The mere flicker of Ding Sitian’s expression told me everything: the panicked herd of cattle was thundering toward us. Range cattle were usually docile, but once spooked into a stampede, their charge was more ferocious than wild horses—hundreds of head running wild were simply unstoppable, capable of flattening even a vehicle into a sheet of tin.

I didn't waste time wondering why the herd had scattered. I sprang from the ground, kicking the Fatty awake with one swift motion, but Old Ni, our "Chief," had drunk too much the day before, and no amount of kicking would rouse him. In desperation, Fatty and I lifted him between us. Fortunately, we had been sleeping in our clothes, and this outfit was all we had left of our worldly possessions. Grabbing only my military satchel, I rushed out of the yurt with Ding Sitian.

Outside, the sky was already bright. To the east, a vast cloud of dust was rising, mingling with the cacophony of frantic hooves and the mournful cries and screams of the panicked herd. It was surging toward us like a tidal wave. A few loyal sheepdogs barked ferociously at the wild cattle, trying to help their masters contain the herd, but the cattle were already bloodshot, their furious momentum undiminished. In an instant, the dogs were trampled into a bloody pulp on the grass.

I had never anticipated such a scene. Seeing the cattle charging headlong, there was no time to flank them to avoid the impact. Yet, waiting where we stood meant being crushed by their hooves momentarily. Terror seized us. In that brief moment of stunned paralysis, even the sound of our own voices was drowned out. Amidst the chaos, Ding Sitian yanked my arm, pulling me desperately toward the back of the yurt.

I knew perfectly well that our two human legs couldn't outrun panicked cattle, nor could I ask Ding Sitian why she was running in that direction. Though worried she might be fleeing blindly in her fright, I followed with Fatty hoisting Old Ni. I didn't need to look back; the sound alone confirmed the herd was closing in rapidly. The yurt we had just occupied had been flattened. We would be trampled to death within ten paces.

Just as despair set in, I spotted a dry riverbed a few yards ahead. This gully had been weathered away over centuries, bone-dry for hundreds of years, slowly eroded by sand and wild grass until only a relic of a trench remained, barely a meter deep and half a meter wide—a fissure across the velvety green carpet of the steppe, one of the natural firebreaks scattered across the grassland. Only then did I grasp Ding Sitian's intent: she was leading us here so we could leap into the gully and escape the stampede.

Fatty and I, hauling "Chief Ni," threw ourselves with Ding Sitian toward the edge. All four of us practically tumbled into the dry ditch. The moment we entered, the light above us vanished, replaced by falling dirt, sand, and scraps of grass. The deafening thunder of hooves vibrated through our very bones. We clamped our hands over our ears, unsure how long it lasted, until the mournful cries of the herd finally faded as they crossed over the ditch.

"Chief" Old Ni was finally jolted awake. Sitting in the gully, he stared at the three of us, utterly bewildered. What on earth had just happened? Soon after, "Old Sheepskin" and his son and daughter-in-law rushed over. Ignoring the fleeing herd for a moment, they first breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Old Ni was unharmed. They pulled each of us out of the ditch. As they recounted the incident, it turned out nearly everyone had been drinking heavily the night before. Someone, leaving late, had knocked over the fence of the cattle pen while taking their horse. This herd was the largest in the Baryn Left Banner. Luckily, the faithful sheepdogs had circled the cattle, preventing them from wandering off, and the cows had been grazing peacefully just outside the pen until morning.

When "Old Sheepskin" woke up that morning, he saw the cattle were out of the pen, a common occurrence that didn't warrant panic. He called his son and daughter-in-law to help round them up. They had just gotten behind the herd when the unexpected happened: a massive horsefly appeared from nowhere and bit one of the cattle viciously.

Cattle usually swish their tails to swat away flies or horseflies hiding in the grass. Horseflies are insects, divided into bloodsuckers and herbivores; the males only sip plant sap, while the females are parasites that feed on livestock blood, characterized by their grayish-black bodies and transparent wings. Compared to mosquitoes, horseflies inspire particular dread in cattle. This large specimen must have evaded the tail swat and sank its jaws firmly into the cow’s sensitive underside. The pain sent the cow leaping skyward, terrifying the others and causing the entire herd to bolt like headless flies, charging straight toward the yurts. Ding Sitian, upon seeing the stampede, had risked her own escape to save the three of us still sleeping; otherwise, we and the tent would now be flattened into the grass.

Once a herd bolts, nothing can stop them due to the sheer momentum. Even horses were reportedly paralyzed with fear and dared not chase behind them, left only to watch the cattle gallop across the steppe until they collapsed from exhaustion, at which point the herders could finally catch up.

When Old Ni understood the whole chain of events, he was nearly scared out of his wits. If the educated youths hadn't risked their lives to save him, he might have died in his sleep without ever knowing how. Grateful, he shook our hands repeatedly. We had seen all sorts of chiefs; of course, we didn't treat this minor local cadre like the average herdsman, but we found him easygoing and approachable, and saving him was simply the right thing to do, so we felt no need to claim excessive merit.

"Chief Ni" then addressed the group: "Even Chairman Mao said—'On this tiny globe, a few flies keep buzzing around.' I see a few horseflies causing trouble on the steppe as no great matter, but we must quickly retrieve the scattered herd. I will report your exemplary conduct in your pasture district when I return. Higher-ups will call for all pasture and forest districts to emulate you. So, this is no time for any screw-ups." He glanced at the wide-eyed "Old Sheepskin" and asked why he wasn't already out pursuing the cattle.

"Old Sheepskin’s" deeply wrinkled face was pale, his expression utterly distraught. After crossing the gully, the herd had split into several groups. One cluster was bolting toward the desolate depths of the grassland, in the direction of the "Hundred Eyes Cave." While running elsewhere would have been manageable, mentioning that location sent shivers down "Old Sheepskin’s" spine, a secret he dared not share with Old Ni.

I saw his predicament clearly. I didn't believe there were any "demon dragons" in the deep grassland. I immediately stepped forward and told Old Ni that I would take responsibility for chasing back the cattle heading west. It wasn't easy for the League to produce an exemplary pasture district; could this incident be kept quiet for now? Otherwise, "Old Sheepskin’s" model status would surely become one of failure.

Old Ni nodded. "It’s fine for the educated youths to pursue the herd that way, but you must be careful. Beyond the Mobei lies the border. If the herd crosses into Outer Mongolia, getting them back will be troublesome—it becomes an international incident and a huge loss of national assets. For now, I will use my full influence to temporarily suppress this matter and wait here for your return. Once the losses are tallied, I will report back. The stampede already trampled quite a few calves to death; I think we must find a way to minimize the damage."

Ding Sitian had already led out three horses. Hearing Old Ni, she said to him, "You worry too much. The herd won't run into the desert; at most, they’ll circle on the grassland. Furthermore, cattle always travel in herds. There aren't many wolves in the Baryn Left Banner, and the few local wolves wouldn't dare eye them. There shouldn't be any other accidents. We will certainly complete the mission and bring every single cow back."

Seeing her with three horses, I asked Ding Sitian why she intended to join us in chasing the herd west. I said it was supposed to be dangerous and she shouldn't go. Ding Sitian replied stubbornly, "Although you claim you can reach for the moon and seize turtles from the ocean depths, you've never even ridden a horse. How can you chase cattle if you can't ride? Besides, I am an educated youth stationed in this pasture district; I share responsibility for accidents here. Of course, I have to go." She then brought back several saddles and stirrups. Since Fatty and I couldn't ride, we reluctantly agreed, letting her lead the way.

At this moment, "Old Sheepskin" approached hesitantly. If three educated youths were willing to risk approaching the "Hundred Eyes Cave" for the sake of the pasture, what reason did his old bones have to hold back now? More importantly, if they not only failed to find the cattle but something happened to the youths as well, the explanation would be even worse. He finally made up his mind. He sent his son and daughter-in-law to find the other scattered groups, instructing them to look after "Chief Ni" and repair the corrals. He decided to join the three of us heading toward the "Hundred Eyes Cave" to track the herd.

We dared not delay. In another yurt that the herd hadn't flattened, we gathered some emergency supplies and quickly separated to set off. Learning to ride required adjustment for novices, but Fatty and I were naturally quick to adapt to such things. With guidance from Ding Sitian and "Old Sheepskin," we had basically mastered the essentials within a few miles.

The key to riding is not fighting the horse. When the horse walks or trots, you must use your lower legs, knees, and inner thighs to grip firmly, lean forward, maintaining a feeling of barely-touching the saddle, and rise and fall with the rhythm of the horse’s stride. You must absolutely not stiffen your body. The four of us urged our fine horses to gallop across the grassland, feeling as if we were gliding on the wind across a sea of grass. Fatty and I were elated, thinking we were finally getting our fill of horse riding—for this experience alone, the effort of chasing cattle felt worthwhile.

Panic-stricken cattle don't stop running, and after the initial delay, we couldn't catch up immediately. Fortunately, the tracks along the way were distinct, so we didn't have to worry about losing them. "Old Sheepskin" worried that Fatty and I, lacking proper riding boots, might fall and get our feet caught in the stirrups, which was no joke. So, after riding hard for a while, we gradually slowed the pace.

I took the opportunity to ask "Old Sheepskin" why the place name "Hundred Eyes Cave" was so peculiar. "Old Sheepskin" said he wasn't entirely sure, only that the grassland near there was riddled with large holes, openings so vast they seemed unnatural—all dried-up spring vents. The pits followed one another, perhaps earning the name "Hundred Eyes Cave" because of the sheer number of openings. Since too many people and animals had disappeared there over the years, no one had approached the area for a long time. He wasn't certain if that was the true reason.

"Old Sheepskin" remained terrified of the black dragon supposedly haunting the vicinity of the "Hundred Eyes Cave." I suspected this fear stemmed from the disappearance of his brother years ago, a shadow cast over his heart, an unresolved knot in his mind. I didn't know how to comfort him, so I just assured him that no creature called a "dragon" existed in the world; it was merely a totem invented by the ancients.

Speaking of which, I suddenly recalled the tattered, inherited book from my family, the Sixteen-Character Manual of Yin-Yang Feng Shui. It seemed to have several chapters mentioning related concepts of the "dragon." This worn book was the only property left by my family, which I always kept with me. I hadn't examined it closely until now. I pulled it out and haphazardly flipped through its pages on horseback. Sure enough, there was a "Dragon Seeking Incantation," which stated: "The rise and fall of mountains and rivers are the Dragon; the continuous condensation of terrain is the Dragon." It appeared the dragon was a symbol of the mountain, and this book certainly didn't claim dragons were alive.

Fatty had always disliked my worn-out book. Seeing me bring it up again, he immediately mocked me. "Why haven't you thrown out that Four Old relic yet? Books spouting nonsense like that are poisonous. Reading them long-term will poison you, my comrade! And you dare to show it to others, trying to inject vulgar tastes into the poor, lower-middle peasants and your revolutionary comrades?"

I retorted, "What do you know, you idiot? Nonsense can have a point, and vulgar taste is not a crime—besides, I've always read it with a critical eye..." Just as we were arguing, "Old Sheepskin" suddenly pulled hard on his reins, telling the three of us educated youths that the meadow ended right there at the Hundred Eyes Cave. He swore to the Eternal Sky that he saw the demon dragon there, an image of horror he would never forget until his death.

The red sun hung high overhead. Sitting on our horses, we shaded our eyes and gazed west. The vast, silent grassland stretched endlessly, a sea of withered yellow grass. At the far end of the undulating sea of grass lay a rise of low hills, looking like isolated islands on the grassy ocean—that was the Hundred Eyes Cave, the place that made "Old Sheepskin’s" blood run cold. It seemed the herd had bolted in that direction. If we didn't find them, none of us could return and give an accounting. It seemed that whether it was a dragon's pool or a tiger's den, we had to investigate.

"Old Sheepskin" had brought a Mongolian saber, a genuine Kangxi Emperor's precious sword, bestowed upon a Mongolian prince centuries ago. During the campaign to destroy the Four Olds, the prince's descendant had asked Old Sheepskin to secretly dispose of it. Old Sheepskin knew the sword was valuable, and his revolutionary awareness hadn't quite caught up at the time; he felt it was a waste to discard it. Thus, he kept it hidden, and since his family’s class background was low, no one paid him any mind, allowing him to preserve it.

He believed the Kangxi saber could ward off evil spirits and demons, so he carried it with him, perhaps having no intention of returning alive this time—his demeanor was remarkably tragic. As they approached the "Hundred Eyes Cave," "Old Sheepskin" suddenly drew the saber with a shwish, roaring out a line of Qinqiang opera to bolster his courage and that of the youths. As he sang, he urged his horse forward, his voice a harsh rasp crying out: "Zhao Zilong, ah..." This single, high-pitched, passionate, and deeply sorrowful line of Qinqiang escaped his lips.

The earth-shattering sound made the hair stand up on our necks. Though we had never heard genuine Qinqiang, we all felt his rough voice was incredibly authentic. Now was certainly the time to sing the praises of that courageous general, Zhao Zilong, to encourage everyone. Just as we were about to cheer him on, he abruptly stopped singing, his eyes fixed intently on the ground where the cattle had trampled. The herd’s trajectory, after reaching this point, had shifted slightly, no longer pointing directly toward the "Hundred Eyes Cave." "Old Sheepskin" immediately rejoiced, thanking the Eternal Sky that these cattle ancestors had not entered the "Hundred Eyes Cave." But our relief was short-lived. We followed the tracks for only a few li, and the footprints of over a hundred cattle vanished into thin air. The chaotic hoof marks stopped abruptly at one spot. Had this entire herd evaporated on the grassland? Everyone stared, dumbfounded. Could a tornado have swept them away? Yet, there were absolutely no signs of wind in the surroundings. What on earth had happened at the place where the cattle disappeared?