Shirley Yang had always placed great importance on team spirit, consistently believing that within a trio, all members should be completely open with one another. Seeing me whispering with Fatty, she asked, "What were you two just talking about?"

I dreaded being questioned by Shirley Yang the most, so I resorted to my old tactic: taking the Chicago Typewriter from my backpack and handing it to her. "The path ahead is perilous. You take this submachine gun first. If anything untoward happens, don't hesitate—just keep your finger on the trigger and let it rip."

Shirley didn't take it. She pulled out the Type 64 pistol and said to me, "This handgun is enough for self-defense. I vote Democrat, so I don't entirely trust guns. I believe weapons can't solve everything sometimes. The IAI, however, will be more effective in your and Fatty's hands."

Fatty was impatient and urged Shirley Yang and me to hurry up. So, we quickly gathered our gas masks, items meant to deal with jiangshi, and the ritual artifacts discovered in the jade coffin, including the golden mask, stuffing them into our pack bags. Fatty shouldered the rest of the gear. Following the layout of the fossil altar, we located the direction of the Gourd Cave exit. Due to the terrain, we wouldn't be making an armed swim this time. There were many fossilized, fallen ancient trees, some interconnected, with occasional gaps we could leap across. This meant we didn't have to worry about being secretly attacked by the submerged female corpses.

Using the compass as a guide, we walked due west for over a hundred meters. Suddenly, the surrounding red rock walls converged sharply. If our current cave was indeed shaped like a giant, horizontal gourd, we had now arrived at the position of the gourd's central seam. Everything matched the etched drawings left by the ancient Yiren people on the fossil altar perfectly.

Here, the thick roots of various plants extending down from above gradually thinned out, and the air was no longer as hot and humid as before. We searched along the upward-curving red rock wall. The intersection between the two naturally formed large red caverns was now right before us. However, the rock walls here were composed of red Yisheng stone—a remnant from the Cambrian period—and were as slick as a mirror. For this final dozen meters, there were no more ancient tree fossils to use as handholds. We had no choice but to wade through the water, using our climbing picks to vigorously chip into the slippery rock face. The three of us pulled each other along, climbing up into the junction at the center of the Gourd Cave.

The water level of the underground river precisely sliced across the very bottom of this narrow passage. It seemed the Gourd Cave was tilted downward at a twenty-five-degree angle. After the groundwater flowed through, it created a horizontal drop, cascading down the stone wall on the other side, forming a waterfall with a moderate flow rate. I braced myself at the opening and peered down with the wolf-eye flashlight. The slope was steep and curved. The depth below was much greater than I had anticipated; I couldn't see the bottom at all. Getting down wouldn't be easy. The safest method was to set a piton anchor at this opening, then lower a rope and descend using a safety belay. Having this pre-set rope would also save some trouble on the return trip.

I told Fatty to install the piton and the climbing rope. Fatty asked, "Old Hu, is there really the corpse poison of a thousand-year-old jiangshi in this cave? Will the dried black donkey hoof work? We’ve never tested it—what if it’s useless?"

I told Fatty, "How many tomb raiders haven't run into jiangshi in ancient tombs? Maybe we're part of the rare few who haven't. As for whether dried black donkey hoof can subdue jiangshi, we've only heard rumors. But since it's a technique passed down by previous generations, it should be relatively reliable. If all else fails, we still have the American IAI, so there's no need to worry too much."

I had certainly never seen a jiangshi with my own eyes, but I had heard many tales. I remembered my grandfather talking about how, in his youth, a jiangshi had dug out his heart and liver, and how he only survived because he met his master; otherwise, he would have become a walking corpse. And there was that fellow from Shaanxi, Li Chunlai, who spoke of the Hanba in his village—those must have been jiangshi. It's clear these things truly exist. Back when Fatty and I were first raiding tombs in Wildman Gulch, dealing with that Shisha (Corpse Fiend), the dried black donkey hoof and glutinous rice seemed to have no effect. Although a Shisha isn't the same as a jiangshi, both are transformations of ancient corpses, so I remained skeptical about the legend that dried black donkey hoof could control a jiangshi.

While setting the piton and preparing the climbing rope, I asked Shirley Yang. Since her ancestors produced many master tomb raiders who excavated numerous large tombs, she must have encountered jiangshi frequently. Does the dried black donkey hoof really work? If so, what principle does it use to counteract a jiangshi?

Shirley Yang responded, "I'll bet you this: the Mountain God in this cave is not a jiangshi. I already explained why—even the Yiren people wouldn't worship a corpse as a spirit of a mountain or river. This custom isn't practiced by China's ethnic minorities, nor by other nations. As for the dried black donkey hoof subduing jiangshi, that is indeed true. There are many circulating explanations for the mechanism, all heavily steeped in mystery. I suspect the dried black donkey hoof contains some kind of insulating substance that interferes with the bioelectricity within the jiangshi's body. Stuffing it into the jiangshi's mouth is like inserting a shielding device. Perhaps other items could substitute, but this is just my personal analysis. Ancient lore says water can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it; sometimes, the dried black donkey hoof might actually trigger a faster transformation—but whether that's true, I don't know."

Hearing this put my mind somewhat at ease. This opening was where the Yiren people used long poles to lower the giant toad. But from this vantage point, it was silent and pitch-dark inside, like a static world of blackness, seemingly devoid of any signs of life—completely different from the area we just passed through. The preceding section of the cave teemed with plant life, insects, and fish; frogs croaked, earthworms wriggled, insects buzzed their wings, and water droplets hitting the river created sound everywhere, filled with the sounds of nature. Yet, the two ends of the Gourd Cave, separated by only a five or six-meter-long junction, seemed like Yin and Yang, the two extremes of life and death. If an ancient, powerful jiangshi had truly transformed and its stagnant corpse poison had built up over millennia, that might explain the utter lifelessness here.

By this time, Fatty had secured the climbing rope. He gave it a tug—it was solid enough to start the descent. I first tossed down a cold flare to gauge the height, then I put on my gas mask, slung the IAI over my back, and slid down the smooth red rock wall using the deployed climbing rope.

The concave rock wall below the opening was exceptionally slick from repeated scouring by groundwater; it offered no purchase. One could only control the speed of descent by managing the rope. After dropping about ten meters, I reached the bottom, planting my feet on a large expanse of layered, wet rock, with underground water on both sides.

I looked up. In the darkness, I could only see the tactical spotlights from the helmets of Fatty and Shirley Yang high above; nothing else was visible. I gave a signal to let them know it was safe below for them to come down.

Shirley Yang and Fatty received the signal and rappelled down the climbing rope. As soon as he landed, Fatty asked me, "Did you see any jiangshi?"

I told Fatty, "Why are you still hoping to run into a zombie? Stop saying such taboo things in the future. What if that old jiangshi can't stand being mentioned and suddenly appears?"

Shirley Yang made a gesture for us to keep quiet, then chambered a round in her Type 64 pistol. Assessing the surroundings, she said in a low voice, "For now, everything seems normal. Let's not waste time; we need to head straight for the Gourd Mouth. The atmosphere here is off. The Mountain God might not be real, but those submerged corpses are definitely here. We don't know how they attack people, so we must be extremely careful about movement in the water."

So, the three of us, each holding our weapons, moved away from the deep water in the center, tracing the edge of the circular cavern in the dark. This final section of the Gourd Cave was buried deep underground. The water in the center of the cavern was extremely deep and deathly silent. Above us hung countless inverted red stalactites, and on both sides were layered rock formations jutting out of the water, providing a path. These red stones had been permeated to a translucent color, reflecting faint light when illuminated by our tactical beams.

Occasionally, we spotted tiny planktonic organisms on the water's surface—no obvious signs of toxicity. I couldn't help but feel a bit relieved; perhaps our choice had been correct, and whatever creature used this place as a lair millennia ago was long gone.

Less than fifty meters after descending from the upper opening, I suddenly noticed a cold, dim white light appearing on the water surface ahead. I immediately waved my hand, and the three of us instantly ducked behind the rocks to lie in ambush, turning off all our lights, watching the faint, mist-like glow that resembled foxfire in the darkness.

The flickering orb of light in the water moved from far to near. I couldn't see it very clearly through the gas mask; it looked like a "dead float." It had finally appeared. I whispered to Fatty beside me in the quietest voice possible, "I don't think that female corpse in the water has spotted us. You aim first, shoot her once, and then we'll use the chaos to rush over and hack her to pieces."

Fatty never shied away from shooting. He set down the Chicago Typewriter, unslung the rifle from his back, and aligned his three points of contact in a kneeling position, ready to fire. But then, several more floating corpses appeared in the water—some were already on the surface, others still submerged. All were floating face-up, yet their arms and legs were bent downward, seemingly unaffected by the water's buoyancy. The posture was unsettlingly awkward, as if their joints had been broken.

More and more female corpses surfaced. Even behind us, more appeared. In less than a few minutes, who knew where so many "dead floats" had emerged from? The water was completely filled with dead bodies—too many to count, hundreds or thousands. The mass of corpses emitted vast amounts of eerie white light, illuminating the previously dark cavern with their ghost-fire. However, this light filled one with a chilling sensation, like falling into an icy hell, causing uncontrollable shivering.