The exotic mask, cast in gold, had endured millennia of erosion yet still shone with a brilliant luster. Save for the eye sockets, it was virtually identical to the one we had discovered in the jade coffin of the High Priest of the Sacrificed King—both featuring dragon horns, a beast’s maw, and fish-tail-shaped ear flaps. The crucial difference was that the latter was sized for a human, whereas this one, suddenly appearing at our flank and spewing crimson toxic mist, was enormous, comparable in size to the massive cauldron once used for cooking communal meals in the old mess hall.

In that initial confrontation, before I could even fully discern what I was facing, my heart leaped. My intuition screamed that this was no mere zombie; hidden behind that mask was a sentient being brimming with malice. Its labored, guttural breathing produced a cloud of red vapor with every exhalation, enveloping its body entirely and obscuring its full form.

Time was of the essence. Instinct superseded thought. I recoiled sharply, leaping backward behind a nearby boulder to establish a safe distance from the adversary. Simultaneously, the "Chicago Typewriter" in my hands swung around, its muzzle spitting fire into the red fog. The American IAI submachine gun ejected casings rhythmically, singing a mechanical hymn of demise.

The fired bullets dispersed in a wavy fan pattern, embedding themselves entirely within the dense, toxic crimson mist. The sound of metal striking metal was a continuous clang, suggesting the entity within was armored head-to-toe. Whether our barrage had inflicted any damage remained unclear. As my body cleared the boulder and hit the ground, the IAI's magazine was already empty.

Fatso and Shirley Yang scattered and retreated simultaneously. In less time than it takes to describe, the coagulated red mist suddenly parted, and the gleaming golden mask shot out. This time, illuminated by the cold, pale-green light emanating from the drowned female corpses in the water, I saw it with perfect clarity. The colossal golden mask featured only a single cyclopean eye, within which a globe-like object spun erratically. The mask’s mouth was shaped like a tiger’s jaws; viewed now, its gaping maw resembled a portal to hell, revealing a lining of pinkish flesh membranes. These membranes appeared to be the feeding apparatus of some kind of massive insect. The opening didn't move vertically like the jaws of a vertebrate; instead, it expanded outwards in four directions, becoming square, revealing a second, smaller mouth nested inside. While termed 'smaller,' it was large enough to swallow two or three living men at once. There were no rows of teeth, only four hard, fleshy 'fangs' situated at the corners of the mouth.

These characteristics confirmed it: this behemoth was an insect. Its body behind the mask was covered in an immensely thick carapace, beneath which pulsed countless writhing palps, each tipped with a foot as thick as a human leg. Its sheer size and bulk rivaled that of the giant scaled serpent beneath "Zhelong Mountain." Moreover, it was encased in heavy, scaled bronze armor, mottled with verdigris. In the damp, dim confines of the Gourd Cave, much of this armor had flaked away, revealing patches of corrupted mush, underneath which shimmered a bright crimson exoskeleton that seemed harder than steel plate. Bullets striking these areas caused large amounts of yellow ichor to weep out. Other rounds struck the bronze dragon scales, and some punched large holes through the golden mask itself. But the creature was simply too massive, and its thick, steel-like red chitin presented a formidable defense; the IAI’s formidable power seemed unlikely to pose a direct threat.

What in the blazes was this thing? A bug? An animal? A Tianlong (a synonym for the centipede)? None of the above. A Tianlong should be flat; this creature’s body was bulbous and round, and it only possessed a single eye. Who had affixed the golden mask and the dragon-scaled bronze shell to it? Damn it all, everything we encountered in Yunnan seemed to be of such colossal proportions.

In that blinding flash of light, there was no time for contemplation. Whatever it was, the priority was survival. I watched the monster burst through the fog, its enormous mouth gaping as it lunged straight for me. My submachine gun was empty. Direct confrontation was impossible; retreating backward meant facing the underground water, teeming with submerged corpses, offering no escape. My only recourse was to drop and roll, avoiding the initial thrust. In the eerie pale-green light filtering through the cave, a golden streak flashed past, striking the wolf-tooth-shaped semi-translucent rock beside me with a deafening concussion. I sucked in a sharp breath, planting my feet and kicking off the stone, using the leverage to slide backward.

Unfortunately, rock formations above blocked my path, and my climbing helmet struck the stone before I could retreat far enough. The giant insect, concealed beneath the golden mask, missed its target and immediately launched a second assault. I cursed inwardly. The IAI’s drum magazine and spare clip were in Fatso’s backpack. I was left holding an empty firearm and had to draw my ice axe for defense.

Shirley Yang and Fatso, seeing me in dire straits, simultaneously opened fire—she with the Chicago Typewriter, he with his 'Jianwei' air rifle and pistol—aiming a barrage at the giant bug’s head.

The immense insect, crowned with the golden mask and draped in the bronze dragon-scale armor, was suppressed by the relentless hail of bullets and began to withdraw its head repeatedly. It spat torrents of red toxic mist from the seams of its bronze shell and from its maw, immediately shrouding itself in crimson vapor, making it impossible to target.

The cave filled with red haze, severely reducing visibility. Seizing the opportunity, I yelled toward Fatso, "Little Fatty, bullets!"

Fatso immediately snatched a loaded drum magazine from his field pouch and hurled it toward me. I reached out to catch it, but before I could switch the drum onto the submachine gun, the red fog abruptly dispersed. The monstrous bug shot out from the haze like a fiery dragon ascending from the clouds, rapidly charging toward me. I felt a spike of irritation—why was this thing fixated on me?—but my mind remained crystal clear: anger aside, panic and tension were fatal now. The difference between life and death often hinged on the blink of an eye.

I chose neither to evade nor dodge. I gambled my life on the speed of reloading my submachine gun versus the speed of the golden mask’s charge. Fatso and Shirley Yang, having exhausted their ammunition in the rapid preceding fire, were busy reloading their weapons. Seeing my suicidal maneuver, they froze, stunned into immobility, forgetting their surroundings.

Years of surviving countless skirmishes on the front lines granted me the critical advantage. I was faster by a mere fraction of a second. As I raised the muzzle, the monster’s massive jaw had already extended to my face. There was no more time to judge relative speeds; I pulled the trigger purely by instinct. The Chicago Typewriter fired almost directly into the mouth of the golden mask, its signature old-fashioned clattering rapidly echoing through the cave.

I heard a muffled, agonizing shriek, and my body felt as if it had been struck by a gigantic iron slab. The golden mask slammed into me, flipping me backward twice before I crashed into the cave wall, stopping my momentum. Every bone in my body ached. If I hadn't been wearing elbow and knee pads, my joints would surely have snapped. I felt the contents of my chest cavity churn violently, robbing me of breath.

My reckless gamble appeared successful. A string of at least ten bullets, perhaps more, seemed to have slammed directly into the giant creature's throat. The red toxic fog shrank back into the corner of the Gourd Cave, thickening until there was no further movement.

Fatso erupted in elation, shouting, "Well done, Old Hu! You are truly divine! On behalf of the Central Military Commission, I congratulate you. Our army will grant you the glorious title of Special-Grade Combat Hero, following in the footsteps of Comrades Huang Jiguang and Yang Gensi. You are the third living legend to receive such an honor!"

Shirley Yang called from the other side, "What divine bravery? You have no regard for your life! That was sheer madness!"

Hearing Fatso’s nonsensical rant made me furious. What the hell, was he trying to mock me? Special-Grade Combat Heroes were supposed to die gloriously—did he want me to perish faster? I wanted to retort, but the pain rendered me speechless. I stretched an arm, wiggled a leg—fortunately, no major external injuries—but as for the internal damage, I couldn't say.

Then, I noticed something distinctly wrong. Something vital was missing from my person. I instinctively reached up, and when my hand met my face, an icy dread washed over me. Damn it. In the life-or-death struggle, my gas mask had been knocked off. Cold sweat immediately broke out. During that reckless exchange, while survival hung by a thread, at least I held agency over my fate—I had control. But without the mask, even if I found it now, it was too late. We carried antidotes, but they were only for common snake venoms. This red mist, even if the Sage of Medicine Hua Tuo were resurrected, would likely prove incurable. How much poison had I inhaled? Almost certainly a significant amount. As thoughts of death consumed me, my mind became a chaotic knot, focusing only on the symptoms of poisoning—where should I feel discomfort? As soon as I thought about it, every part of my body felt wrong. It was over. Old Hu was about to cash out. It was all Fatso's fault, cursing me with the title of "Special-Grade Combat Hero" at such a moment.

Shirley Yang also noticed the missing mask and rushed over, her voice tight with anxiety. "How did you lose your gas mask? How do you... how do you feel?"

Hearing the tremor in Shirley Yang’s voice made me unexpectedly emotional. Contemplating my imminent noble sacrifice, my imminent eternal farewell to her, my limbs turned cold, and I sank heavily onto the ground. I told her, "I’m truly done for this time. I can’t pinpoint the discomfort, but my entire body aches. The toxic infection must have spread, probably reaching the marrow, coursing through all nine orifices. In moments, I’ll have a few final words..."

Fatso scrambled over, gripping my hand with one hand while clamping his other over my mouth. He choked out, "Commander Hu, you absolutely cannot give your last words! Haven't you seen the movies? The revolutionaries who get shot but survive are the ones who don't give long speeches. The ones who detail everything, big and small, down to the month's Party dues, are always the ones who kick the bucket!"

I pulled Fatso’s hand away from my mouth and said, painfully, "Comrades, at a time like this, you won't even let me say a few last things? Do you think I want to die? If I don't let you know certain things, I—I will die with unresolved grievances."