In the vast underground space, by the water's edge, countless mayflies danced in the air. Their lives were ephemeral; after emerging from the nymphs in the water and growing wings, they might survive only a few minutes. At that time, their bodies would release a special fluorescent powder that continued to glow for some time after death, bathing the entire underground in a hazy, mystical white luminescence.

As time crawled by in the depths, our eyes had gradually adjusted to this dim subterranean glow, and things no longer appeared as blurred as they had initially. I glanced down at the soft, massive cushion beneath me—like an umbrella or a canopy, white in the center and completely dark around the edges. It was indeed a rare, giant mushroom, easily twenty meters in diameter.

These fungi grew profusely in the damp under-earth regions. Seeing this enormous mushroom underfoot, both Fatty and I immediately recalled our time doing manual labor in the Xinganling mountains, trekking into the forest to gather wood ear mushrooms. After a recent rain, we had stumbled upon a mushroom in a ravine so tall it seemed to dwarf the mountain itself, standing sentinel in the woods. We were awestruck then. The villagers said it was an "Emperor Mushroom," only appearing once or twice during August if one was lucky. But these things grew fast and rotted just as quickly; one might see it in the morning and find it gone before noon. Furthermore, the forests where "Emperor Mushrooms" sprouted were often perilous, as the fungus’s scent was too pronounced, and its varied colors suggested wildly different properties. Due to their rarity, few people knew the specifics, so everyone who saw one pretended not to, daring neither to eat nor touch it, opting instead to detour around.

Fatty and I conferred. This mushroom wasn't as immense as the one we saw in the Xinganling, but it was still considerable. It must be in the same family as the "Emperor Mushroom." Having rolled down the scree slope from the edge of the underground lake, climbing back up was nearly impossible—the slope was too steep, too slick with every step, offering no purchase whatsoever. Our only option was to climb down using this "Emperor Mushroom" as a route.

We had been washed down from the sieve-like ceiling of the cavern by rushing water and separated from the others. What worried me most was the "Striped Flood Dragon." In the melee at the bottom of the Wind Erosion Lake, one of the two "Striped Flood Dragons" seemed to have been crushed by a falling boulder, but one remained, along with the "White Beard Fish King," both likely swept into the underground lake by the torrent. If Shirley Yang, Uncle Ming, or Ah Xiang had encountered them, their chances of survival would be slim.

With these thoughts consuming us, Fatty and I dared not delay. Shaking off the soreness in our limbs, we climbed to the apex of the "Emperor Mushroom" and peered down at the terrain. Beneath the towering fungus, the ground was choked with countless smaller fungi of varying heights and sizes, creating a mottled landscape that looked like a forest of mushrooms. Swarms of large mayflies, resembling long-tailed dragonflies, flitted and zipped among them like spectral white clouds.

In the distance lay the second tier of the underground lake. When I first fell into the water, I felt an intense current surging eastward. It turned out the lake in this colossal cavern was split into two tiers with a significant vertical drop. The immense, vaulted ceiling above was perforated by numerous sinkholes, some dozens of meters wide, others less than a meter. Water from the upper lake and mountain runoff poured in through these openings, all channeling into the first subterranean lake, which was shaped like an inverted, sloping bowl. The eastern side was lower. Once this upper layer filled, the water formed a massive curtain, cascading down into the second tier below. That lower lake was even vaster; the areas with the strongest currents were devoid of luminescence, appearing as black patches against the white glow, obscuring its true scale.

If the others were alive, there was a high probability they had been swept into the second tier of the underground lake. The "Emperor Mushroom" stood quite close to this lower basin. From our vantage point, we scanned the surface, hoping to spot the missing Shirley Yang and the others, but we only saw large fish occasionally breaching the water; there was not a single human silhouette. I told Fatty to stay put as a lookout while I went down to search along the lakeshore first.

Just as I was about to use my parachute knife to anchor myself onto the mushroom to descend, a figure surfaced from the lake below. Though the face was indistinct, the build suggested Uncle Ming. He climbed onto the shore, took a few labored steps, surveyed his surroundings, and then walked directly into the mushroom forest beneath the "Emperor Mushroom," clearly intending to climb to a higher vantage point to survey the terrain himself.

I told Fatty that this old Hong Kong farmer had incredible luck. Since he was heading our way, Fatty should look after him for the moment, while I searched the lakeshore for the other two. We agreed to regroup near this most prominent "Emperor Mushroom."

As I prepared to move down, I suddenly sensed something amiss. Uncle Ming, having traversed only ten meters or so through the dense undergrowth of fungi, seemed to falter—perhaps due to shock or exhaustion—and stumbled, landing flat on his face in a sprawl. He rolled over, rubbed his arm, and made no move to rise, exhibiting a hint of self-abandonment, perhaps ready to accept death right there, utterly unwilling to move.

Normally, a simple fall wouldn't be cause for alarm, but his heavy body disturbed something nearby. Under the pale fluorescence, Fatty and I, watching from above, saw the cluster of mushrooms near him begin to stir violently. A creature encased in a black shell was slowly writhing out. The shell was formed of overlapping, concentric arcs, and its body was long. My stomach dropped—it looked like a gigantic centipede. If it was truly a centipede, how colossal must it be?

Uncle Ming lay sprawled, his mouth opening and closing, seemingly muttering to himself, perhaps cursing his fate, yet utterly oblivious to the danger lurking nearby. Fatty and I considered shouting a warning from the "Emperor Mushroom," but our voices were drowned out by the sound of rushing water nearby; one couldn't be heard unless standing right next to him.

I had lost my shotgun during the brawl at Wind Erosion Lake, retaining only my pistol. Fatty, however, had lost little. His sporting rifle remained slung on his back. He raised the weapon to shoot, but I pressed down on the barrel. While the rifle had range, its caliber was inadequate. Firing here would be useless; even trying to alert Ming by shooting near him might not help. If he actually saw the giant centipede, he would surely be paralyzed with terror, unable to move an inch. My only option was to rush down and save him. But the mushroom forest was a dense tangle. From above, we could see both Uncle Ming and the centipede, but descending, our line of sight would immediately be blocked. Fatty had to act as the lookout, using hand signals to guide me through the complex terrain, and providing covering fire with the rifle at critical moments.

This needed to be a split-second operation; there was no time for detailed planning. I just managed to tell Fatty, "Watch for my signal," before plunging the parachute knife into the "Emperor Mushroom" and sliding down the sloping cap. Below were some tall fungi distributed in a rough staircase pattern. Where the slope was too steep to land safely, I used the knife to slow my descent, reaching the bottom quickly. There were no rocks here either; the entire floor was covered in fungi the size of fingers, surrounded by the large mushrooms about a meter long.

I glanced back at Fatty above. He had the rifle slung across his chest and was waving both arms, signaling using naval flag semaphore—a technique we’d learned in Fujian. It was simple and direct. His movements indicated the target was moving slowly, followed by a directional signal.

I waved an arm back, acknowledging receipt. A thin mist then drifted through the mushroom forest. Fearing the centipede might emit poison gas, I pulled out my gas mask and secured it. Gripping my I911, I lowered the muzzle and rapidly approached Uncle Ming's position.

After several directional cues from Fatty, I located Uncle Ming lying on the ground. Nearby, I heard a faint tick-tick-cha-cha sound—not loud, but the noise of countless tiny claws shuffling, sending shivers down my spine, especially since the sound of the water was faint here, amplifying the panic.

I crept closer, intending to grab Uncle Ming and haul him away immediately. Suddenly seeing the gas mask, Uncle Ming was startled, but quickly realizing it was one of us, he managed a weak smile with his dull eyes, attempting to struggle upright. However, his legs seemed to have turned to jelly, refusing to obey. Anxious to evacuate this danger zone, I made a shushing gesture, signaling him to remain silent, then hoisted him onto my back.

But before I could take a step, Uncle Ming erupted into loud laughter behind me. My blood ran cold; this wretched old Hong Kong farmer had ill intentions! How could a capitalist from a former colonial domain be good? I had been far too careless this time.

I immediately sprang backward, throwing us both down with force, using my weight to pin the old man beneath me—enough force, I figured, to flatten the old farmer. But Uncle Ming’s laughter persisted, growing strained, ten times more hideous than a woman’s wail.

He’s laughing even at the brink of death? I thought, recalling a line: The devil’s palace trembles at the sound of laughter. Damn it, loud laughter at death’s door was the revolutionary’s prerogative. What right did this old capitalist have to laugh? Let him experience the proletariat’s iron fist, let me enforce dictatorship, see if he can still laugh then. But then I realized something was wrong. Ming’s laughter wasn't born of genuine amusement.

I quickly jammed the muzzle of my gun against Uncle Ming’s head and looked closely. He was gasping for air, his whole body convulsing, white foam gathering at his lips. If he kept laughing, he’d be dead soon. He was poisoned.

I looked around and spotted a patch of small mushrooms near where he had fallen, distinctly different from the others, covered in a layer of green powder. He must have licked some when he tumbled over. Could this be the legendary 'Laughing Fungus'? That powder was incredibly potent, turning into this state with just a touch to the mouth. At this rate, a few more minutes of laughter would kill him.

Thinking fast, I slapped Uncle Ming hard a few times across the face, then thrust the Northern Dark Pearl under his nose. The scent of the Dark Pearl was overwhelmingly acrid. Upon inhaling it, Uncle Ming let out several violent sneezes, finally halting the laughter. But the muscles in his face were frozen in a grimace, still twitching uncontrollably, tears and snot streaming down his face—a truly pathetic sight.

At that moment, a rifle bullet struck a mushroom near me. I spun around and, through the hazy mist, saw Fatty on the "Emperor Mushroom" raising his gun and waving wildly, signaling me to retreat immediately.

A large mushroom nearby began to shake violently, and the giant centipede with the black carapace crawled out, with Uncle Ming's position perfectly exposed before it. I rapidly backed away a few steps, ripping off my gas mask. First, I signaled to Fatty above not to shoot, then, feigning panic, I yelled to Uncle Ming: "Uncle Ming, that centipede behind you is about to eat you! You sacrificed yourself to save me; I'll never forget it. When we get home, I’ll burn tons of spirit money for you. You died saving someone; you'll surely achieve enlightenment. Congratulations!"

Uncle Ming froze in terror, whipping his head around to look behind him, his eyes rolling back as he was about to faint. I quickly pulled him up and said, "Alright, I was just kidding, Elder Ming. The moment that thing poked its head out, I recognized it. It’s not a centipede; it’s a giant Wanxia that grows underground—a vegetarian monk. Back in the Kunlun Mountains, our master dug up dozens of these. They’re completely harmless."

Hearing this, Uncle Ming finally took a careful look behind him. It was a six-meter-long arthropod, a Wanxia. This fat, stout beetle had a pair of curved, rigid antennae at the front for sensing its path, its body entirely black except for its white feet. Beneath its thick torso, it had numerous legs, much like a centipede. The creature was dim-witted, feeding only on subterranean fungi.

Uncle Ming let out a great sigh, wiping his sweat. He had snatched his old life back from the jaws of death. He managed a strained, wry smile toward me. I asked him if he had seen Shirley Yang or Ah Xiang.

Just as Uncle Ming was about to reply, we heard the sound of claws scraping. We turned to see the nearby Wanxia retracting its body into a ball, its segmented, curved shell wrapping it into the shape of a large tire. A vein throbbed in my forehead—this was a defensive posture. There must be some immense threat nearby. I looked up at Fatty above. Fatty wasn't using flag signals anymore; he was swinging his arms in one single, violent motion: "Danger! Run back now!"