Shirley Yang murmured to Fatty and me, "These floating corpses seem to be gathering toward a certain area; they don't look like they're coming for us..."

Fatty, seeing himself surrounded by the dead floating in the water, grew anxious. He pulled back the bolt of his "Chicago Typewriter," his face fierce, and declared, "I bet they're gathering to team up against us. Strike first and suffer later. Old Hu, what are you waiting for? Let's go!"

I placed my hand on Fatty's shoulder, pressing him behind a rock, stopping him from acting rashly. The three of us lay low behind the rock formation, observing the movements of the floating corpses. By this time, the majority of the vast cave was illuminated by the eerie glow emanating from these corpses. In the bottomless underground water, layers upon layers of female bodies floated—we couldn't tell how many there were. A knot of panic tightened in my stomach. I had anticipated some unusual floating dead bodies in this cave, manageable with an American submachine gun in hand, but I never expected thousands upon thousands of them here. Even if we had ten times the ammunition, we probably couldn't handle them. Staring at the countless female corpses floating on the water surface, the veins on my forehead pulsed visibly.

The only stroke of luck now was that the dead bodies were like logs in a river—mindless, drifting slowly toward the deep water in the center of the cavern. We held our breath, daring not even let out a full gasp, utterly unable to fathom where so many female corpses could have come from. If they were ancient corpses from millennia ago, how could they be preserved so perfectly in water, without any sign of decay? Looking at those faintly luminous, plump forms, they seemed almost indistinguishable from the living. And what was the deal with the cold, ghostly blue light emitting from the bodies? I was completely baffled. I could only suppress the frantic beating in my chest and hide in the shadow of the dark rocks, watching with wide eyes.

I collected my thoughts and gradually began to discern a pattern. Vast swaths of floating corpses seemed to be rising from the deepest parts of the water, gradually congregating not far from where we were positioned. Because there were so many, the light they cast was much brighter than the surroundings, the cold light almost blinding, making it difficult to see clearly.

Moreover, where the corpses were most concentrated, a large mass of red gas floated above the water surface, its lowest part connected to the water, obscuring the eerie blue light. Group after group of the dead bodies oriented themselves toward that red cloud, drilling into it one after another in a frenzy.

The large mass of red smoke was as vivid as thickly pigmented red oil paint. What lay within was impossible to discern, but it resembled a bottomless abyss, as huge numbers of floating corpses were sucked into it without the slightest sign of it filling up.

The red cloud was likely the poisonous gas mentioned in the records of the Fossil Altar Engravings—perhaps eroded by moisture, the color of the engraving had changed, which is why we initially assumed the toxic mist spewing from the cave was black. Now, it was this vibrant hue. In the world of toxins, the intensity of the color is often proportional to its virulence; the brighter the red, the more vivid the green, the more potent the poison. Who knew how fierce the toxicity of this red fog was, and yet it remained concentrated, refusing to dissipate. If we hadn't all put on gas masks beforehand, being this close, we undoubtedly would have inhaled the toxic mist, poisoning our orifices and dying. Strangely, though so many corpses were crammed together in the water like a stew, there was only the faintest sound of flowing water, nothing else. All of this was unfolding in absolute silence.

Shirley Yang whispered close to my ear, "There seems to be something inside the toxic mist, probably the true form of that Mountain God master. For whatever reason, these floating corpses in the water are drawn to this mist, constantly drifting in. Once inside, it seems they are consumed."

I retorted, "Damn their ancestors, this is truly bizarre! No matter what celestial being this Mountain God is, by the way it feeds, how many female corpses must it have consumed over the years? And whose bodies are these?"

Fatty crouched low on the ground, shrugging his shoulders and saying, "Heaven knows, the devil knows! But those floating corpses genuinely seem to be unclothed. We're a bit far, so it's blurry. Maybe we should *move a little closer to get a clearer look, and then we can figure out how to deal with it."

Shirley Yang waved her hands downward repeatedly, signaling us to lower our voices even more, pointing to the west as she spoke softly, "None of that matters right now. The priority is to use the moment the Mountain God is feeding on the corpses to sneak past on the side. We absolutely must not alarm those... things, or it will be disastrous for us."

There was no other way now. I had no interest in whether this Mountain God master was an ancient zombie or some mountain spirit or water monster. It was best to go around, slipping out through the gourd's mouth without anyone noticing. After all, our objective was the Muchen Pearl in the Tomb of the Offering King, not to pick a fight with the Mountain God master in the Gourd Cave.

We divided our firearms, each taking a long rifle, sticking close to the wall of the Gourd Cave. We didn't dare turn on the tactical lights on our climbing helmets for illumination, remaining curled in the shadows of the jagged, translucent rock formation, moving forward slowly, as if in a slow-motion film. This section of the cave was littered with stones of various sizes; any slight movement would create noise. The three of us couldn't help but exercise extreme caution. We knew the iron rule of silent movement: never rush. Unfortunately, with so much gear and equipment strapped to us, trying not to make a sound ended up causing trouble.

We all had rifles slung across our backs. Fatty and I carried the "Chicago Typewriters," while Shirley Yang carried the "Jian Wei"—but whose rifle stock it was, I don't know—scraped against a piece of rock.

The rock wasn't large, but it tumbled into the water with a distinct "plop." In the silent cave, the sound of this tiny stone hitting the water seemed magnified tenfold by the domed ceiling. The surface water, disturbed by the floating corpses, suddenly stilled, as if the female bodies had all been alerted by us and were now staring our way.

My heart seized; I thought, "It's over." But a sliver of hope remained. Fatty, Shirley Yang, and I remained frozen where we were, praying that the Mountain God within the red mist hadn't noticed us. I didn't dare glance in that direction.

Lying there, I cursed inwardly, but "a bitter life cannot be blamed on the government, bad luck cannot be blamed on society"—complaining about misfortune was useless now.

Fatty strained his ears, listening for movement over there, but there was only a deathly silence. Suspicious, he gestured to me. I couldn't see his movements clearly in the dark, but after years of sticking together, we understood each other perfectly. I knew he was probably asking me: "Is there an ancient zombie spirit in that red mist?"

I shook my head slightly, signaling Fatty to stay still. We couldn't make any noise now. Regardless of whether what was over there was a zombie in a state of toxic decay or not, provoking it would mean we’d be in deep trouble—I felt a bead of sweat run down my palm, praying we could just survive this moment.

In truth, my mind was filled with doubts. I considered my own considerable attainments in the secret arts of Feng Shui. Surveying the terrain here, it truly resembled a gourd. The Gourd Cave, the Sleeping Ox site, the Taiji Swirl (also known as the Dragon Swirl)—these are all considered celestial acupoints in Feng Shui. Although this cave's shape was strange, it resembled a gourd. Ancient geomancers said: If the true dragon truly resides here, never mind whether it is grand or awkward, whether high mountains or flat ground, the immortal eye merely marks the spot—though the shape differs and the contours are bizarre, it is a genuine treasure spot.

How could such a place harbor a zombie? If the entity wrapped in the toxic mist wasn't a zombie, how could it persist here after thousands of years? If it wasn't a thousand-year zombie that gained sentience, how could it possess such fierce corpse poison? Moreover, judging by the appearance of those floating corpses, they certainly looked like they had undergone corpse transformation. I heard zombies can smell living people; I wondered if our gas masks would offer protection.

What was most incomprehensible were the countless female corpses rising from the depths. How did they appear the moment we entered the cave, when there was no sign of them when we scouted the entrance? Damn it all, it seemed these things had studied the tactics of the 'Guerrilla Warfare Against Mines'; they wouldn't show themselves until the enemy appeared.

Lost in these thoughts, I failed to notice the movement near the water surface until Shirley Yang pinched my arm, snapping me back to attention. A cascade of rustling sounds erupted from the water's edge, like many people stepping on the riverbank. The light reflected by the floating corpses in the cave flickered erratically, suggesting the things in that area of water were moving closer.

I knew what was coming would eventually arrive; it was just a matter of when. It seemed the other side had already sensed our presence. I decided on a preemptive strike. I gently turned my body, adjusting to face upwards, my "Chicago Typewriter" already loaded, silently waiting for whatever was about to emerge from behind the rocks. I prepared to greet it first with a storm of bullets. Fatty and Shirley Yang beside me were also ready to meet the threat without making a sound.

The thick gas masks, due to their suction-type filtration systems, made my own breathing sound heavy inside, muffling external sounds. I heard the faint, fragmented noises drawing nearer until they were right in front of us. Only when fine wisps of red mist appeared before my eyes did I make out the clang of armor echoing from behind the rocks. From that sound alone, I knew the approaching entity was sizable. Why the sound of armor? Could it be an ancient army? I gripped my submachine gun tighter.

Fatty could hold back no longer. He suddenly sprang up from the ground, raised his submachine gun, and unleashed a string of IAIs, the chattering fire of the Typewriter echoing throughout the entire cavern. Seeing Fatty initiate the attack early, I didn't hesitate either. I flipped up and, without even clearly seeing what was over there, pulled the trigger and swept a barrage toward the translucent rock behind which we were hiding, suppressing the enemy with sheer firepower first. The bullets struck the red toxic mist, producing ricocheting ceng ceng dang dang sounds, as if hitting an armored plate. The floating corpses in the nearby water seemed startled, scattering wildly like boiling pots. The blue light from their bodies intensified, coupled with the muzzle flashes from the "Chicago Typewriter's" firing, making the entire gourd-shaped cavern flicker rapidly between light and dark, as if countless fireflies were darting about in the gloom.

In one of those flashes, the red mist before us suddenly thinned and dissipated, revealing nothing. I was greatly perplexed—where had the bullets gone? Then, a low, guttural gasp sounded beside me, and a monstrous face wearing a golden mask was right in front of us, spewing out a great cloud of bright red mist.