This time, we were cautious, with each of us holding one of the zombie's iron chains, intending to drag it into the cave for a slow, detailed examination. Strangely, although we tried to pull it further inside, the length of the chain securing the zombie only reached the mouth of the cave; it couldn't be moved even half an inch further in. This must be why it had stopped at the entrance before, not because it spotted us, but because the chain restricted it from following the other two zombies forward.

With no other option, we crouched at the cave entrance, shining our spotlights on the zombie to assess its condition. Based on its clothing, which hadn't fully weathered away, it was undoubtedly a Tibetan serf, and likely one of some standing. None of this was odd; the anomaly lay in its face. Just like the corpses I had seen when I first fell into the pit, under conditions of extreme dryness and without any preservative measures, both human and animal bodies would dehydrate into dark brown mummies, not remain looking as if they were still fleshy and alive. Yet, this impossibility had occurred.

The zombie's eyes were tightly shut, its expression serene, its complexion strikingly lifelike—the "plateau redness" on its cheeks as healthy and vibrant as any local passing by you. At a glance, one would only assume it was a well-situated serf taking a nap, bearing no resemblance to the zombie that had tried to tear me in half earlier.

After examining the face, we turned to the body. I held the light steady while Old Li gently pulled back the Tibetan robe, instantly exposing bronze-toned pectoral muscles—glowing and resilient, much like the most fashionable contemporary skin tone. Though covered in over a dozen bullet holes, these perforations did not affect the surrounding flesh, nor did any blood ooze out. They were precise, like marks from a hole punch: one mark exactly where it should be, never injuring the innocent next to it. Given this situation, I was completely unable to articulate the mixture of astonishment and fear I felt, while an inappropriate thought surfaced: this was far more valuable than the mummies of the Egyptian pharaohs.

...Next, we looked at the hands and arms; they were identical to the description above, just like a sleeping living person. Finally, when we reached the feet, we found an abnormality. About two or three inches above the iron chain shackling the zombie's left ankle, a large patch of flesh had been violently gouged away, cutting down to the bone. The wound showed no darkening, no redness, and no scab formation, preserving the exact state it was in the moment the flesh was taken. There was no blood either; only a faint, transparent fluid covered the entire injury. This fluid seemed like dermal tissue fluid, yet perhaps it wasn't. Simultaneously, a subtle, almost imperceptible odor of decaying grease wafted from it. Initially, I wasn't certain, but after taking a few deliberate sniffs, my face drastically changed, and I quickly yanked Old Li away.

"What is it?" Old Li looked at me, utterly bewildered.

"I... I..." I stared at the zombie in terror, pointing at the wound on its lower leg, "I... its... the smell coming from its wound, it was the same as when Wumian was killed... only Wumian's smell was much stronger..."

"Is that so?" Old Li, far from being scared, instead crouched down to sniff the odor up close. "It has a smell like some kind of spoiled grease," he observed, standing up.

"Could it be... could it be..." A sudden thought flashed through my mind, but I immediately dismissed it. "Impossible, impossible."

Old Li asked what I was muttering to myself about. I ignored him, repeatedly turning my idea over and over. It seemed plausible, yet analyzing it by common sense suggested it shouldn't be true. After thinking for a long time without reaching a conclusion, I tentatively shared my thought with Old Li: "Old Li, this... this smell is the same as when Wumian died, and the fluid on the wound also resembles what leaked from Wumian's body... I'm wondering, could this zombie be related to Wumian in some way... but Wumian's face was so swollen only his mouth remained visible, whereas this one looks like a living person... Ah, Old Li, I've gone around in circles and confused myself. I don't know if you understand what I mean."

Old Li nodded, signaling he understood, and then fell silent, sinking into thought.

I simultaneously hoped this zombie was of the same kind as Wumian—meaning there should be something like a Crystal Black Scorpion in its brain or body, allowing us to destroy it like we did Wumian—and yet, I didn't want them to be related. As for why, I couldn't articulate it myself.

"The Gate of Hell has opened," Old Li suddenly said with deep worry while I was still pondering.

"What? The Gate of Hell?" I repeated, asking him, completely missing his meaning.

"Remember that saying? Below Mount Qiangbake is a Gate of Hell, where a faceless devil resides." Old Li's face instantly paled.

In truth, that was merely a piece of folk wisdom, similar legends existing across China, usually employed to scare children away from wandering off, not indicating the actual presence of a man-eating devil somewhere. I relayed this to Old Li.

Old Li disagreed with my assessment: "Technician Luo, folk legends often have roots in factual basis. It's just that through oral transmission, people have erased some facts, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Think about it—if something had absolutely no basis, would it have been passed down for hundreds or even thousands of years?"

I was temporarily silenced; what he said wasn't entirely without merit. Old Li ignored my momentary speechlessness and continued, "Master Banqin repeatedly told me before his death that the phrase, 'There is a hell in the Qiangbake mountains, and a faceless devil,' has a genuine origin. Now, hearing you describe Wumian and this zombie—we have two places on the mountainside echoing each other: one is the blood spring, and the other is the condition of this zombie's wound... I fear, I fear that only when the Gate of Hell opens are these devils released..." Master Banqin also said that once the Gate of Hell opens and the devils appear, countless people will be thrown into turmoil and strife, and at that time, the resulting mass madness will be uncontrollable by any government or army!"

Old Li's words perfectly coincided with the idea I had just conceived but dared not confirm. I also believed there was a connection between Wumian and this zombie, although I hadn't considered the possibility of an actual Gate of Hell.

"Technician Luo, I am now extremely worried about one thing." Old Li inexplicably picked up his rifle and began loading bullets, speaking as he worked. "Didn't we hear gunfire earlier? I suspect this zombie had a direct confrontation with the Japanese. Perhaps it took a shot or several from the Japanese, which hindered its movement, allowing the Japanese to seize the opportunity to gouge the flesh from its lower leg..."

"This..." I was quite perplexed. "Why would the little Japanese want to cut a piece of flesh off a zombie? Besides, general rifles or pistols shouldn't affect a zombie much. Didn't we test that earlier..." As I spoke, I suddenly recalled the explicit, repeated threats the Japanese had made about working with us to find the deserters. Could it be, could it be—I blurted out, "Could it be that the Japanese already know the real situation?"

Old Li sighed heavily, hoisting his rucksack onto his back. "That's what worries me. I believe you understand the Japanese research capabilities better than I do. If they obtained even a piece of flesh from the zombie, and you mentioned they even extracted a Crystal Black Scorpion from Wumian's body—those two items would be enough for them to research any information they desire. Think about the massive upheaval that could bring upon us."

Hearing Old Li's words, my heart sank further and further. His suspicion eerily matched my own unspoken fear about the Japanese... I dared not contemplate the implications. The only course of action now was to stop the Japanese from coming down the mountain with every ounce of our strength; regardless of the angle, the best method was to ensure not a single one of them remained alive.