That spring, the entire expanse of China was shrouded under the gathering storm clouds of war. The Soviet Union had arrayed over a million troops across three Army Groups along the northern border, while China’s close neighbor, India, engaged in constant friction with the border defense forces. The KMT forces, entrenched on the island, saw this as a prime opportunity, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of a counter-attack, even as the US Seventh Fleet moved into a state of readiness.

The highest echelons of the Chinese government keenly felt the threat from hostile international forces, continually adjusting strategic deployments, expanding the military, preparing for war and potential famine, digging deep shelters, and stocking vast provisions. The populace actively engaged in drills for defense against nuclear, chemical, and aerial bombardment—the "Three Defenses."

When I returned to the city to visit relatives, someone shared inside information: the issues surrounding my parents would soon be officially clarified, proving my grandfather was not a landlord but a middle peasant, meaning their release was imminent. At this time, due to massive PLA conscription efforts, an old comrade-in-arms of my father’s managed to get me enlisted through the "back door."

My father's comrade, Uncle Chen, was the Chief of Staff for the Military District. Back then, the Ninth Army Group participated in the Korean War. On the ice-and-snow covered Gaema Plateau, over a hundred thousand volunteer soldiers encircled the US military's most elite unit, the First Marine Division. The massive aerial bombardment—bombs and napalm dropped by US airpower—turned the midnight sky into glaring daylight. Charging through the fire curtain formed by the enemy's steel barrage, the volunteer soldiers advanced wave after relentless wave, like an ebbing tide.

In that brutal engagement, my father, enduring temperatures below minus forty degrees Celsius, carried the gravely wounded Uncle Chen out of a mound of bodies. Upon reaching the aid station, their frozen bodies, stiffened by congealed blood, had to be separated by nurses using scissors to cut through skin and flesh. The friendship between them could not be measured by mere words like "sharing life and death." Furthermore, with my parents' historical issues nearly resolved, arranging for the son of an old comrade to enlist was no great feat for a District Chief of Staff. In a certain sense, the habit among Chinese people of using personal connections began its deepest roots within the military.

Uncle Chen asked what branch of service I wanted. I said the Air Force, hearing the pilots ate well. Uncle Chen laughed and gave me a light cuff on the head: "Fighter jets aren't so easily flown, you little brat. You go serve in the Field Army, get some solid experience over a few years, and once you get promoted, I’ll have you transferred to the military district headquarters staff." I told him forget about staff work; I preferred staying with the grassroots troops. I couldn't stand being stuck in an office.

I wanted to return to Ganggangyingzi to say goodbye to Little Fatty Yanzi and the others, but time wouldn't allow it. I wrote them a letter instead, feeling quite guilty about it. I was heading off to join the army while my good friends were still stuck farming in the mountain gully. It felt, somehow, like I wasn't sharing the hardships. However, that feeling vanished three months later, when I finally realized just how comfortable life as an educated youth in the mountains truly was.

The recruitment office assigned me to a unit that was scheduled to be reequipped as an Armored Division. Unexpectedly, by twist of fate, after I had endured three grueling months of basic training, the Central Military Commission issued an order transferring our entire division to Depot Sixty-Two at the Kunlun Pass on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, where we were reorganized as an Engineering Corps unit.

This change wasn't actually strange given the circumstances. At that time, every unit across the country was engaged in digging tunnels for civil defense construction—all kinds of tunnels: anti-air, ammunition storage, strategic concealment, etc. Virtually no unit wasn't digging. The difference was that our unit transitioned from amateur digging to professional digging. Our mission was top-secret: to construct a vast underground strategic facility deep within the Kunlun Mountains. Though the soldiers were never explicitly told the facility’s exact purpose, any person with a modicum of sense could probably guess. Strict confidentiality regulations kept everyone from discussing the matter casually. There were also rumors that upon completing this engineering task, we would be reorganized back into the Field Army sequence.

Kunlun Pass, also known as Kunlun Pass Summit, sits at an elevation of 4,767 meters. Geologically, it is classified as "permafrost desert landform," composed of complex metamorphic rock intensely weathered since ancient times. Our division, from top to bottom, knew nothing about civil engineering construction beyond digging trenches. Therefore, many engineers and technicians were dispatched to guide the work and conduct five months of intensive training for the officers and men. My squad was chosen as the advance reconnaissance team to proceed south, past the "Unfrozen Spring," into the deepest reaches of the vast Kunlun Mountains. Our mission was to locate a concealed site suitable for construction.

The "Unfrozen Spring," located on the northern bank of the Kunlun River, is also called Kunlun Spring. Its pool is rimmed by granite slabs, and clear water erupts ceaselessly from the spring eye, never freezing even in the harshest winter. No one knows where the vent below leads. Higher command transmitted strict orders forbidding soldiers from bathing there, as local Tibetans venerate the "Unfrozen Spring" as sacred and frequently perform rites before the water. When the army first entered Tibet shortly after its liberation, three soldiers bathed in the spring before these regulations were issued; all three reportedly drowned in the eye, the supposed cause being the high sulfur and nitrate content in the water. Their graves lie near the station, which also served as our small detachment’s final supply post.

Finally entering the Kunlun Mountains, nearly everyone suffered severe altitude sickness. Every face was flushed a deep purple, vision blurred, and hallucinations began to surface in our eyes. The majestic peaks and ravines of Kunlun appeared to us as immense, rolling, silver-gray dragons advancing eternally. And our small detachment, comprising just over a dozen men, seemed smaller than a single ant within this boundless, imposing mountain range.

While marching, I recalled the book my grandfather had passed down to me. That book claimed that the Kunlun range, rising five thousand meters high, was the progenitor of the world’s dragon veins. These mountains, from primordial times until the present, must have buried countless secrets. Legend holds that the stupa tomb of King Gesar, the heroic king of Tibetan mythology, and the gate leading to the Demon Kingdom are both hidden within these undulating peaks.

(In ancient Tibetan customs, sky burial was not the highest honor; the most prestigious treatment was stupa burial.)