The sky over the steppe seemed to hold an unseen, formless phantom; though our eyes could not discern it, the wild geese and cattle swallowed by the heavens, and the frantic horses, all testified to a real, terrible unknown, forcing us to choose avoidance without understanding the truth.

No one noticed at first that the retired military horse ridden by "Old Sheepskin" had led us right into the nightmare of the local herdsmen: the "Hundred-Eyed Grotto." This hilly expanse, known as the Hundred-Eyed Grotto, lay precisely at the junction of the steppe and the desert. To the east was the vast sea of grass we had traveled from; further west stretched the endless Mongolian desert, separated from us by a chain of rolling hills, forming a typical zone of arid grassland vegetation.

The hollow before us was choked with wild grasses and twisted ancient trees. Viewed from above, the place might resemble a vast, dark-green trap. Although the day was clear, the low-lying terrain trapped the air, preventing any wind from entering. Wisps of mist drifted through the waist-high weeds, carrying a faint, foul stench. Old Sheepskin pointed toward the depths of the hollow, explaining that the true location of the Hundred-Eyed Grotto was actually hidden within the thicket there. It was the path his brother had been coerced onto by bandits years ago—a road of no return.

I asked Old Sheepskin where the demon dragon he had witnessed decades ago was—was it above this hollow? Old Sheepskin replied that there hadn't been this much fog back then; the hollow had been a dense forest. He couldn't explain the current heavy mist, which was so thick in the deep, dense vegetation that it seemed nearly impenetrable, completely obscuring the spot where he had last seen the dragon.

We squinted into the woods from our horses for a few glances, but the deeper we looked, the heavier the fog became. Under these conditions, if anything were truly hidden in there, we wouldn't see it until we were right upon it. Old Sheepskin urged us to leave immediately while we still could. Lingering too long in this cursed place, he warned, meant we might not have time to escape if something unexpected happened. The cattle were lost; we'd accept whatever beatings or fines awaited us back home. Better that than losing our lives here.

Although the Fatty and I were eager to ride into the woods to see what lay within, we shelved the idea, prioritizing the safety of Ding Sitian and Old Sheepskin. We immediately turned our horses to leave. Old Sheepskin, not wanting to waste a second, tried to take a shortcut by galloping over a grassy knoll. Unfortunately, the base of the slope was riddled with hidden prairie dog holes, their entrances usually concealed by weeds, making them completely invisible. The worst fear of the herdsmen was having a horse trap its leg in one of these holes, which could easily lead to a fracture.

Ding Sitian’s mount, the sorrel mare, stepped directly onto such a hole. The opening was rimmed with grass roots and sand. Given the steep incline and the horse's own considerable weight, the ground collapsed when the mare stepped down, its leg sinking in. The mare gave a mournful cry as its front tibia snapped instantly.

Fortunately, Ding Sitian was light. The unbalanced mare tossed her off, and she tumbled onto the tall grass without injury. Even so, she was terrified, her face drained of color. Had she been pinned beneath the fallen horse, she would have sustained serious injuries.

Seeing our companion unseated shocked us all, and we immediately reined in. We were only relieved when we saw Ding Sitian covered only in yellow dust and bits of grass. As I was about to dismount, my eye caught movement in the collapsed prairie dog hole trampled by the mare: a frightened, grayish-white wild rat darted out. Its tiny eyes, set in its triangular head, gleamed with terror. It must have been resting in the hole, deeply startled by the sudden thunder of hooves. In its panic, it fled without regard for direction, shooting past Ding Sitian in a blur.

Ding Sitian, still shaken from the fall, let out a cry and quickly ducked her head when this large, fluffy rodent—nearly the size of a small cat—rushed right past her, its fur nearly brushing her face.

From what I knew of her, Ding Sitian was brave, one of the most outstanding among the educated youth. But the suddenness of the event provoked an equally outstanding scream from her. Even the rat was startled, jolting upward several times before landing. Before the rat could touch down, the long grass behind Ding Sitian parted, and out slid a "Black-Spotted Centipede" so long it seemed endless. The creature resembled a giant earth centipede, its body a dull yellow-green, mottled with black spots from its advanced age. The hooked claws by its mouthparts were extremely sharp; upon catching live prey, they instantly injected venom. The rat died before it could even struggle.

This centipede was likely lying in wait in the grass to hunt. Ding Sitian’s fall and roll brought her right in front of it, just as it was about to strike a human. The unfortunate rat, however, ran into the danger first, saving Ding Sitian's life; otherwise, it would have silently bitten her. All this occurred in an instant. The Fatty, Old Sheepskin, and I only reacted moments later. At first, seeing its many legs, we thought it was a large centipede, but upon closer inspection, it had far fewer pairs of legs—only about ten—and those legs were astonishingly long, extending far wider than its body. The final pair was especially elongated. We realized it was a centipede (actually a Scolopendra gigantea or similar large centipede/chilopod), and we shouted in unison, urging our horses forward to save Ding Sitian.

The centipede had swallowed the large rat, but the rat was hardly enough to satisfy its appetite. Its antennae twitched, and it turned, slithering toward Ding Sitian to bite her. Ding Sitian, having endured several years of upheaval during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution’s mass movements, remained panicked but still capable of movement. Seeing the centipede lunge with its jaws extended, she braced herself with her hands on the ground and rolled sideways to evade the attack.

By this time, the other three of us had rushed to her side to provide support. The centipede had fully emerged from the grass; it was over a meter long, its many limbs churning, moving rapidly due to its potent venom. It showed no fear toward the people or the horses, scraping along the surface of the grass with a "shush-shush-shush" sound as it lunged at Ding Sitian again.

The Fatty raised his hunting rifle from horseback, intending to shoot, but the antique weapon misfired at the critical moment. Though the gun was silent, his horse had already bolted past the danger zone, kicking up dust as it galloped to the bottom of the slope, where the Fatty finally managed to rein it in. I saw that the centipede moved swiftly, skimming across the grass. The best approach, I thought, was to have a horse trample it. I spurred my mount forward, yanking hard on the reins, intending for my horse’s hoof to smash the centipede into pulp.

However, in my haste to save her, I forgot we were on a slope. My horse lifted its front legs high, losing the balance provided by its two rear legs digging into the ground. As its hooves came down, they missed the centipede entirely, instead causing the horse to stumble forward down the slope. I couldn't hold the reins, and the horse naturally carried me down the incline.

When I looked back, I saw the seasoned "Old Sheepskin" had not charged recklessly up the slope. He knew this knoll might hide other rodent holes, and that if he failed his initial strike to save Ding Sitian, turning back would be too late. Thus, he was a half-step behind me and the Fatty. Old Sheepskin had already drawn the "Kangxi Precious Saber"; the fiery sunset glinted coldly off the blade.

It happened in a flash. Just as the centipede was about to pounce on Ding Sitian, a gleam of light flashed from Old Sheepskin’s hand. He struck the centipede’s lateral legs. Some of the larger centipede species develop hardened shells as they age, but their leg pairs remain disproportionately thin and often break off—though they can regrow. With that swing, Old Sheepskin sheared off three of the giant centipede's long legs.

In pain, the centipede thrashed several times in the tall grass, failing to bite Ding Sitian. But it immediately twisted its body, moving like the wind through the weeds, and leaped into the air, launching directly at Old Sheepskin. Seeing that his first strike hadn't cleaved the creature in two, and the enemy was counterattacking, Old Sheepskin—despite his age—remained agile from years of nomadic life. He quickly bent low, pressing himself against the saddle. The centipede, trailing a foul stench, swept over his back, missing its target.

The centipede has strange habits: unable to see in daylight, it emerges after dusk, drawn by scent. The Black-Spotted Flower Centipedes of the steppe are the most venomous; it is not unusual for them to kill cattle or horses. After missing Old Sheepskin, the centipede landed behind him, did not turn back, but crawled straight onto the hindquarters of the injured sorrel mare. The mare, unable to move, realized that being bitten by the thick centipede meant certain death. It tried to twist its body to crush the poisonous bug, but before it could act, the centipede’s mouthparts pierced its nerve center. Instantly, the mare’s eyes turned blue, and it stiffened, dying in the grass.

Although centipedes can kill livestock, their thick hides usually protect them; they mostly feed on smaller creatures, though the largest occasionally prey on humans. Old Sheepskin treated his horses as lives; seeing the sorrel mare dead, he was naturally heartbroken. Beyond his grief for the horse, he worried about how he would account for the lost cattle and now this horse back in the grazing lands. But then he noticed the yellow-green, black-spotted giant centipede, having dispatched the horse, turn and lunge toward him and Ding Sitian.

At this critical juncture, grief for the mare had to be ignored. Old Sheepskin quickly reached out to Ding Sitian, pulling her onto his mount. The two of them rode the single retired military horse, and with a kick of their heels, the old warhorse sprang down the grassy slope, carrying Old Sheepskin and Ding Sitian.

The Fatty and I turned our horses to rush back, but we saw Old Sheepskin and Ding Sitian had already reached our side. Behind them, the grass rustled fiercely, and the meter-long centipede pursued closely. Seeing its ferocious approach—capable of killing a Mongolian horse in an instant—I dared not try to trample it again. I signaled, and the Fatty and I turned our horses once more, pushing them hard into the woods, hoping to use speed to outrun the relentless centipede.

But the moment we entered the woods, I regretted it. The deeper we went into the hollow, the denser the trees became. Galloping across the open steppe is exhilarating, but riding among trees is dizzying. As the bizarrely shaped ancient trees whipped past us in a blur, it felt like we could crash into one at any moment.

We hadn't gone far before branches had ripped several tears in my clothing, and my sheepskin hat was long gone. Seeing the chaotic, overarching trees blocking the sky, I realized we would all be separated if we continued this reckless pace. I quickly pulled the reins, but only specially trained horses stop instantly; mine was unruly. Instead of stopping, it veered sharply to the side, jostling the Fatty, who was riding beside me, off his intended path.

The Fatty’s horse veered toward an old tree with a thick branch growing very low, directly in the Fatty’s line of travel. Seeing this, the Fatty tried to execute a maneuver he’d only seen steppe herders use—the Deng Li Zang Shen (a move involving removing one’s foot from the stirrup). He had no practical experience. He pulled his foot free, awkwardly tilted his body sideways on the horse’s back, and curled up, hanging off one side. Though his execution was clumsy, it succeeded in allowing him to avoid the low-hanging branch.

The Fatty was quite proud of himself, worried that the others hadn't noticed his feat, and shouted for everyone to watch his move. However, his imitation was only half-learned. Being heavy, he found it impossible to swing back onto the saddle. At that moment, his horse was about to pass between two large trees. The gap was wide enough for a horse, but not for a horse plus the Fatty hanging to the side. Seeing an imminent collision with no chance to stop or dismount properly, the Fatty simply closed his eyes and rolled off the horse onto the ground, landing in a tangle of weeds. The horse bolted into the deep woods without looking back.

Distracted by watching the Fatty’s near-miss, I was knocked off my own horse by a thick, stiff branch. Clad in thick layers, I thankfully avoided breaking a rib, managing to grab the branch and hang suspended in mid-air. My horse, caught up in the excitement, followed the Fatty’s mount into the thick, misty woods, both disappearing within moments, leaving behind only the faint echo of receding hoofbeats.

Hanging from the branch, suspended between sky and earth, with a dull ache in my ribs, I was about to let go and drop down when I heard a rustling sound from the weeds beneath my feet. The centipede, missing three of its leg pairs, poked its head out of the grass. It reared up, brandishing its claws, and lunged toward my dangling feet. Sensing immediate danger, I tensed my waist and legs, scrambling up onto the branch.

Old Sheepskin, despite being highly skilled, was riding tandem with Ding Sitian on an older horse, yet they moved much faster than us in the woods, having left me and the Fatty far behind after entering the forest. Ding Sitian looked back, saw us dismounted, and immediately informed Old Sheepskin. They wheeled their horse around and rode back, arriving just as I was dodging the centipede’s attacks from the branch.

The centipede moved like lightning among the ancient trees and tangled grass. Before Old Sheepskin’s horse could close the distance, the creature slipped from the grass behind them. It reared up, opened its jaws, and clamped down hard on the rear haunch of the old military horse. I watched from the branch, letting out a cry, mourning the fate of that sensible, retired warhorse, which was now dying tragically under the bite of the centipede.