed everything that could provide warmth and insulation inside the blankets, crawled out of the tent, and zipped it up.

Cao Jiefang, who had been wandering around the perimeter, now waddled over, spread his wings, and fluttered up to stand on top of the tent.

Shen Gun said, “I’ll consider you released. Do as you please.”

He picked up a thick wooden stick, tucked Luo Ren’s dagger into his waistband, and slung several strings of firecrackers over his shoulder. He hesitantly followed the path back, and after walking for a while, saw messy footprints in the snow, like plum blossoms, with sharp claws at the toe ends.

His heart sank. He quickly ran back to the small swaying tent, which, even with its zipper door closed, looked increasingly worrisome. He busied himself for a while, moving many large stones to build a circle around the tent, firmly blocking the zippered door.

Cao Jiefang still stood on top of the tent, looking down at him. Shen Gun said, “If only you were a watchdog who could guard the house.”

He added, “The rice I’ve fed you wasn’t wasted. Be smart—when it’s your time to step up, you need to step up, understand?”

Having said that, he detached a string of firecrackers from his shoulder, lit them with his lighter, then turned and left.

This time, there were no duds. Behind him, the firecrackers exploded with loud bangs. Torn firecracker paper mixed with snow foam flew about in the sulfurous smoke. Cao Jiefang fled far away, calling with a clear voice: “Ho… do… lo…”

Shen Gun walked for over six hours without stopping. It was evening when he reached the village. He went straight to Old Nine Ding’s house, and upon entering, his legs gave way, and he couldn’t get up.

In his daze, Old Nine Ding helped him onto the kang bed, wrapped him in a quilt, and poured two mouthfuls of hot liquor down his throat. After his body warmed up, he became aware of a commotion. Opening his eyes, he saw nearby old men and women with their hands tucked into their sleeves, probably having heard the news and come to see the excitement.

Old Nine Ding reluctantly stated that he wouldn’t enter the mountains, no matter how much money was offered. Even in good weather, villagers wouldn’t go deep into the ridge, let alone now with both rain and snow. Besides, pointing to the spectators, he said the village had no young, able-bodied men—all healthy young people had gone out to work, leaving only these old men and women. If anything happened to them in the mountains, it could be fatal.

Shen Gun didn’t want to waste words. Time was pressing, and he couldn’t wait for outside help: “Then I’ll go in myself. Prepare some alcohol, food, and medicine for frostbite. Also, how do I get people out? Cars can’t drive in, so what can we do?”

The old men and women watching eagerly offered suggestions.

“Mules. Use mules to carry them. I have two at home, I’ll let you use them cheaply, but they’re stubborn. I’m afraid you won’t be able to handle them.”

“If you need strength, I have a cart at home, the narrow kind. You can push or pull it.”

…

Finally, Old Nine Ding led Shen Gun to the backyard to show him a large blue ox tethered in the shed.

“This ox has a mild temperament and is obedient. Whip its back and it goes straight, whip left and it turns left, whip right and it turns right. If you don’t mind, I’ll help you harness the ox to a cart. It can easily pull out four or five people.”

Not minding at all, it was settled.

They prepared quickly. The cart was padded with reed mats and a layer of cotton quilts, with a flowery coverlet on top. Fearing the bedding would get wet from rain and snow, they covered it with a large oilcloth. Old Nine Ding filled two water bottles with hot water for himself and packed a bag with over ten steamed buns and some pickled vegetables.

Others brought a large flashlight, oil-soaked torches, an old oil lamp to hang on the cart shaft, and even a steel fork for fighting wolves.

These villagers were actually… not bad.

Shen Gun wrapped himself in an old sheepskin cotton coat, topped with a rain hat, and drove the ox into the mountains. Surprisingly, they moved faster than he had expected, probably because the ox, though seemingly slow, took large, steady steps, neither proud nor impatient, but persistent.

Night fell quickly. The rain and snow had stopped at some point, but the wind was cold as an ice knife. Shen Gun chewed on a bun, lit a torch, and stuck it on the cart shaft.

Halfway through the journey, wolf howls sounded faintly again. Passing by a dense forest side, he sensed shadowy movements—but they probably feared the fire and never showed themselves.

In the late night, they finally approached the campsite. The wind grew stronger, and the ox gradually struggled. Shen Gun got off the cart, clutching the large flashlight, with the ox nose rope tucked on his shoulder, pulling forward with all his might. After just a few steps, when he shone the flashlight ahead again, he suddenly shuddered.

There was a wolf, prostrate on the ground, the blood around it almost black. Its fur was frozen into messy clumps, stuck with blood. The blue ox behind him seemed somewhat fearful, snorting from its nostrils, hesitantly trying to back away. Shen Gun strained with all his might to hold the cart steady.

He used the steel fork to flip the wolf’s body to the roadside, then continued on his way.

On this final stretch of road, the thin snow was dotted with blood. Further on, chicken feathers appeared, scattered individually and in clumps. Shen Gun almost suspected Cao Jiefang had been eaten by wolves—but there were too many feathers; even plucking Jiefang completely wouldn’t account for so many.

Upon arrival, Shen Gun walked quickly forward, shining his flashlight toward where the tent should be, but didn’t see the expected raised top of the tent.

What had happened? His heart tightened. Had the tent collapsed under the snow? Impossible—the snow here was far from reaching such devastating levels.

He ran toward the spot, his flashlight beam fixed steadily on it. The wind continued to blow, scattering the snow from higher places, making it seem like it was still snowing. Suddenly, for an instant, a torn piece of tent fabric was blown up.

No, no, no, please no. Shen Gun’s mind buzzed. Unless those five people had come alive, cut the tent, and left, the tent being torn meant they were essentially exposed to the elements. In such cold, with such strong wind, their bodies would truly freeze to death.

Reaching the spot, he abruptly stopped.

He prided himself on having seen many strange scenes that ordinary people hadn’t, thinking that whatever happened, he would remain “unshaken even with Mount Tai pressing down.” But at this moment, he stood dumbfounded.

Incredibly, he saw many pheasants with gorgeous plumage like brocade, nestled against the blanket-wrapped five people, crowded together. Cao Jiefang was nestled beside Cao Yanhua. Startled by the flashlight beam, he froze, but upon seeing it was Shen Gun, seemingly forgetting their previous friction, he excitedly flapped his wings.

Shen Gun noticed that Cao Jiefang’s wings flapped unevenly, as if injured. His neck was stretched high, and of the two small tags originally hanging from him, only one remained. Looking closely, it read “One Good Chicken.”

The tent had probably been torn by wolves; there were bite marks at the edges. The piled stones were half-collapsed, and there were wolf claw scratch marks on the ground by the door—wolves are said to be clever. In earlier years, even closed doors couldn’t stop them; they would dig a hole to crawl under the door.

Shen Gun stared for a long time before saying, “Jiefang, are these all your friends? When did you get familiar with them?”

He remembered that Yi Wansan had once complained bitterly that Cao Jiefang, after drinking, had nearly been pecked into paralysis by a flock of wild pheasants.

Cao Jiefang tilted his head high, puffed out his chest, exuding a spirit of friendships forged through adversity, universal brotherhood, and united hearts against a common enemy.

Shen Gun said: “I see. Thank you. I’m taking them out now. It’s very cold, you all should go home to sleep.”

For reasons he couldn’t explain, he suddenly bent down and bowed.

After a second or two of silence, all the pheasants except Cao Jiefang suddenly flew up, a small flock circling in the air. As the flashlight beam crossed them, Shen Gun wasn’t sure if he was mistaken, but for an instant, he felt that the light was like a spotlight following the protagonist on stage, and the flock of pheasants, as they flew away, resembled the shape of a graceful phoenix.

Shen Gun drove the cart over, spread out the quilts, and placed the five people one by one on the cart. Little Pocket was the lightest; Shen Gun tucked her into Luo Ren’s arms, saying to her: “You should eat more. If you get any thinner, you won’t look good.”

Her face bore a smile, her long eyelashes dusted with snow particles. Shen Gun blew them away with a puff.

Cao Yanhua was the heaviest, requiring the most effort to lift onto the cart. He almost made Shen Gun stumble. Shen Gun jumped with anger, saying, “Why eat so much for no reason?”

Cao Yanhua’s face wore a smile, looking a bit foolish, as if saying, Sorry, sorry, please bear with me.

After everything was properly arranged, the oilcloth was raised to cover the cart, and the hemp rope tightened around the old sheepskin coat, he finally picked up Cao Jiefang to put him on the cart. Cao Jiefang was uncooperative, stepping back several paces, then several more.

Looking in that direction, Shen Gun saw several pheasants that had flown back.

He understood: “Jiefang, are you not coming with us?”

“Not coming is fine too. It must be boring staying with people, unable to share jokes or ghost stories. Alright then, stay with your friends. It’s livelier.”

He took two steamed buns, broke them into pieces, and scattered them on the ground: “We’ll come to see you again, Jiefang. By then, if you’ve married, had children, and live in a mansion, don’t pretend you don’t know us when you’re successful.”

Those few pheasants hesitantly approached, tentatively pecking at the food. Cao Jiefang didn’t move, head raised, looking at Shen Gun. Shen Gun patted his head, saying: “We’re leaving now.”

He got on the cart, whipped the blue ox’s back, traveled some distance, then looked back to see Cao Jiefang limping a few steps toward them, tail feathers erect, staring after the cart.

Shen Gun suddenly felt distressed. He pulled the ox to a stop, took out his phone, got off the cart, and ran back, saying: “Jiefang, let me take a picture as a memento. Later, Fatty Cao and Little San will miss you.”

He took a photo, and Cao Jiefang even actively changed his pose, as if remembering his days as the bar’s little mascot, knowing how to look at the camera and strike different poses.

After taking the picture, Shen Gun waved goodbye, got back on the cart, sniffled, and drove the ox forward, telling himself this was it, don’t look back.

But after going far, he couldn’t help but look back once more: this time, he could see nothing.

He pulled up the photos on his phone, found the most spirited one of Cao Jiefang, and tucked it into Cao Yanhua’s arms.

The ox was tired, and so was he. Shen Gun curled up on the cart shaft, dozing off, occasionally giving the ox a light whip—more like scratching the ox than striking it. The ox was truly a reassuring animal, neither running off nor jumping wildly. Each time Shen Gun opened his eyes, he was still walking unhurriedly, stopping at crossroads, waiting for a directional whip, never proceeding without it.

He forgot which time it was when he opened his eyes, but suddenly found it difficult to keep them open—dawn was breaking.

Another day. Which day was this since entering the mountains?

In a flash, a thought suddenly occurred to Shen Gun: Today was the day! The seven-day period had expired!

Were the ominous slips sealed or not? If they escaped, would Luo Ren and the others develop rectangular, wooden slip-shaped wounds like Pin Ting had before?

He quickly stopped the cart, climbed onto it, and lifted the blankets. Girls couldn’t be offended, so he chose Little Carrot.

Fumbling, he unbuttoned Luo Ren’s clothes, pulled aside the lapel, and suddenly froze.

Indeed, on Luo Ren’s shoulder blade, there was a faint outline of a phoenix, its head held high as if looking back.

Shen Gun’s eyes suddenly moistened, and his nose twitched. He buttoned Luo Ren’s clothes back up and, after a moment’s daze, went to check Cao Yanhua.

He had one too, but perhaps because Cao Yanhua was fat, what should have been a slender and elegant phoenix appeared on him like a fat-headed goose.

…

Shen Gun sat by the roadside, leaning against the wheel, gnawing on another steamed bun. After finishing, he tied up the plastic bag and tucked it under Luo Ren’s head.

From this, it seemed the seven ominous slips had been sealed.

But when would the five of them return, when would they wake up?

It didn’t matter; it didn’t matter how long they slept. There was hope, and hope was good.

His spirits lifted again as he drove the cart forward.

The ridge was reviving. After the first snow, the sun rose, bringing forth various sounds unique to nature, the forest, and the ridge. The cart axle, unused for a long time, made creaking sounds. The blue ox plodded along, still unhurriedly, the large, thick muscles on its back rising and falling.

After traveling a while longer, he experienced a strange sense of disorientation.

Over two thousand years ago, Laozi rode a blue ox through Hangu Pass. This entire area was Hangu Pass territory. Could Laozi have also once traveled this very same road?

Except that Laozi was alone, while they were a group with a creaking cart.

But perhaps they were doing the same thing, moving in the same direction in intersecting time and space, passing each other by.

Lonely old mountains devoid of people, in the sacred dynasty, there’s no need for passes. Where have the white horse and the young man gone? The old man on the blue ox will never return.

Returning or not didn’t matter; there would always be successors.

Shen Gun cracked his whip, striking the ox’s back directly. The cart axle made a harsh sound as it moved forward. He raised his head to look at the not-too-bright sun in the sky.

He said loudly: “The sun’s out! Get up if you’ve slept enough, or another day will pass!”

Walking on, he began humming old tunes to entertain himself.

They were all old songs, sometimes “No regrets as I walk my path, endless roads to the horizon,” sometimes “Time doesn’t know human sorrow, why not live freely for once.”

Luo Ren later said one of his most unforgettable memories was waking up on the road out of Fengzi Ridge.

He found himself lying on a swaying cart previously used for who-knows-what, his head resting on a plastic bag of steamed buns, holding Mu Dai in his arms, covered with a cotton quilt with a red background and scattered peony flowers, common decades ago.

And Shen Gun was singing.

Singing: “Pigs, oh, sheep, oh, where are they going? They’re going into the cooking pots of the people…”