The instant my hand grasped the long saber, the world went black. I first thought it was due to blood loss, but quickly realized the Guanyin Vine pressing down on the opening had fallen, plunging the tree hollow into absolute darkness. At that moment, both Old Sheepskin and Ding Sitian seemed to deflate like punctured balloons, slumping to the ground, utterly motionless. I hastily called out to Fatty, telling him to feel around for matches to light a piece of clothing and see what was going on—where had those two old yellow weasels vanished to?

Fatty managed to ignite a piece of Russian clothing, and through the smoke and haze, the tree hollow was illuminated once more. The interior was spattered with bloodstains. Old Sheepskin and Ding Sitian lay sprawled on the floor, while above them, the Guanyin Vine had pinned the two yellow weasels, bloody and stuck, at the mouth of the hollow. Perhaps the creatures feared the baleful aura of the Kangxi Saber; the moment it was held by a conscious person, they lost a third of their nerve. Furthermore, I had already perceived that the "ghost eyes" the weasels used to confuse our minds waxed and waned with the shifting light, leaving them even less composed. They attempted to flee through a gap in the Guanyin Vine, but in pulling at it, the vine’s hard thorns snagged them fast at the opening, tearing their bodies to shreds. Though not instantly dead, they were lacerated from head to toe, their white fur stained crimson by their own blood.

Seeing the root of the matter, I thought that these yellow weasels were, after all, flattened-fur beasts—utterly arrogant when in power, but reverting to the base nature of a weasel the moment their spectral influence was seen through, immediately scrambling to save their own hides. In truth, we were entirely on the defensive then; had the weasels managed to hold that situation for even a moment longer, it’s unknown who would have been left standing.

Fatty’s neck had a strip of flesh, skin and all, torn away by Old Sheepskin, resulting in a significant bleed. He ignored the size of the wound, enraged by the pain, boiling with suppressed, vile anger with no outlet. Seeing the two weasels trapped at the hollow’s mouth, he immediately lunged forward, ripping one free. That weasel, already half-dead from the Guanyin Vine’s thorns, offered no resistance when seized. Fatty gripped its tiny head in one hand and its body in the other, twisting it back and forth repeatedly with crossed arms. With a few crisp kacha-kacha sounds of snapping marrow, Fatty wrenched the head clean off that old yellow weasel.

Fatty still felt unsatisfied. He threw the weasel’s corpse aside, stomped on it twice, then seized the remaining one, dragged it hard across the blade of the Kangxi Saber, and sliced it lengthwise right in two.

The floor of the tree hollow was slick with blood; it was impossible to tell whose was whose anymore. Seeing those two ghostly, monstrous old yellow weasels finally slain, a great weight lifted from my body, and the desperate will to survive that had sustained me completely dissolved. My arms and legs felt stuffed with lead, my eyelids grew heavy, and a dull throbbing filled my head. I longed only to collapse onto the ground and sleep, but I knew this was far from a time to relax. If I passed out now, the unchecked bleeding from my wounds would be enough to kill me.

Fatty and I dared not delay, ignoring the relief of having escaped death, and immediately checked on Old Sheepskin and Ding Sitian’s injuries. The ashen color on Ding Sitian’s face was deepening; her condition was extremely perilous. Old Sheepskin appeared to have suffered internal injuries during his fierce struggle with Fatty, bleeding from the corners of his mouth and nostrils. None of us had ever dealt with a situation like this and were completely at a loss. After a few rushed discussions yielded no good plan, I told Fatty, “We have to find a way to quickly gather some dried Huaxiangcao to start a fire, deal with the external wounds first, and use the ash to stop the bleeding.”

Fatty used his knife to cut away the Guanyin Vine blocking the entrance. The area around was thick with weeds, including plenty of common Huaxiangcao. We knew from hunting with the locals that this herb could staunch bleeding. Some wounded beasts, unable to stop bleeding, would repeatedly roll around in patches of Huaxiangcao, and soon the wounds would heal and cease bleeding—a repeatedly proven fact. This plant grows in damp, shaded mountainous areas, reaching seven or eight inches high, always in odd-numbered clumps, with feathery leaves that are long and pointed. Around the turn of autumn and winter, its color shifts from green to red. The stem has fine scales resembling a pinecone. When burned to ash, its effectiveness in stopping bleeding and treating wounds is quite remarkable.

We used the herb to staunch the bleeding and tore clean strips from the Russian clothing to wrap our wounds. My shoulder gash was deep, but fortunately, it hadn't reached the bone; once the bleeding stopped, I wasn't overly worried. Fatty’s neck wound was large, and because it was inflicted by teeth, the edges were jagged. Even after applying the ash and wrapping it, blood still seeped out, causing him to gasp in sharp intakes of breath from the pain.

Not long after, Old Sheepskin also woke up first. He was old but resilient; despite his serious injuries, he could still move. He spat out a few mouthfuls of bloody froth, saw the surrounding carnage, and his face was filled with a lost, bewildered expression, remembering nothing of what happened after falling into the tree hollow.

I saw that one of Ding Sitian’s hands, from gripping the saber blade, had a deep gash that flipped open like a child's mouth. Gritting my teeth, I sprinkled a handful of the burnt Huaxiangcao ash onto it and wrapped it with cloth strips. Ding Sitian had been unconscious, but the intense pain shocked her awake, and soybean-sized beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Seeing Fatty and me so worried about her, she forced back the pain and asked me, “Can Huaxiangcao really treat wounds? The People only put you through high school; how do you know so much? Have you undergone some kind of secret special agent training?”

When Fatty and I saw Ding Sitian still had the presence of mind to joke, we felt significantly relieved. But external wounds are treatable; internal corruption is harder to eradicate. If we didn't remove the Fu poison from her system soon, her life would be in danger. After Fatty repaired the two trenching flares, the four of us, leaning on each other, painstakingly climbed out of the tree hollow. This area was called the Hundred Eye Hollow, and it was likely that similar tree hollows and pits were numerous. But this unassuming dead tree hollow had nearly become our mass grave just moments ago; the thought sent a chill down the back of my neck.

However, if it hadn't been for that brutal fight, who knows what vicious scheme those two old yellow weasels would have devised next to take our lives. Moreover, they always remained hidden, their methods truly impossible to guard against. Although the group almost perished entirely in the hollow, we had ultimately eliminated a massive threat. Yet, for the moment, we had no time to dwell on the pros and cons; we could only shuffle forward, step by careful step, through the shifting, unpredictable mist of the forest.

The path gradually ascended. Though the elevation change from the Guanyin Vine’s location was less than a hundred meters, the mist had thinned, allowing us to vaguely make out several mountain passes. The southern pass was shrouded in the heaviest fog, resembling a permanent layer of snow banked halfway up the mountain. To the north, the forest floor was riddled with tree hollows—some concealed by dead leaves and branches, others revealing dark openings that promised immediate doom for anyone who fell in.

On both sides, there were abundant ancient pines and firs, all capable of yielding massive structural timber. Their bark was half a meter thick, colored like creamy jade, the resin looking like ripples of rosy clouds. People say only the bark of ten-thousand-year-old pines can produce the Xiadiaoyu carving pigments. Looking at the arrangement of this ancient pine forest, it likely predates the oldest woods we saw in the Greater Khingan Range; it might truly have sprung forth before the world was fully formed. Having existed for over ten millennia to achieve such majesty, this ancient land must harbor countless secrets.

In the northwest foothills, a large section of the slope had collapsed, exposing a vast, black cavern entrance. Before the opening, there were signs of water erosion, and a pool of residual water lay there, so cold and clear it was disorienting. South of Lake Hulun, there are many intersecting underground water caves; perhaps a subterranean watercourse once ran through here. The massive underground drainage system must have been built to reroute the water flow, allowing the Japanese to excavate the northern hills smoothly. But for some unknown reason, the water passage must have been blocked, causing a flood that swept through this ancient pine forest, perhaps allowing the Dijing Linfu creatures to escape during the rising waters.

Most of the main facilities at the Japanese Kensaku Research Institute had been submerged. Beneath the hillside riddled with bug-hole-like caves stood a broad, two-story building. Shrouded by grass and trees, the cold brick and stone structure bore no sign of life, as desolate as a graveyard. I pushed the door open first and swept the beam of the trenching flare inside. Dust clung to the walls, and on the floor lay several corpses, sprawled or heaped, their appearances utterly terrifying. Every dead body had sprouted feathers or animal fur, similar to the Russians we found in the basement, but they had not died peacefully; clearly, they had struggled violently before death, evidenced by the deep scratch marks on the walls.

I suspected these deaths were likely connected to the bronze chest transported from the mountains. Perhaps the moment the chest was opened, something horrific occurred, killing all living people. However, the areas near the Hundred Eye Hollow still teemed with centipedes and wild rats, seemingly descendants that had escaped the institute and bred. Why hadn’t those animals all perished? Did the contents of that bronze chest only target humans? Regardless, the fact that we were alive to reach this point suggested the disaster brought by the chest had passed, so there was no need for excessive worry. In truth, worrying was pointless; what is fated to come will come eventually, perhaps it has already arrived and we just haven't noticed.

I stopped my anxious thoughts and beckoned the three companions outside, signaling that the building seemed safe enough for them to enter. Fatty carried Ding Sitian on his back, with Old Sheepskin supporting her from behind. Upon entering and seeing so many corpses, all three of them gasped in shock. I told them not to worry, that these weren't zombies; the corpse transformation was related to the unique environment of the Hundred Eye Hollow, which was likely what Feng Shui masters called a 'Sleeping Turtle' location. As for the scientific reasons, I couldn't explain them at the time.

The corpses accumulated as we moved down the corridor; in our combined lifetimes, we had never seen so many dead bodies, and their manner of death was too bizarre. What kind of entity could silently slaughter so many people? We couldn't help but suspect a biological leak or similar accident had turned this place into a ghost city.

From the Russian’s final testament, we knew that utilizing some substance found within the Hundred Eye Hollow to treat Fu poison was one of the primary research objectives of this Japanese institute—and it was Ding Sitian’s only hope for survival. We also needed to find medical supplies here. Seeing Ding Sitian growing faint, fearing she might drift into a permanent sleep from the poison overwhelming her heart, I kept talking to her, urging her not to fall asleep.

But I didn't know if an antidote truly existed in this building, or where it might be stored. Since I had to search everywhere, I delegated the task of keeping her conscious to Old Sheepskin. Since Old Sheepskin wasn't good with words, I told him to sing for Ding Sitian—whatever it took to keep her awake. The old man finally began singing a sorrowful tune: "Riding a white horse, carrying a rifle, Third Brother ate the Eighth Route Army's grain; wants to go home to see his girl, Hu'er Hei You, but fighting the Japanese keeps him too busy..."

Old Sheepskin's voice was desolate and grief-stricken, sounding particularly heart-wrenching in the silent corridor. I thought, maybe I shouldn't have let the old man sing; what was that? It was clearly a lamentation fit for the damned, yet the grating sound did manage to jolt the spirit. Ding Sitian’s senses sharpened somewhat in response.

We searched the building floor by floor, but the building only contained diseased tissues, pathological specimens, and various preserved human organs, alongside the brutally slain remains. Each room was marked only with a number. Finally, we reached the basement. The smell of preservative fluid was heavy and never dissipated. The underground section of the structure was a cold, solemn concrete floor; the air was chilling to the bone. At the end of the main corridor stood a large black iron door. Behind it seemed to be a storeroom, with various items lined up on shelves and many numbered wooden crates resting on the floor.

Hoping to find medicine, Fatty and I rummaged everywhere. In the swaying light of the trenching flare, I suddenly glimpsed a sinister, eerie green glow deep within the shelving. I immediately tensed, thinking there might be other yellow weasels nearby. Due to my injured right shoulder, I drew my saber with my left hand and hurried over to investigate.

What I saw turned out to be a bronze chest inside the storehouse. The copper, catching the gloom of the basement, appeared exquisitely moist and dripping under the flashlight beam, its green so profound it seemed to penetrate the bones—pure azure like spread jade. Fatty and Old Sheepskin saw it clearly too, both letting out an "Ah," astonished as if they had found a heavenly treasure. They assumed the box was made of green jade.

But I knew that although this chest showed not a trace of copper color, it was not jade but pure bronze. I recalled that my family possessed a small bronze Vermilion Bird, an antique my grandfather collected before it was destroyed as one of the 'Four Olds.' He had told me how to appraise bronze, though I hadn't paid much attention then, and I wasn't sure if I remembered correctly. Supposedly, if a bronze artifact is submerged in water for a thousand years, it turns purely green and its color shines like jade. If it hasn't reached a thousand years, or if the object is large and heavy, it will turn green but lack the luster, and the corrosion marks on the surface will remain, as its metallic nature hasn't fully dissipated, reducing its weight by only a third.

If the bronze object is buried in water and earth, its inherent metallic nature completely leached away by the water and soil, it loses all copper color, appearing only as deep, bone-piercing emerald green, or perhaps entirely green with a single streak of cinnabar red. If struck, it emits a metallic sound—these are extremely rare ancient artifacts.