The people behind reacted quickly, and a burst of gunfire immediately erupted. The white figure seemed terribly afraid; as soon as the shots rang out, he darted away diagonally, expertly weaving through the dense undergrowth. In just a few moves, he vanished without a trace.

He was gone, but I was genuinely shaken because that wave of killing intent had originated from him. Now that he had left, the threat lingered; the murderous aura was closing in on us from all directions, suggesting he had many accomplices. From that fleeting glimpse, he appeared to be about one meter seventy-eight tall, covered in white fur—certainly not an ape or a gorilla. I couldn't imagine what kind of eccentric person would dress in such bizarre attire just to frighten people.

I dared not let my guard down, forcing the heart that had leaped to my throat back down into my stomach. I pulled Zhuoma Yangjin close, urging her to stay right by my side. I had made up my mind: no matter what danger we encountered, even if it meant death, we would face it together—a resolve stronger than ever before.

Zhuoma Yangjin, still unnerved, asked, "Luo Lian, what was that just now?"

I felt that thing was familiar, but I couldn't place it immediately. Before I could speak, Eighty-Seven answered for me, "That was the Snow Demon."

Zhuoma Yangjin gasped, "The Snow Demon?!"

Tang Minghao followed up quickly, "Yes, that's him! I’ve seen him! He seems afraid of gunfire. The one who just came was no benevolent creature."

Nonsense. If he were benevolent, would he radiate such intense killing intent? So, he was the Snow Demon. Strangely, knowing its origin made me relax slightly. This was merely the opening act, a mere appetizer; I was certain greater dangers lay ahead.

After a brief pause, we moved forward. This time, the faint sound of drums and cymbals was much clearer, and the distance seemed to have shortened. I shared this sensation with the group, and surprisingly, they had heard it too. Wangmu even remarked, "The rhythm sounds just like Shambala Tibetan Opera. Could someone really be performing in this desolate place?"

A thought suddenly struck me. Her comment gave me a spark of inspiration: the Snow Demon must be connected to those sounds... Was it... was it the opera performance that enraged the Snow Demon, causing it to rush out intending to kill, only to encounter our heavy firepower and thus wisely retreat? But who would be in the mood to perform an opera in these deep mountains and ancient forests?

Things were growing increasingly bizarre. I no longer dared to rely solely on intuition; I had to depend on my own rational judgment. In short, caution needed to be paramount, above all else.

Considering the recent incident, Eighty-Seven worried about people firing indiscriminately and wasting ammunition. So, he told Thirty-Eight to issue over thirty rounds to each person before he felt slightly reassured to proceed along the path.

That thick cloud of killing intent gradually dissipated, while the sound of drums and cymbals grew nearer and clearer. Everyone could hear it distinctly. Soon, human voices joined in—it sounded like someone chanting loudly in Tibetan. The tone was ostensibly cheerful, yet it carried a distinct undertone of forced gaiety.

Zhuoma Yangjin whispered to me, "Luo Lian, something isn't right. Why are they singing the story of Princess Wencheng with such a mournful sound? Do you sense something amiss?"

I shook my head. "I only sense immense fear from the performers. Other than that... there's none of that killing intent we felt before, only pure dread. I don't know what they..."

Before I could finish, Eighty-Seven interrupted. "Stop overthinking. Let’s follow and see." He, along with Forty-Three and Thirty-Eight, took responsibility for the entire team's security.

Following the sound, we rounded three sharp bends and arrived at a small, open clearing near the summit. There, about ten people were kneeling in a scattered circle, all prostrate on the ground, not daring to lift their heads. In the center of the circle, two figures wearing blue masks—one beating a drum, the other holding cymbals—stood still, chanting loudly. The drummer next to him trembled visibly, ready to take over when prompted. Unfortunately, the masks obscured their expressions.

It appeared to be a group of local Tibetans listening to an opera. Though rudimentary, the atmosphere was laced with terror. I hesitated, unsure how reliable the external memories in my mind were, so I quietly asked Zhuoma Yangjin for confirmation.

Zhuoma Yangjin signaled us to hide and avoid disturbing them, then stated, "Yes, this doesn't look like a ritual sacrifice." She paused, then asked me, "Luo Lian, don't you find their clothing strangely familiar?"

I looked at the people; they did look familiar, but the fragmented external memories in my mind were slipping away, making me hesitant to assert anything.

Unexpectedly, Zhuoma Yangjin spoke up. "In Lhasa, at the Tibetan restaurant where Laba treated you to dinner, didn't you see a troupe dressed like this? This is Shambala Tibetan Opera. Didn't I even ask a girl to talk to you then?"

Her words triggered a memory. Back in Lhasa, there had indeed been a girl who warned me not to go to Guge, advising me not to get involved in anything. But at the time, I hadn't paid much attention. So, it was all due to Zhuoma Yangjin's concern, and I, like a fool, hadn't grasped any of it.

I felt awkward, unsure how to respond to her. She, however, focused only on the performers. "It's too strange. Princess Wencheng is an epic drama; why are they singing it so miserably?"

The Tibetans kneeling on the ground suddenly lifted their heads to look past the blue-masked performers behind them. Those kneeling immediately behind the performers showed panicked expressions, wanting to turn their heads but afraid to move. Only then did I notice that behind the blue-masked singers was a stone wall. Looking closely, a chill ran down my spine; the rock face faintly resembled the countenance of a Buddha, especially the eyes, which were exactly like those of Mima Chamazh!

Mima Chamazh?! I jolted, a surge of cold air shooting up my spine. Wasn't that the very thing at the bottom of Fuxian Lake? "Yangjin, is that Mima Chamazh?" I desperately hoped she would say no.

"It is," Zhuoma Yangjin replied in a low voice. A second or two later, she suddenly clutched my hand tightly and stammered, "Those... the eyes, look at the eyes..."

The stone Buddha's eyes were now weeping two streams of black fluid, like tears. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they trickled down the cheeks, vanishing entirely once they reached the chin.

As soon as the "tears" disappeared, the Tibetans frantically kowtowed, begging Mima Chamazh for forgiveness in terrified shouts.

The blue-masked singers, meanwhile, raised their voices even higher, chanting in broken, terrified bursts. On closer inspection, both their legs were trembling, just like Zhuoma Yangjin beside me, whose hands were slick with cold sweat. "Lo... Lian..., Luo Lian, great disaster is coming..."

Wangmu, standing next to Zhuoma Yangjin, was pale with fear, but she was the first to try and comfort us. "Lo... Lian..." Her voice shook too, but she wasn't panicked. "I leave the Princess to you." I nodded. "Of course. We will all protect you. Rest assured."

Wangmu forced a smile, revealing two small dimples. "Thank you very much." She then turned to Zhuoma Yangjin. "Princess, this is a divine punishment. Someone must die to appease the deity's wrath. I should be the one."

Upon hearing this, Zhuoma Yangjin's tears streamed down, and she grabbed Wangmu's hand, choked with emotion and unable to speak. She then turned to me with a pleading look, begging me to persuade Wangmu.

I was shocked too and quickly said, "Wangmu, don't rush. Let's think of another way. Besides, even if a deity has been angered, this concerns those local Tibetans. It has nothing to do with you or us. You don't have to do this."

Wangmu gave a desolate smile, her gaze resolute, fixed on the stone Buddha, saying nothing.

Zhuoma Yangjin wept quietly. "Wangmu, you grew up with me. If I had known things would turn out like this, I shouldn't have brought you."

Wangmu squeezed Zhuoma Yangjin’s hand and said softly, "Princess, I have always been disobedient, always causing trouble, and I never approved of Luo Lian. Please don't blame me."

Zhuoma Yangjin's face was soaked with tears. "How could I blame you? I... I consider you my own sister..."

Before she finished speaking, Wangmu suddenly dropped to her knees and kowtowed three times deeply to Zhuoma Yangjin. "Princess, I am merely a servant; how dare I claim to be your sister... But having heard you say that, Wangmu can die without regret."

My heart ached unbearably. Though Wangmu was willful, she had always looked out for me and remained fiercely loyal to Zhuoma Yangjin. Now, she was preparing to sacrifice herself alone, and I felt an indescribable sadness. However, the external memory warned me: when Mima Chamazh weeps, according to tradition and rule, a willing believer must die. Zhuoma Yangjin was the Queen of Guge; her life was not her own but belonged to her subjects; her fate, living or dying, was not hers to decide—which is why Wangmu acted this way. Perhaps she could not bear the thought of those innocent commoners kneeling there suffering the consequences.

Zhuoma Yangjin cried softly, careful not to disturb the local Tibetans. Her shoulders hitched with suppressed sobs. "Eighty-Seven, you are so capable; can't you think of a solution?"

I also turned and implored Eighty-Seven.

Eighty-Seven paused in thought for a moment. "This is your people's custom; I dare not interfere. But, Princess, forgive my presumption, but from the perspective of us atheists, perhaps this is merely a natural phenomenon. Maybe there is just a sudden spring there... There is no need to be so frightened, let alone sacrifice a life for it."

I had entertained that possibility myself, but the intensely fearful atmosphere enveloping us, coupled with the preceding killing intent from the Snow Demon, had already overwhelmed my rational arguments; I had already lost the psychological battle. Moreover, natural phenomena cannot explain everything.

Zhuoma Yangjin's expression shifted upon hearing Eighty-Seven. She looked at Wangmu, then back at me, and gritted her teeth. "Wangmu, even if I wished to die, the deity would not accept me, forgive me. But you—as the King of Guge, can I not even decide your life and death?"

Wangmu replied, "Princess, I understand your intentions, but Mima Chamazh is not a deity easily appeased. Those poor Tibetans, how could I let them appease Mima Chamazh's rage? I have an obligation to..."

"No need!" Zhuoma Yangjin suddenly snapped in anger. "Didn't you hear what Eighty-Seven said? Just listen to him."

Hearing this, Wangmu suddenly burst into loud sobs. "Princess, Princess, I am afraid something will happen to you."