I watched the parchment fall down the mountainside, chagrin consuming me. The prophet’s prediction had been chillingly clear: the moment the scroll touched the ground, a sandstorm capable of swallowing Mount Zagulama whole would erupt. Fate, it seemed, delighted in delivering exactly what one feared most.

With the deed done, all I could do was rely on chance. I clawed my way upward, using both hands and feet, when a piercing, sorrowful woman's cry echoed behind me. The sound was ephemeral, nearly lost beneath the crashing roar of collapsing rock, yet it pierced directly to the heart.

It sounded like that girl, Ye Yixin. Suddenly, my body felt leaden, a force dragging me downward, intent on pulling me back down the cliff.

My hairs stood on end. There truly was a ghost! By now, the desert sun was halfway submerged beneath the western horizon. I was trapped in the mountain’s shadow, surrounded by obsidian rock—it felt as though I were touching the very gates of Hell.

I struggled desperately to reach the summit, but the foothold beneath my feet crumbled away. I could only cling to the rock face with my hands, unable to turn back. Even if I could, I dared not look; fear might loosen my grip, sending me plummeting into the chasm below.

I tried with all my might to ignore the wailing, but the cries grew more heart-wrenching, each sound a fresh stab to the soul. My body grew heavier, and I felt an overwhelming urge to simply let go.

Fatty and Shirley Yang, seeing my lethargy from the summit, reached out, trying to haul me up, but the distance was too great. As the fissures in the mountain widened and the entire peak seemed moments from collapse, they had no rope. Fatty quickly unbuckled his belt and let it dangle down.

Their shouts galvanized me, like a bucket of ice water splashed over me on the hottest day of summer. I snapped awake. The crying vanished, and the downward pull ceased immediately. Without hesitation, I grabbed Fatty’s belt and hauled myself over the edge onto the summit.

The setting sun in the great desert had become indistinct. Gusts of wind, carrying fine sand, swept by, casting an ominous shadow over heaven and earth. Old Man Anliman had once warned that this type of wind signaled the imminent arrival of a black sandstorm. The doom of Zagulama, as foretold by the prophet, had finally arrived.

Fatty and I propped up Professor Chen. The old man was unresponsive now, like a puppet moved by external will. If you pulled him, he walked; if you stopped, he slumped to the ground, refusing to rise no matter how hard we tugged.

We had no choice but to drag and pull him, fleeing down the mountain. The side facing the ruins of Jingjue City had completely collapsed. That massive, hollowed-out half of the mountain now perfectly sealed the entrance to the 'Ghost Cave' forever. We were descending toward the entrance of the Zagulama Valley. Our plan had been to cross the valley after reaching the base and rendezvous with Anliman’s camel train. Even though the sandstorm had begun, without the camels, even with 11-Hole, we wouldn't escape.

Unexpectedly, as we reached the foot of the mountain, we heard the clamor of hooves churning in the valley. Old Man Anliman, his face etched with panic, was loudly shouting commands, driving the camels outward.

Fatty cursed loudly, "Old man, all those oaths you swore to Hu Da were just empty words!"

Anliman hadn't expected us to appear at the valley entrance either. He quickly exclaimed, "Praise be to Allah! Our meeting here must surely be arranged by Hu Da!"

We had no time for pleasantries. We loaded Professor Chen onto a camel, mounted our own, and urged them forward. Anliman kept asking after the others.

I cut him off. "Don't mention it. They're all gone. This isn't the time. How do we evade the great sandstorm? You need to lead everyone away from here, now!"

The sky had already plunged into total darkness. This was a wind column, and the eye seemed centered on the Ghost Cave within the mountain. The wind force was steadily increasing, the stinging sand slicing into our faces. Old Man Anliman hadn't anticipated how fast this sandstorm would strike; there had been virtually no preliminary warning. Beyond the ruins of Zagulama and Jingjue City, there was nothing but barren desert—no place to hide. However, since it was a wind column, the farther from the eye, the safer they were. The only course was to fix a direction and run. Whether we survived depended entirely on the mood of the venerable Hu Da.

Old Man Anliman let out a long whistle, raised a pressurized lantern as a signal, and rode the lead camel, guiding the train westward in a desperate flight.

At first, we heard strange noises echoing from behind us—sometimes like ghostly weeping, sometimes like the crash of ocean waves. Instantly, a furious gale erupted, a torrent of sand-laden wind sweeping over us. Coupled with the darkness, visibility dropped to almost zero. Though we covered our mouths with headscarves, it felt as though countless grains of sand were forcing their way into our ears and nostrils.

After running a great distance, the camels began ignoring commands. Anliman ordered the train to halt. At this point, no words could be heard over the din. He made a series of hand gestures, gathering the panicked camels into a tight circle.

I understood his intent: if we kept running, the caravan would scatter. Once scattered, no one had a chance of survival. The only option now was to immediately erect a sand barrier on the spot and shelter amongst the camels. All that remained was to pray to Hu Da.

I nodded to show I understood. The group assembled on slightly higher ground. I had Shirley Yang wrap Professor Chen tightly in a blanket, and we took shelter right there as the storm hit.

Fatty and I shoveled sand with frantic energy. Old Man Anliman, after securing the camels, joined us. We built a makeshift barrier around the animals, then covered the camels' eyes with blankets to prevent them from bolting in terror. Everyone else wrapped themselves in blankets and huddled together.

It was a blessing that we had escaped the storm’s eye; the sand at the periphery was already vicious. Near the core, the wind might have torn a person to shreds.

Anliman’s camels were seasoned veterans. Huddled together now, they ceased panicking. As sand buried them partially, they would shake their bodies and shift upward slightly, ensuring they wouldn't be completely submerged.

The wind and sand finally began to subside near morning the next day. We had spent the entire night digging the defensive wall, leaving us utterly exhausted. Seeing the worst of the storm pass, we dared to stand and look out. All around us were dunes rolling like waves, the sand sculpted by the wind into fixed ripples—the landscape was utterly uniform.

Jingjue City, the black sacred Mount Zagulama, the Queen's sarcophagus, the Corpse Perfume Arum, the tombs of the Prophet and the Saints, along with countless unknown ancient secrets—and Hao Aiguo, Ye Yixin, Chu Jian, Sa Dipeng—were all forever buried deep beneath the yellow sands.

Professor Chen poked his head out of his blanket, staring blankly at the sky, chuckling foolishly. Shirley Yang gently brushed sand from his head. Anliman knelt on the ground in prayer, thanking Hu Da for his mercy. Fatty tore through all our bags searching for water, only to come up empty-handed, spreading his palms towards me in a gesture of defeat.

The sun climbed slowly overhead, its heat beginning to rise, a venomous energy ruthlessly draining the moisture from our bodies.

I shook my head helplessly. In the desperate rush to survive, water had completely slipped my mind. Moreover, we had passed the point of safe return seven days ago; trying to go back now was impossible. The passage to the Zidu tributary was utterly buried, and the few of us couldn't dig through it. Without a single drop of water, we wouldn't last a day in the desert. Drinking from brackish pools or camel blood offered no real solution. The thought of slowly dehydrating to death in the wilderness felt less desirable than the quick death offered in the Ghost Cave.