Finding the so-called "Snake River" shouldn't have been difficult by all accounts, but plans rarely survive contact with reality. The vegetation at the foot of the mountain was so dense that no river course could be discerned; we were forced to skirt the edges of Mount Zhelong, inching our way forward.

It was then I realized that in this desolate place, the Sixteen-Character Secret Art of Yin-Yang Wind and Sand was utterly useless. To discern the landscape and atmospheric currents, one needs a clear view of the composition of mountains and rivers. Here, the peaks were shrouded in mist, while the lower slopes were a tangle of trees and vines, as if the entire topography were smothered in a thick layer of green mud, then covered again with cotton batting—leaving absolutely nowhere to gain purchase.

The jungle beneath the sheer cliffs was even harder to traverse. Once inside, not a single butterfly was in sight, only swarms of mosquitoes, biting flies, and venomous ants. There were no paths. From above, it looked like an unbroken expanse of green, but once within, the vines were so densely intertwined that finding a foothold was nearly impossible. We had no choice but to hack a trail with our entrenching tools and machetes, all while carefully dodging the insects—the hardship was truly unbearable.

The sun had already dipped behind the mountain, and the land was gradually being consumed by darkness, the primeval forest veiled in an inky shroud. We hadn't made much progress since leaving our resting spot.

It was clear finding the "Snake River" before nightfall was out of the question. We'd have to settle for a relatively safe place to spend the night. Nights in the forest are fraught with danger, and here, situated between great mountains and rivers, barometric pressure fluctuated wildly. The edges of the forest were hot by day and cold by night. Though it wouldn't be excessively cold here after dark, being damp invited illness. Deep within the thicket, this particular concern was less pressing. Therefore, we needed to find a spot relatively free of insects and somewhat dry so we could light a fire and survive the night.

Finally, beneath two large trees, we found a large, remarkably flat slab of bluestone. Shining the flashlight around, we confirmed there were no snakes or scorpions nearby. Exhausted from the trek, the three of us quickly gathered fuel and started a campfire, ringing it with small stones. Due to the excessive humidity, we had to take a bit of the flame and dry it out on the bluestone, baking away the moss and moisture trapped in the stone's crevices, before spreading out our sleeping bags to prevent dampness from seeping into our bones and causing future ailments.

Inley Yang went to a nearby spring to fetch water, which could be made potable after filtering. I set up the small camping pot to boil some water and cooked the dried noodles we had bought from Caiyun Inn. We added no seasoning at all, fearing the aroma might attract animals. For dinner, we simply mixed a few clumps of Yunnan erbing (dried biscuit) into the cooked noodles, unwilling to crack open the canned goods since we had no idea how long we’d be navigating the valley.

Fatty continuously grumbled about the dreadful quality of the food, saying his mouth was so bland he could taste bird—speaking of which, he casually picked up the "Jian Wei" rifle, intending to hunt some game, but the sky was completely black, so he gave up. He sat back down to eat, complaining all the while that what I cooked was tasteless, yet he promptly devoured three massive bowls.

After eating, we decided to sleep in shifts, leaving one person to stand watch. After all, this primeval forest was fraught with peril; who knew what venomous creatures or beasts might emerge under cover of darkness.

I took the first watch. Clutching the "Jian Wei," I loaded the Type 64 rounds, banked the fire down to embers, and sat not far from the hearth, humming a popular tune of the day to fight off drowsiness while remaining alert to the dark jungle surrounding us.

The two banyan trees opposite me were magnificent specimens, typical examples of mixed growth. Their trunks were as thick as stone pillars, their canopies drooping heavily like a great cover. Two massive trunks were twisted together like pretzels, coiling around each other four or five times, forming a rare pair of "husband and wife" trees. Numerous enormous, unidentifiable flowers and other plants grew upon them—these were all epiphytes, their seeds inadvertently carried by forest animals, germinating and thriving in the bark or the crevices of the main trunks. This ancient banyan, hosting a mixture of flora, supported over fifty different species of plants on a single tree, resembling a large, vibrantly colored floral basket in the woods.

I was gazing intently when Inley Yang, lying in her sleeping bag, suddenly spoke to me. "These two trees won't last long. There are too many plants parasitizing the two banyans. The nutrients absorbed by the old trees can no longer meet their upkeep. The center of these trees is likely hollowed out by now. In three to five years at most, they will wither and die. Some things, when they reach their most beautiful stage, are already close to destruction."

Noting the veiled meaning in her words—she spoke of the trees but seemed to hint at the curse we carried from the ghost cave—I didn't wish to dwell on such depressing subjects. I said to Inley Yang, "It's late, why aren't you asleep? Are you tossing and turning because every time you close your eyes, you picture my imposing figure?"

Inley Yang replied, "If only I closed my eyes and thought of you, that would be pleasant. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see are the clay figurines from the cave in Mount Zhelong. The more I think about it, the more nauseated I feel, so much so that I lost my appetite. I can't sleep at all."

I yawned and said to Inley Yang, "Since you can't sleep, you should exercise your spirit of internationalism and take over my watch. Wake me up when you get drowsy."

Inley Yang laughed. "A beautiful thought. You and Fatty sleep so soundly that thunder can't wake you. I'm not sleeping, but I won't swap shifts with you, lest you feign death in the latter half of the night and refuse to get up for watch duty."

I sighed, shaking my head. "You disappoint me greatly. I thought you traveled from the United States across oceans to support the Four Modernizations of our nation; I admired you like Bethune, truly believing deep down that you were a moral, noble person, one who benefited the people and had abandoned base desires. To think you are so selfish, showing no concern for your comrade's feelings—all that affable behavior was just a façade."

Inley Yang countered, "Your eloquence is fine, but you talk too big. Boasting constantly isn't good. Since I can't sleep anyway, why don't you keep me company? But you aren't allowed to quote from the little red book again."

The forest was utterly silent, not a breath of wind stirring; all the animals and plants seemed asleep, save for the occasional strange bird call echoing from afar. My eyelids felt weighted down with fatigue. I glanced at Fatty sleeping beside me; the man had his head completely buried in his sleeping bag, snoring away contentedly. But Inley Yang stubbornly refused to share the watch, so I forced myself to make sporadic conversation with her, trying to stay alert.

Somehow, our talk drifted to the giant pythons and snakes in this forest. I recounted a story from Beijing, where a former squad mate told me tales from his time squatting in foxholes during the Sino-Vietnamese War, when the fighting had entered a stalemate. Both sides had foxholes dug everywhere—essentially infantry counter-assault bunkers. During the digging, they often unearthed massive mountain pythons; they told me the largest one was as thick as the mythical dragon. I hadn't believed them then, but after encountering the pythons in Mount Zhelong, I realized they weren't exaggerating.

However, most pythons aren't aggressively inclined toward humans; they are lazy and sleep most of the day. Some soldiers, finding their foxholes unbearably hot, even naked and still sweating, would drag a large python sleeping in a tree down into the bunker. Several men would then lie on the cool body of the giant snake to sleep—it worked better than an air conditioner, surprisingly.

Eventually, that python took up permanent residence in the foxhole. Soldiers fed it canned braised pork daily, and it would sleep after eating its fill. Then one day, the fighting suddenly intensified, with relentless shelling cutting off the supply lines for our military engineering corps. The bombardment was fierce; sometimes, if a bunker was poorly sited, an entire shell cluster would wipe out the entire squad inside. The shelling continued for a full week, leaving not even an ant around the positions. The canned braised pork for the python ran out. The men could endure a short time without supplies, but the starving python couldn't hold back. Having grown accustomed to the bunker and constantly smelling the soldiers' tobacco smoke, it had even developed an addiction. No matter how much they shooed it away, hunger drove it to try and swallow men. Finally, they had to shoot it, skin it, and lay the hide in the foxhole; no insects or rats dared enter. Then one night, Vietnamese sappers sneaked in to clear the hole. The sentry was dozing and failed to spot the enemy. As the sapper prepared to toss a grenade inside, he suddenly felt something wrap around him, as if coiled by a python. He couldn't move; the immense force felt like it was crushing his bones, yet his body felt empty, as if nothing was there. The next day, the soldiers in the foxhole found the snake skin...

As I rambled on to Inley Yang, I lost track of what I was saying. Drowsiness overwhelmed me, and I couldn't fight it any longer. Unconsciously, I slumped over, clutching the "Jian Wei," and fell asleep.

I don't know how much time passed when a gentle nudge woke me. Since leaving the army, I’d suffered frequent nightmares and long bouts of insomnia in Beijing. Only after taking up antique dealing did I find a spiritual focus, and things slowly improved. Once I crashed, I slept profoundly, unmoved by thunder.

Yet, on this silent night in the forest, despite my exhaustion, a faint sense of unease lingered in my heart. So, when nudged awake, I sprang up immediately. The thick cloud cover had cleared, and the pale moonlight spilled down. By this light, I saw the person shaking my arm and waking me was Inley Yang. As soon as she saw my eyes open, Inley Yang immediately placed a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence, signaling me not to speak loudly.

I looked around. Fatty was still sleeping like a log in his bag. A thin blanket had been draped over me at some point—Inley Yang must have covered me when I started talking in my sleep. My brain was just surfacing from deep sleep and was still sluggish, but I instantly understood: something was wrong.

Inley Yang was already gripping her Type 14 pistol. With her other hand, she pointed toward the two intertwined banyan trees, then pointed to her ear, signaling me to listen carefully to the sound coming from within the wood.

I immediately rolled over and sat up, tilting my head to listen. Though I didn't possess Patgoushao's sharp hearing that could detect a nightingale’s call, the forest was utterly silent, and I was close to the massive tree. I clearly heard a soft tapping sound coming from inside the wood—sometimes rapid, sometimes slow.

The sound was faint but eerie in the blackness, completely arrhythmic. It was definitely not a woodpecker; there were no such birds in this part of the forest, and the sound originated from the upper trunk. Could something be inside the tree? Thinking this, I felt a knot of tension. Legends told of secondary tombs, burial pits, and those suspended human effigies around the tomb of King Xian, all adding a layer of horror to this forest. Who knew what malevolent things lurked in this old wood?

I dared not speak. Slowly, I drew back the bolt of the "Jian Wei" rifle and slung my ammo pouch across my body. The pouch held supplies for warding off evil and restraining corpses: black donkey hooves, corpse-binding ropes, and glutinous rice. Whatever the situation, with these items, I could put up a fight.

Just then, the dull tapping sound returned, sometimes like dripping water, sometimes like a finger striking an iron plate, varying between fast and slow. I looked toward the source of the noise, but my view was blocked by the flowers and leaves on the tree, making it impossible to see what was above. Moonlight, filtering through the branches and leaves, cast flickering shadows, making the scene above appear even more spectral.

Inley Yang whispered close to my ear, "You were asleep just now. When I quieted down, I heard this sound. It’s as if there’s someone inside the tree..."

I whispered back, "Someone? How can you be sure it's not an animal?"

She replied, "The sound is minute and strange, and without pattern. I initially thought it was an animal, but listening closely just now, I caught a short sequence of Morse code signals. However, this signal appeared only once; afterward, it became irregular. Perhaps because the signal was weak, I missed part of it."

I was confused, but my premonition of danger grew stronger. I quietly asked Inley Yang, "Morse code? You mean that international code using only long and short signals? What did you hear?"

She said, "Three shorts, three longs, three shorts—dit-dit-dit, dah-dah-dah, dit-dit-dit—which translates to the universally used distress signal..."

I said to her, "Don't scare yourself. While Morse code is widespread globally, it's fundamentally a coded message based on English transmission. Besides the blind man and his associates during the Republic era, only a few quarry workers have been here, and they only wandered the edge of the forest out of curiosity before returning. The locals are deeply superstitious and dare not enter the forest behind Mount Zhelong; they fear encountering ghosts... ghosts."

As I uttered the last word, I felt it was inauspicious myself, so I quickly spat and murmured inwardly, "May all taboos be broken."

Inley Yang waved her hand at me, urging silence, to listen again. The sound emerged from the tree once more, this time clear: short and long, indeed three shorts, three longs, and three shorts. The short sounds were brisk, the long ones heavy.

Because the banyans’ foliage was so dense, combined with the darkness and the moon directly overhead, we couldn't see anything above. Yet, this chilling distress signal was clearly coming from up there. Stranger still, the sound originated from the interior of the upper trunk, not the very top, as if someone were trapped inside, unable to escape or call out, resorting to tapping signals with their fingers for help. Inley Yang pulled her headlamp from her pack. "I'll climb up and check."

I grabbed her arm. "Don't go! Look at the moonlight—it’s turning reddish, and the spectral mist in the woods is thickening. There must be a dead person in that tree. This sound is what the legends call a ghost signal."