The immense, heavy black clouds covering the sky, agitated by the pent-up earth energy, tore open with widening fissures, through which streams of blood-red sunset light pierced. The air within the gaping, ring-shaped aperture seemed to be churning violently, whistling with wind, suffused everywhere with an ominous aura, as if the end of the world were imminent.

The colossal air currents crashed back and forth within the funnel-shaped terrain formed over millennia. Trapped midway down the sheer cliff face, with nowhere up or down to go, the fierce wind threatened to turn us into mere scraps of paper, ready to be swept aloft at any second. The sky changed so rapidly; in less than half a minute, the wind roared so fiercely we couldn't even open our mouths. The surrounding currents surged with the sound of ten thousand iron cavalry charging forward, leaving us utterly speechless.

I cinched the straps of my climbing helmet tight, hoisting the immobile Shirley Yang onto my back, and gestured to Fatty toward a narrow crevice in the ancient cliff nearby, signaling we should take temporary refuge there.

Fatty gave me a thumbs-up, patted his own helmet, hoisted his heavy pack, and followed close behind me. On the sheer walls of this "funnel," large, thick vines had split the rock, or there were small fissures carved out by the waterfall before its course was diverted. Fatty had to squeeze sideways just to fit; the space wasn't deep, and the three of us would completely fill it.

I told Fatty to crawl into the innermost recess, then Shirley Yang, and we used the climbing rope to tether ourselves together, leaving me positioned at the very entrance. In the span of those few moments, the pool of water at the bottom of the funnel had risen significantly again. Countless water droplets were whipped up into the airflow, showering down into our hiding spot like a deluge. Each droplet that struck us brought a sharp sting of pain, yet we dared not deploy the "King Kong Umbrella" to shield ourselves, for fear that even I would be snatched into the sky by the sheer force of the current. We could only press inward as much as possible, painfully shoving Fatty, who was already in the deepest part.

Our situation grew increasingly dire. The roar of the agitated outer currents resonated through the rock walls, the echoes vibrating so intensely our eardrums felt they might burst. The earth energy suppressed deep within the "Worm Valley" for two thousand years, once unleashed, possessed energy no less potent than a volcanic eruption. Combined with the unique topography of the "funnel," this generated immense reactive force against the spewing gases, lifting the water pool at the bottom completely, forming a gigantic "waterspout." Everything within the water was swept into the air, and even the thousand-year-old vines clinging to the cliff face were uprooted.

This tiny fissure in the cliff face had saved our lives. Once the external airflow formed the "waterspout," its energy concentrated toward the center rather than diffusing outward. Just as I was about to wedge the "King Kong Umbrella" across the entrance of the crevice to guard against any sudden changes, the mist at the mouth of the opening suddenly vanished, and the external light was instantly blocked.

My mind had been a complete blank, but now I snapped back to attention. I quickly flicked on my tactical headlamp and saw that the opening of the crevice was obscured by a large, viscous mass, seemingly wrapped around with numerous pitch-black arms. This substance appeared to have form yet lacked substance—inky black, slick, and attempting to squeeze its way into the crack.

The corpse husk of the "Corpse Cave," fused with that ten-thousand-year-old zhi, resembling a vast, putrid, stinking sack of flesh, had somehow survived the waterspout and was climbing up the sheer cliff. Seeing the "Corpse Cave" right at the entrance, about to engulf us, I watched in horror as the "King Kong Umbrella," an heirloom passed down from Shirley Yang's family and cherished by her, was instantly snatched into the "Corpse Cave." I sucked in a cold breath. This "King Kong Umbrella," impervious to water and fire, was devoured instantly by the "Corpse Cave" without spitting out a single fragment. How could our mere flesh and blood compare?

Trapped in a desperate situation, truly at the end of our rope, the only recourse was to toss out the head of the Xian King to distract it. But the head was in Fatty's pack, and retrieving it would take at least ten seconds—time I didn't have, as I feared the encroaching "Corpse Cave" would swallow me alive in under three.

I steeled my heart, raised the "Chicago Typewriter," and unleashed the remaining bullets in the magazine in a full-force barrage into the Corpse Cave. The sound of gunfire echoed all around, but the black, rotting flesh only recoiled slightly. The bullets seemed to strike nothing more than thick mud, causing no discernible damage, and the mass continued to slowly writhe its way into the rock fissure sheltering us.

At this critical juncture, that enormous chunk of rotten flesh was suddenly yanked out of the crevice by an immense force. It turned out the old zhi mass was simply too large; even though it clung to the rock, a significant portion was still caught in the "waterspout," and it was finally swept high into the air.

My heart hammered furiously, so loudly I could seemingly hear the frantic heartbeats of Shirley Yang and Fatty behind me. I turned back to look at Shirley Yang. Her lips were tinged blue from the corpse poison, and her face was deathly pale, barely maintaining consciousness, on the verge of collapse at any moment. Even if we immediately used glutinous rice to draw out the poison, it was uncertain if her leg could be saved. Thinking of this brought an unbearable pang of sorrow, but to comfort her, I managed to force a smile, pointed upward, and told Shirley Yang and Fatty, "The venerable Xian King has finally ascended to heaven. We didn't escort him for nothing; at least we got his head and a few Ming artifacts... Commander Wang, quickly bring out the glutinous rice."

Fatty, wedged deep inside, could only suck in his breath and hold his belly in; he couldn't even speak properly, let alone look for rice. Just as I was about to shift back to make some room for him, I saw Shirley Yang biting her lip, struggling to lift her finger and point behind us.

At that moment, the light inside the crevice suddenly dimmed again. I spun around quickly, only to see that the waterspout outside had stopped—the earth energy must have been completely released in that brief interval. The mass of rotting flesh fell back from the air, landing precisely where it had been before, clinging tightly to the crevice on the cliff face, oozing streams of pus as it tried to squeeze in once more.

I cursed repeatedly, wondering if the Xian King inside the flesh sarcophagus was unable to reach heaven without his head, or if it was simply his wretched fate to only rise halfway before falling back down. Suddenly, I heard a tremendous crash, the sound of heavy metal impact reverberating along the cliff wall, as if a massive, heavy sword had plummeted from the sky. It struck the large mass of decaying flesh squarely at the opening, knocking it without hesitation down into the depths of the pool.

The tremendous impact nearly deafened me. Surviving this second brush with death left me utterly bewildered. What was that object that had fallen from above? Had the wicked Xian King committed so many evils that heaven struck him down with lightning?

Shirley Yang managed to say weakly to me, "It was the wreckage of a B-24 Liberator bomber..."

The realization dawned on me: the heavy bomber that had crashed at the bottom of the pool had also been swept aloft by the powerful "waterspout." Was it fate? Destiny? The mystery behind it was perhaps unknowable. The Xian King believed he held control over heavenly fortune, yet failed to realize that countless things are fixed in the unseen world. How could mere mortals hope to grasp the path to eternal ascent? But the people living in the Xian King's era probably couldn't see past the grand laws of nature.

I told Shirley Yang, "This time, we should be able to smash that flesh sarcophagus completely. Let's first figure out how to draw the corpse poison from your leg, and then we can climb up."

Shirley Yang shook her head. "No... it's not over. You don't understand the terrifying power of the Corpse Cave. Even the aluminum skin of a bomber will be consumed by it, and its size will continue to grow. And that head must be exerting some kind of energy attraction on it. Before long—an hour at most—it will catch up to us."

Hearing this, despair gnawed at my heart. Had taking the Xian King's head doomed us to never leave the "Worm Valley"? After a moment of thought, I devised a plan. To eradicate this sentient, aged zhi corpse husk, we needed to reach the location at the valley entrance described as the "Azure Dragon pausing its brush, a horse galloping on the wind." But that was still a long distance away, and I had to treat Shirley Yang's leg first; otherwise, carrying her in a panic, we wouldn't get far.

Every second was precious now. We absolutely had to escape this massive funnel, warped by the waterspout, before the flesh sarcophagus returned. I quickly helped Fatty support Shirley Yang as we moved onto the exterior plank path. The dark clouds above had dispersed; the surrounding vines were almost all deformed, and the thinner ones had snapped. Carp, bellies up, flopped everywhere. The roof of the Lingyun Heavenly Palace, along with all its gilded, magnificent decorations, had been swept away—even though it was built incredibly solidly, it now sat there bare, embedded in place like a few dilapidated kilns. The waterfall at the bottom of the valley, once a silver ribbon pouring down like the Milky Way—the magical, magnificent halo—was gone; only the vapor rising from the pool, struck by sunlight, reflected a single arc of rainbow light. Despite being ravaged by the colossal change in the heavens and earth, the previous eerie malevolence had been swept away, leaving a profound sense of peace and tranquility.

Fatty and I ignored the surrounding changes and rushed to administer emergency treatment to Shirley Yang. We found all the remaining glutinous rice. I divided it into three portions, taking one portion first, mixing it with clear water, and applying it as a poultice to Shirley Yang's lower leg, wrapping it to slowly draw out the corpse poison. According to the secret formula passed down by the Mojin Xiaowei excavators, the gravely afflicted by corpse poison must have the glutinous rice changed every hour and a half, nine times in total, to survive.

But right now, inside and out, we only had enough to last nine hours. Reaching the Cloud Inn where we were lodged in nine hours was impossible. A clever cook can't manage without ingredients; Fatty and I were at a loss. I told Fatty to watch the bottom of the pool and look for the movement of the flesh sarcophagus, while I gave Shirley Yang several Hong Lian Miao Xin pills—which repel corpse miasma—to take, hoping they would have some effect in temporarily halting the spread of the poison.

I thought again and divided the remaining rice into four portions. But the shortage concerned me, and I worried the efficacy wouldn't be enough, causing the veins on my forehead to bulge in agitation. But panic was useless; we could only do our best and leave the rest to fate. I divided all the remaining edible supplies with Fatty and stuffed them into our mouths at once. But having starved for so long, this small amount barely covered our hunger. Yet there was no other way. I suppressed the hunger pangs, hoisted Shirley Yang onto my back, and called out to Fatty, who was on watch, to retreat, asking him as we went about the movement of the sarcophagus in the pool.

Fatty grabbed his pack and said to me, "It was too high, it made me dizzy, I didn't see anything clearly..." As he spoke, he suddenly froze, raising the "Chicago Typewriter" toward me and pulling back the bolt—he looked ready to shoot me.

I quickly stepped back with Shirley Yang on my back: "Commander Wang, the muzzle of a proletariat's gun is not meant for one's comrades." But as soon as the words left my mouth, I understood Fatty's meaning. There must have been something threatening directly behind me. Had the relentless Corpse Cave devoured the B-24 wreckage so quickly and silently tracked us down? I quickly adjusted Shirley Yang on my back, spun around sharply on the narrow plank path, and had my engineer's spade drawn in hand. The sight that greeted my eyes upon turning was utterly unexpected. Who was this person behind us? She...