There were two possible routes marked on the deerskin map for entering the Worm Valley. One involved crossing over the Wind Pass atop Mount Zhelong, and the second was to follow the Snake River around the mountain. That latter route required traversing a stretch of perilous, primeval forest lying between the Lancang and Nu Rivers—though the straight-line distance on the map was not vast, anyone who has trekked through primeval forest knows the actual journey could take ten or twenty times longer than anticipated, with the added danger of swamps in certain areas.

Neither of these routes was easy. Comparatively, crossing Mount Zhelong, which rose over three thousand meters, seemed more feasible. However, adventuring over a snow-capped mountain without a guide was no trivial matter; one wrong step could mean failure before the mission even began, with everyone lost on the slopes.

At this point, hearing Peacock mention a shortcut, I eagerly pressed for details. Peacock only knew the general idea, so we had to go back and ask the proprietress. The proprietress informed us that the base of Mount Zhelong (called Aiteng by locals, meaning 'tailless dragon') was riddled with caves, dense as a spider’s web. Legend claimed they were carved by the ancestors in ancient times, once occupied by rebellious bandits fighting government troops. The soldiers, baffled by the complex terrain inside the mountain, sealed every entrance with stones, trapping everyone inside to starve. Afterward, whenever the Shua Hai ceremony was performed, if one pressed an ear to the rocks of Mount Zhelong, one could hear waves of despairing wails emanating from the mountain body.

Of course, this was merely a local folk tale. As for which dynasty the caves were built in, who constructed them, what their purpose was, or who those bandits were—whether they were local minority tribes rising up against oppression and exploitation, or something else entirely—no one could say for sure even today.

However, as recently as a few years ago, someone quarrying stone discovered a cave containing dissolved limestone and an underground stream. This water flowed straight through the mountain, eventually emptying into the Snake River on the other side of Mount Zhelong. The water was deep enough to navigate a bamboo raft, and following this waterway meant there was no risk of getting lost among the crisscrossing tunnels. Since the terrain was gentle, the current wasn't swift; going in was effortless, drifting downstream. Returning required more effort poling the raft back upstream, but overall, it was far more convenient than crossing over the mountain.

Finally, the proprietress cautioned us that although this route was a shortcut, the sides of the cave were lined with strangely shaped skeletons. No one knew when they died there, and the faint of heart could easily be frightened out of their wits. She noted that a few times people had rafted through the caves, but the Worm Valley on the other side was full of miasma, and since there were no settlements there, going there served little purpose. No one had passed through for quite some time. If we wished to take the shortcut, we needed to be exceedingly careful.

I told the proprietress, "There's no need to worry about that. We are going to that valley to catch butterflies for specimens, which is serving the people. We are all Communist materialists; how could we fear dead men? Since there is a shortcut, it would be foolish not to take it. Moreover, since people have successfully passed through before, it suggests there are no ghosts, perhaps only relics of ancient ancestral tombs."

I recalled the marker for martyrs’ families I’d seen on the door earlier and inquired further with the proprietress. It turned out Peacock’s brother was a martyr who died on the front line. It then occurred to me that the fires of war still burned in Southern Yunnan. Coming to Yunnan this time, I should take the opportunity to visit the martyrs' cemeteries if possible; I couldn't just focus on getting rich and forget my roots.

Additionally, I consulted with the proprietress about whether anyone nearby owned a hunting rifle we could rent for self-defense. The proprietress had Peacock retrieve a "Jianwei" air rifle from the back room—a smoothbore gun that fired steel pellets. Peacock’s brother used to carry this rifle when he went into the mountains to hunt birds. The proprietress, being kind-hearted, offered to lend us the gun for free since we had helped her, requiring no deposit; we just needed to return it when we came back.

I felt a little disappointed, having expected at least a double-barreled shotgun. This bird gun felt like a toy in comparison. But upon taking it, I realized it was actually a fine weapon, impeccably maintained. Furthermore, it wasn't a common small caliber; it fired medium-sized steel balls, had a good range, and the body felt heavy and stable—more than capable of taking down a wolf, let alone a bird. Its only drawback was that it was single-shot; it needed reloading after every firing.

Beggers couldn't be choosers, and I couldn't procure a better firearm nearby on short notice. So, I tossed the rifle to Fatty and told him to familiarize himself with it. The "Jianwei" would temporarily be his.

I thanked the proprietress, and the three of us spent the night at the Caiyun Inn. That night, Fatty and I slept soundly, thinking of nothing, thoroughly shaking off the fatigue of our journey—truly, a sound sleep brought a world of peace. It wasn't until the sun was high the next day that Shirley Yang dragged us out of bed by our ears, and we rose most reluctantly.

That tea peddler had already left early to conduct his business. After washing up, we found the proprietress had prepared quite a bit of dry rations for us, along with insect-repelling herbs, and had Peacock guide us to the cave entrance at the foot of Mount Zhelong. There was a sizable bamboo grove where we could cut several large stalks to lash together a raft.

We thanked the proprietress profusely and, with our gear, entered the woods behind the Caiyun Inn. The primary tree species in the nearby forest were Machilus thunbergii (Maoye Polai), followed by Illicium anisatum (fragrant fruit tree) and Rhododendrons, with a scattering of Cinnamomum camphora (silver-leaf laurel). Only in a low-lying depression did a patch of vividly green giant bamboo grow, and the entrance to the waterway into Mount Zhelong was not far from this spot.

Once I pinpointed the location, I sent Peacock home, lest her sister-in-law worry waiting for her. Fatty asked me, "Old Hu, why don't we have this little sister guide us? She can sing and dance; we wouldn't be lonely on the journey."

I told Fatty, "Let's forget it. We aren't going sightseeing. I have a premonition this won't go smoothly. I always feel there's some immense danger hidden in the Tomb of the Xian King within the Worm Valley, implying there will inevitably be major action. Forget this young girl; even if we had another guide, we wouldn't need them. The deerskin map is sufficient reference. More people will only cause trouble."

Fatty nodded. "That makes sense. Don't let that old mummy Xian scare the little sister. Besides, with outsiders present, it’ll be inconvenient to retrieve the burial objects. With just the three of us, we can go all out. Let’s finish this major undertaking quickly, and then we can come back to Yunnan for a proper tour."

Shirley Yang told Fatty and me, "The clouds overhead are getting thicker; it looks like the weather is about to break. Let’s hurry up and build the raft; we need to enter the mountain before it rains."

Without further delay, Fatty and I grabbed our machetes and went to find and chop down fat stalks of bamboo, while Shirley Yang was responsible for trimming the branches with her knife. The three of us cooperated, and progress was extremely fast.

When Fatty and I were doing our youth re-education in the Greater Khingan Range in Inner Mongolia, we both worked in a lumber yard. Without roads or trucks to transport timber, logs were sent downstream by floating them down the river. In Fujian, in areas where waterways were numerous but transportation was inconvenient, rafts were also used. Thus, this work was not unfamiliar to us.

If the raft needed to be used for many years, its construction would be quite troublesome, requiring the bamboo to be first scalded in hot oil before use, along with other necessary secondary processes. Since we only needed it for one or two temporary uses, we skipped all those unnecessary complexities.

Shirley Yang scouted the depth and flow of the water inside the cave and estimated that six bamboo stalks as thick as a man’s leg would suffice to carry the three of us plus all our equipment.

After this bout of busy work, we finally lashed together a small raft and towed it into the cave with a rope. The moment we entered, a thunderstorm began raging outside.

This was a limestone cave. After descending about a dozen steps inside, we saw a river below our feet. However, calling it a river was perhaps an overstatement; it was more like a deep stream—nearly a meter below the cave floor, with water about three meters deep. The current was very slow, likely a tributary of the Lancang River, the first half hidden underground, only emerging where the terrain in the cave dipped lower.

The cavern here was wide. I shone my wolf-eye lamp into the darkness, revealing significant variations in elevation inside—the wide sections could accommodate a tank, while the low sections were barely a meter high. There were countless dissolved rock formations over a thousand years old, all bizarrely shaped. This was only near the entrance; the environment inside would be far more complex. It seemed that to raft through, we would need to lie prone in some sections. Aside from the gurgle of the stream, the entire cave was eerily quiet; not a trace of the thunderstorm outside could be heard, as if it were a subterranean world completely cut off from the outside.

We pushed the raft into the water, and I immediately hopped aboard, plunging my bamboo pole into the water to anchor the raft, preventing it from being swept away by the current. Shirley Yang then leaped on, walked a few steps forward, and retreated to the stern to maintain balance. Fatty then tossed our three large backpacks filled with gear and two insect nets onto the raft one by one, before jumping onto the middle himself—as soon as he landed, the entire raft sank noticeably. Shirley Yang quickly pulled two of the backpacks to her end, and I dragged the other one to my feet. This temporarily balanced the weight and prevented capsizing.

We made our final preparations on the raft. Because the cave was full of hanging stalactites and stalagmites, we all put on our climbing helmets, which were fitted with tactical headlamps capable of running for six to eight hours, to avoid bumping our heads.

Finally, I propped the high-intensity searchlight on the front of the raft. This type of powerful light consumed a lot of energy and couldn't be used continuously; I planned to turn it on every minute or two to confirm the cave conditions ahead.

Fatty sat in the middle, holding a bamboo pole horizontally to maintain balance. Seeing me struggling to secure the searchlight for some time, he couldn't help but ask, "What's up, Old Hu? Are we leaving today or not? I can’t wait to get my hands on that old man Xian’s burial objects."

I was still securing the last two bolts, and I turned back to him. "Why the rush? That Tomb of the Xian King is right inside the Worm Valley. If we’re a few minutes late, is it going to grow legs and run away?"

Shirley Yang, at the rear, spoke to us. "You two, stop arguing. I have a suggestion. Americans tend to assign an operation codename to every military action. Since we are going to retrieve the King’s artifacts, why don't we give this operation a codename too? It’s not meaningless; it gives us more planning and purpose."

Fatty replied to her, "This is our turf in China. That American approach doesn't fit. But since the American advisory team leader suggested it, how about we call it the Artifact Retrieval Operation? That’s direct and honest; we’re going straight for the artifacts."

I had just finished installing the last securing bolt on the searchlight. I turned to Fatty and said, "Yours is a bit too direct, rather vulgar. But the suggestion is good. The Allied D-Day operation broke the Atlantic Wall of the Third Reich, shortening the course of WWII. We should also pick a nicer codename for a good omen, aiming for immediate victory and success. This time, we are disguising our mission under the guise of catching butterflies in the Worm Valley, so let's call it Operation Butterfly. I declare, Operation Butterfly starts now!"

Without waiting for Shirley Yang or Fatty’s agreement, I immediately turned on the high-intensity searchlight, identified the terrain ahead, and pulled out the bamboo pole I had planted in the water. Pushed by the gentle current, the raft drifted forward, slowly entering the depths of Mount Zhelong.

When we encountered narrow sections, Fatty would stand the horizontal pole up, and together we would use the bamboo poles to push against stones on the bottom to stabilize the raft. The small raft drifted crookedly through the cave, but it was a pity that everything around us was pitch black; without the searchlight, we couldn't see anything far off. If there had been any beautiful scenery, I really could have belted out a mountain song.

Unlike the hot and humid weather outside, as we drifted deeper into the cave, the cool breeze became more noticeable. Occasionally, we saw clusters of faint green lights flickering in the distance, indicating animal carcasses. It seemed this was not an environment devoid of life.

While sitting on the raft, I could feel some water snakes and small fish swimming by. I put my hand into the water to test it; the water was cold enough to sting slightly. In four-season Yunnan, such icy water temperature was truly rare. Perhaps snowmelt from the peak of Mount Zhelong flowed directly down, causing this low temperature.

Shirley Yang said it wasn't due to snowmelt or ice water. She explained that because the temperature difference between the cave and the outside was significant, the human body experienced an illusion, and it wouldn't feel as cold once acclimatized. Furthermore, the cave showed no signs of artificial construction or carving; it seemed entirely natural.

As we spoke, the speed of the current changed, suddenly accelerating noticeably compared to before. This instantly made us tense; one lapse in attention, and the small raft could capsize at any moment. Shirley Yang also picked up a short pole and helped us desperately try to maintain balance. The river channel became more winding than before, with large turns appearing frequently.

I could no longer free my hands to switch the searchlight on and off, so I left it on continuously. Unexpectedly, this allowed us to see clearly into the distance. The strangeness of the scenery deep within the cavern was hard to imagine. Combined with the sweeping beams of the high-intensity searchlight, the bizarre, jagged stalactites flashed into view and immediately vanished back into the darkness, making us feel as if we had entered a fantastical, bizarre maze.

Even though we only caught fleeting glimpses of some strange rock formations, they left an extremely deep impression. Some resembled the Bodhisattva Guanyin, others a sleeping child, some a leisurely crane, and others looked like the Ox-Head and Horse-Face deities or ferocious, terrifying wild beasts. Nature’s divine artistry was countless within this cave. These unique sights, without the projection of a long-range, high-intensity searchlight, would probably never be seen by the world. Countless magical scenes flashed past us like a revolving lantern, overwhelming the eye—this stretch of wondrous scenery was startlingly beautiful.

Then, suddenly, the river channel widened, and several thinner tributaries flowed into it, causing the current to slow down. The beam of the searchlight no longer shook as violently as before.

Under the light, the cave walls on both sides ahead were lined with rows of naturally formed, smooth, terraced dissolute rock fields, layered one upon another like the cresting waves of a vast ocean—truly resembling a solidified silver sea. A massive, cinnabar-red natural stone bead hung suspended over the middle of the river channel. Behind the stone bead, the river flowed into the mouth of a giant beast's head. The colossal stone beast looked like a tiger or a lion, seemingly opening its cavernous mouth in a frenzied roar, exposing rows of sharp fangs, attempting to swallow the stone bead. Time was frozen at this instant; its posture was fixed, likely maintained here for thousands upon thousands of years.

The river channel passed right through its gaping maw. What faced us was like a gateway to hell, causing our hearts to pound a little faster, our breathing to become heavy, and our grip on the balancing poles to tighten.

Why hadn't the proprietress of the Caiyun Inn mentioned such a distinct landmark? Had the river changed course, and we had taken a wrong turn? Through the beam of the high-intensity searchlight, we could see countless ancient human effigies hanging behind the beast gate—the same kind we saw when riding long-distance buses, filled with maggots inside a stone shell after being crushed by the vehicle. Every time I recalled it, my stomach would turn slightly; I never expected to encounter them again here.

The three of us on the raft exchanged silent glances. I had no idea what Shirley Yang and Fatty were thinking upon seeing such a sight, but I suddenly developed a very uneasy premonition. I felt that once we passed through here, in these dark, deep tunnels, our hands would touch a thick layer of fog from a distant ancient era.