The Fatty roared curses, "Who the hell is breathing cold air in my face with their life on the line?" Ding Sitian tried to strike a match for him, but failed too, as everything was pitch black, making it impossible to see anything. A sense of unease flooded me; I reached back for the long saber tucked behind me, only to grasp empty air. I tumbled from the vine, falling somewhere into the darkness, lost.

Just then, a pair of eerie green eyes suddenly materialized before me, like twin ghostly lanterns. The moment I saw them, a shiver ran through my entire body. I immediately pushed myself back with my hands, scrambling several steps away until my back hit the base of a tree. These ghost-fire eyes followed me relentlessly, gliding closer. Their emerald gaze was saturated with an ominous premonition of death, carrying a soul-stealing, bizarre power. The feeling was disconcertingly familiar; once experienced, it was impossible to forget. It seemed I had seen them more than once—not just in that Russian’s room last time, no... more than twice. I had also seen them in the Yellow Immortal Temple in the Khingan Mountains. These were the eyes of the Yellow Immortal Maiden, the one the Fatty had traded candied fruit for, leading to her gruesome flaying.

Staring into those ghastly, greenish, ghost-fire eyes, a thought suddenly struck me. Animals like mongooses and yellow wolves possess excellent night vision, their eyes shining as brightly as small light bulbs. Felines can contract or dilate their pupils according to the light, but a fully matured huangpizi (yellow weasel spirit) is such that the dimmer the light, the more intense the glow in its eyes. Last time, when we fell prey to the Yellow Immortal Maiden's bewitching spell in the temple, we almost hanged ourselves in that cellar. Especially in the absolute darkness without a light source, the Yellow Immortal Maiden’s sickeningly green eyes remain vividly imprinted in my memory. This thought sparking, the pair of green lights flickered erratically. Ignoring them for a moment, I urgently asked the Fatty, "The Yellow Immortal Maiden you traded for those candies, what happened to her in the end?"

I heard the Fatty reply while banging on his engineer's illuminating tube, "I saw them flay her hide with my own eyes. How could this be..." Clearly, he had also seen the pair of eyes pulsating with green energy in the tree hollow. He assumed it was the vengeful spirit of the huangpizi who hadn't died peacefully, and even his fearless heart was struck with terror and dread.

Before the Fatty finished his sentence, another pair of ghost-fire eyes emerged in the dark hollow of the tree. The two pairs of eyes flashed a few times, followed by a strange, cackling burst of laughter from the opposite side. The laugh was harsh, grating, and filled with malignant malice, raising goosebumps across my skin. I realized something was wrong. We had only killed one huangpizi, the Yellow Immortal Maiden; how could two pairs of green lights suddenly appear, surrounding us? What exactly were we entangled with?

I recalled the cave entrance to the Hundred-Eyed Grotto, the one with the mural depicting the huangpizi spirit enchanting the corpse—a relic from a time when primitive shamanism reigned, filled with ancient totem worship. In the Greater Khingan Mountains and the adjacent grasslands, there was a belief that the weasel was the incarnation of the underworld's death god. However, this custom had gradually waned since the Song Dynasty. Yet, sometimes I felt that while the ancients' understanding of the world was primitive, it couldn't be denied that in certain aspects, their perception of life and nature was purer and more direct than modern people's. The act of the huangpizi summoning souls for the deceased might not be baseless; it's just that the ancient method of describing the truth is hard for us to fathom using our current values and worldview.

My mind wandered. Against the tangible threat of a genuine zombie, I could summon the courage to fight back, but against the nothingness that follows death, I was utterly lost. I didn't even have a direct concept of it. Suddenly helpless, I could only watch the four ghostly lights hover nearby, my mind a chaotic mess. I wanted to drag the Fatty and Ding Sitian out and flee, but not only could I not find an exit, there wasn't a single glimmer of light. Anxiety mounted, but I couldn't devise a solution.

At that moment, the section of Guanyin vine dangling at the tree hollow’s mouth suddenly dropped, sinking down a segment. Two gaps appeared between the vine and the edge of the dead tree hollow. Although the outside was shrouded in mist, it was still daytime, allowing weak light to leak into the back of the hollow. Our surroundings transitioned from pitch black to a state where hazy outlines could barely be discerned.

As the tree hollow gained a slight visibility, the four ghostly lights and the malicious laughter vanished instantly. I quickly rubbed my eyes and peered intently. Old Sheepskin lay on the ground two paces away; he seemed to have struck his head and remained motionless. I couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. Ding Sitian and the Fatty were sitting on either side of me, both having fallen quite hard.

Behind Old Sheepskin, the bundle he carried had spilled open, its contents scattered across the floor. Two strangely shaped weasels squatted on Old Sheepskin, peering at us furtively with bizarre expressions. These weasels were entirely devoid of yellow fur; their entire bodies were snow-white, like silver foxes. However, a weasel’s face isn't as pretty as a fox's—it was both ugly and sinister, repulsive to look at. Furthermore, the distinct physical traits of a weasel were unmistakable; no matter the color of their fur, they were still huangpizi.

It is said that an old huangpizi grows a streak of white fur on its back every thirty years. For these all-silver creatures, had they lived so long they became spirits? Or were they a special species born with fur as white as snow? Seeing these two weasels, seemingly terrified by the sudden daylight seeping through the overhead gap, they crouched low on all fours, tails dragging behind them.

The moment I saw the weasels’ posture, it was like a lightning strike in a clear sky—I suddenly understood. The two 'human hands' imprinted on the glass door of the crematorium were these very weasels putting on a show. With their four limbs and heads pressed flat against the window, they perfectly mimicked human palms and fingers. And that furry tail—wasn’t it just like a human arm?

I inwardly cursed my weak resolve. I had truly let my suspicions conjure ghosts. At that time, I had been completely fooled by these two flat-furred beasts. The only remaining question was why these silver-furred weasels wanted to drive us into a corner. From ancient times until now, weasels and foxes have been recognized folklore as the most cunning and human-savvy creatures, with countless tales of them achieving spiritual transformation. In reality, their supposed 'transformation' rarely involves taking human form. Legends of fox spirits becoming young wives or weasel spirits becoming old men are usually gross exaggerations. Their 'spirituality' merely means they can understand human nature, grasp the workings of human society, and imitate human lifestyles. That's why some esoteric practitioners often say: "Man is the spirit of all things; no matter how many trials these beasts endure to attain the Way, they only reach the standard of a common mortal. It is a pity that those born human often fail to use their bodies well." This perspective confirms, in a way, that huangpizi or foxes can indeed penetrate the human heart.

The weasels could guess people's thoughts, but I couldn't fathom their actions or motives. The most likely scenario was that these two weasels had some incredibly deep connection to the Hundred-Eyed Grotto. They drove us into the crematorium, then somehow slipped into the building, causing us endless trouble and following us all the way to the Russian's secret chamber. Perhaps they were wary of weapons carrying ill luck, like the 'Kangxi Precious Saber'; only when we were drowsy and mentally unfocused could they try to kill us; otherwise, they relied on insidious schemes of borrowed violence.

These thoughts spun through my mind, and I grasped seven or eight tenths of the truth. It was a sudden event—our fall from the Guanyin vine into a tree hollow—that trapped us. The hollow was luckily blocked by the severed vine, leaving no room to hide in the small space. Only then were their tracks discovered; otherwise, unaware of the truth, we might have been followed indefinitely.

The only thing necessary to know, yet impossible to guess, was how these two creatures managed to shadow us without my intense vigilance detecting them. At that moment, the two weasels peered out slyly, their four eyes fixed on us with ill intent. Seeing them brought back the memory of the fear and hardship endured throughout the journey. Anger surged within me. I recalled the wartime slogan: "Take up your pens as swords and guns, concentrate fire on the gangsters; if the monsters and demons dare to move, smash their villainous skulls—kill, kill, kill..." If I wasn't fighting back now, when? A murderous impulse arose. I didn't care what they were; as long as they weren't intangible ghosts, I’d slaughter them first to avoid future trouble.

But before I could move, the Fatty had already lost his temper. He lunged forward, gritting his teeth, "They've gone too far! I swear I'm going to squeeze the guts out of these two little weasels!" The Fatty was massive, filling the tree hollow like a wall, and he was quick. Capturing two weasels in such a confined space should have been easy, but surprisingly, every time he lunged, he missed. These weasels were old enough to be shedding hair, yet they weren't dodging quickly; rather, they seemed to anticipate his every move, predicting the angle and timing before the Fatty even struck.

The Fatty was sweating profusely. If this continued, he’d be exhausted to death trying to catch them. In a frenzy, he ignored everything else and drew his Type 14 pistol, firing two shots. The speed at which he raised the weapon was too fast even for me to follow. I remembered he never missed during target practice at the military region—at least, I’d never seen him fire a blank. A shot always resulted in a confirmed hit.

I thought these two shots would solve the problem, finally getting rid of a huge burden. Unexpectedly, the Fatty had missed both times. At such close range, with such clear targets, failing to hit them was unbelievable. Not only was the Fatty stunned, but I also found it hard to trust my own eyes. A chill crept into my heart. The two weasels dodged the fatal bullets in a way that defied possibility, looking like two white spectral shapes that vanish without a trace. Both pistol rounds embedded themselves deep into the tree root like stinging locusts.

The Fatty thought the cheap gun was malfunctioning and paused in shock. One weasel seized the opportunity to fart directly in his face. Ding Sitian and I were behind the Fatty, our view blocked by his body. A puff of green smoke hit me, and the tree hollow instantly became unbearably foul. The Fatty, bearing the brunt, turned green, dropped his pistol, and rolled next to Old Sheepskin, coughing incessantly and kicking his legs on the ground. The two weasels retreated to a corner, their eyes flickering with wicked smiles.

Seeing the weasels' sinister eyes, I instantly understood. Those two pairs of eyes seemed capable of seeing through the heart and scrutinizing the soul, as if every move we made could be predicted. In the mountains where we were sent down for re-education, we often heard tales that a perfected huangpizi could not only steal the soul but also commune with it—akin to modern concepts of mind-reading and hypnosis.

But just how deeply a perfected huangpizi could read minds remained unclear to anyone. Perhaps it merely predicted human actions through eye contact, anticipating every move based on our gaze. To put it more malevolently, it might truly see through one’s mind—not just emotions and desires, but even the thoughts within the internal organs and the cerebrum.

It dawned on me. Because these two weasels could interface with human consciousness, they could remain completely unseen even when following us. Moreover, they deliberately manufactured mental burdens and psychological stress for us. The worse our mental state, the easier it was for them to exploit loopholes. The Russian zombie, reduced to ashes, was secretly rearranged on the table; even if they couldn't kill us in our sleep, they made us think the place was haunted, increasing our tension. Every human nerve has its limit; soon, even without their direct intervention, we would nearly suffer a mental breakdown. How poisonous their intentions were! Realizing how deeply calculating these flat-furred beasts were, perhaps even more cunning than humans, sent a chill through my entire body.

At this point, Ding Sitian, seeing the Fatty choking severely from the stench, tried to help him up despite the reek in the hollow. I knew the weasel fart, though noxious, wasn't immediately fatal. This was a stalemate. The weasels were temporarily cornered, incapable of directly killing us. Since they could foresee our actions and thoughts, we were powerless against them. Both sides were waiting for the moment that would seal the other's doom. In this situation, rash action was forbidden. I was about to stop Ding Sitian from approaching, but I couldn't match the weasels' uncanny foresight. By the time I noticed her movement, I was half a step too late. Just as Ding Sitian grasped the Fatty's arm, the silver-white weasels' eyes flashed. Old Sheepskin, who had been lying motionless on the ground, suddenly sat up. His eyes were vacant and dull, but his hands shot out like iron pincers toward Ding Sitian’s neck.

Seeing no trace of spirit in Old Sheepskin’s eyes, I knew he had likely been soul-snatched by the weasels. Once consciousness is lost—through fainting, sleeping, or mental derangement—the spirit is extinguished. It’s like being trapped in a hypnotic trance; the person feels no pain and recognizes no companion. Furthermore, a person whose spirit is lost possesses immense strength. If he clamped his hands around Ding Sitian’s neck, he could snap her spine instantly.

Seeing Ding Sitian in mortal danger, I had to abandon the defensive tactic of "hold firm until the enemy moves." I lunged and shoved Old Sheepskin’s arm away. Old Sheepskin’s muscles and nerves were unnaturally stiff, and his strength immense. I exerted all my might just to knock him down. Due to the tight terrain, Old Sheepskin, Ding Sitian, and I all tumbled to the ground.

My fall from the Guanyin vine had shaken every bone in my body. The force of pushing Old Sheepskin had caused a strange new wave of pain to ripple through me. As I fell, I glanced toward the corner where the two weasels were stationed, seeing them perched on a root slightly further away, their eyes fixed intently on our every move.

A sudden inspiration struck me: "Weasels are slippery and devious. If they truly predict our actions using their eyes, all we have to do is blindfold ourselves." But I immediately dismissed this: "If we cannot see, we are no better than the blind and have even less chance against them. However..."

Before the thought was fully formed in my mind, the sound of a saber being drawn ripped past my ear. It turned out that when Old Sheepskin fell, the Kangxi Precious Saber had dropped right beside him. He pulled it out silently and thrust it directly toward Ding Sitian’s heart.

Ding Sitian’s real name was Ding Lele; she only changed it during the ‘Recalling Past Hardships, Remembering Sweetness’ period. I always felt her original name suited her better. She was lively, loved to laugh, sing, and dance. Although she later joined the Red Guards, it hadn't forged her into a genuine fighter skilled in struggle. Deep down, she remained a girl of the arts, unsuited for facing genuine close-quarters killing. And her opponent was Old Sheepskin, a poor and humble peasant she knew well—the usually kind, quiet man who played the matouqin (horse-head fiddle) and always protected her. Now he moved like a stranger, stabbing viciously. Ding Sitian was so shocked, paralyzed by confusion, compounded by a low fever and weakness, that she completely forgot to dodge the lethal blade.

Seeing Ding Sitian frozen, an icy cold glint slicing toward her, unaware of how to evade, I knew I couldn't stop the soulless Old Sheepskin. I had no choice but to throw myself forward and shove Ding Sitian sideways again.

Old Sheepskin drove the long saber forward, narrowly missing my shoulder and embedding itself deep into the tree root behind me. As the blade scraped, it tore through the fabric and flesh of my shoulder, causing blood to gush out. Ignoring the pain and the bleeding, I quickly clamped down on his hands to prevent him from using the blade again. But Old Sheepskin didn't withdraw the weapon; instead, he pressed both hands down. The saber, already sunk an inch into the root, shifted from a direct thrust to a downward slash.

I knew that if the saber pressed down, it would slice not only the tree root behind us but also both Ding Sitian and me in half. I had to risk everything, using my shoulder and hands to meet the downward pressure on the blade and the hilt. Even exerting our full strength, the long saber kept cutting deeper. The hands gripping the blade edge were also cut open, dripping blood onto the ground and running down the hilt onto Old Sheepskin’s hands. Amidst the malicious laughter of the two weasels, the three people struggling for the saber in the tree hollow were all reduced to bloody messes.