Amidst the undulating terrain of the mushroom forest, the Marukara suddenly curled into a tight ball. The fat man perched atop the Emperor Mushroom frantically waved his arms, signaling an urgent retreat. Seeing this, I immediately seized Old Ming's arm and dragged him backward.

Behind us came a series of swaying sounds from the mushrooms, indicating a sizable number—at least an encirclement from three directions, with only the lakeside clear. I dared not look back to see what it was, focusing only on sprinting toward the Fat Man’s location. The Fat Man hadn't fired his weapon, suggesting those things were still distant or hadn't given chase. By the time we scrambled up the terraced mushroom mountain and returned to the Emperor Mushroom, Old Ming collapsed, wheezing like a bellows.

The Fat Man and I raised our binoculars and scanned the path we had taken. In the clearing where the mushroom thicket had been moments before, hundreds of Diguan’yin—creatures resembling small foxes or snow voles—had appeared. These beasts had coats finer than silver foxes, possessed sharp teeth and claws, and were expert burrowers. Their cries sounded like tigers, hence their formal name, Xuezhong. However, they could only survive in areas with hot springs or geothermal activity. Cunning and vicious by nature, some locals in the Qaramay region also called them 'Earth Wolves' or Diguan’yin. Many local households possessed household items made from their pelts, which were extremely valuable. They existed in the Northeast as well, though less numerous, and their fur looked less impressive than those from the Kunlun Mountains, resembling weasels more closely.

The massive swarm of Diguan’yin formed a white wall, tightly surrounding the motionless Marukara. They seemed rigidly disciplined; none made a rash move, simply lying low around their target. Soon, a silver-furred Diguan’yin crawled out from the group—apparently their leader. It reared up on its hind legs, nudged the inert Marukara with its front paw, circled it twice, and then rejoined its company.

Then, the rest of the Diguan’yin advanced. Upon reaching the Marukara, they positioned themselves extremely close and blew air into the seams of its tightly contracted shell. Before long, the Marukara seemed unable to bear the tickling, extending its hardened carapace. With no chance to resist, it was overturned by the dozens of Diguan’yin, lying flat on its back, utterly defenseless.

Because the distance was great, although the cavern was filled with phosphorescence, the intervening patches of darkness absorbed and weakened the light. The Fat Man and I couldn't clearly discern the foul trick the Diguan’yin were performing. We only saw the poor Marukara, like a huge shrimp, instantly stripped of its shell, revealing the translucent flesh beneath. The pack of Diguan’yin tore off the meat, hoisted it onto their backs, and carried it toward a distant corner.

The Fat Man and I exchanged glances, lying on the Emperor Mushroom, speechless for a long time. We weren't concerned about the hundreds or thousands of Diguan’yin; it was that entire sequence that was utterly beyond the behavior of mere beasts like them. They usually operated in small packs of three or five, rarely congregating in such numbers, and their orderliness was baffling. Most unbelievable was that after stripping the Marukara’s flesh, they didn't feed immediately, acting as if they were performing a ritual, moving the provisions elsewhere. Yet, these creatures held no habit of hoarding food like termites. This behavior was profoundly abnormal.

After pondering for a while, the Fat Man quipped, "Perhaps they realize the recent sharp rise in prices and want to hoard scarce commodities. This is just a gang of speculators."

I shook my head, suddenly afflicted by a bad premonition. In the human-skin murals detailing ancient rites and legends, and in the accounts of the World-Conquering Treasure Pearl King, the priests of the Demon Kingdom were mentioned more than once as being able to command beasts, collectively known as Yao Nu. Such a thing was not impossible. Certain ancient, lost herbs and formulas could indeed control simple animal behavior.

I felt the Diguan’yin were highly unusual, controlled by some unseen force. That food likely wasn't for them either. There might be something guarding the subterranean altar nearby, and these slaves were possibly transporting provisions for it. If Shirley Yang and Ah Xiang had stumbled upon the altar, being alone and unsupported would be disastrous.

Seeing the large group of Diguan’yin retreating far into the distance, presumably to hunt more sustenance, Old Ming finally managed to catch his breath. I asked if he could move on his own. If not, he should stay there; we had to proceed to the second-level underground lake to find the two missing people. The Emperor Mushroom likely emitted a specific scent that deterred most creatures, so staying put should be relatively safe.

Old Ming immediately made his stance clear. When the water flooded down from the temple, he hadn't seen anyone else. Relying on his excellent swimming skills—having navigated vast rivers and oceans—he managed to survive by swallowing very little water. Naturally, he insisted on searching together now; if anything happened to Ah Xiang, he wouldn't be able to face his ancestors. So, we descended from the Emperor Mushroom and circled toward the underground lake. The giant Mayflies were even more numerous here; their bodies and the corpses of nymphs that hadn't molted covered the air and the ground. The entire area was enveloped in a deathly luminescence.

By the lake's edge were several massive natural tunnels where the underground lake’s water flowed out, forming vast, hidden rivers. This was only what was exposed; combined with the waterways deeper underground, this created an incredibly complex, giant aquatic network. One thing was clear to all of us: we were essentially lost. We dared not stray far from the double-layered lake, surrounded by unknown territories, completely unfamiliar geology, and strange insects we had never seen. Furthermore, while descending from that sieve-like vaulted ceiling was easy, ascending was hard; there was no way back. Thinking of this filled me with anxiety. Shirley Yang carried flares and a signal pistol; she should have used those to contact us, but there had been no sign... I truly didn't dare consider the worst.

This underground lake was vast. We walked along its perimeter for a long time but had covered less than half a circuit, still without any sign of Shirley Yang or Ah Xiang. The Fat Man seemed fine, always the same—just desperately hungry, eyeing everything around them to roast and eat. Old Ming, conversely, was exhausted and starved, deflated like a punctured ball. I tried to cheer them up, insisting there must be good things in this lake. I had always heard that the "Dragon's Crown" held the Dragon Elixir refined by the Queen Mother of the West. Maybe as we walked, we'd stumble upon a whole pot of it—one pill granted lightness like a swallow, two brought metamorphosis, and a handful granted longevity equal to heaven and earth.

The Fat Man said, "Commander Hu, you political commissar number two is at it again, trying to bluff us. Doesn't this sound like what that fortune teller, Blind Chen, spun when selling his miracle pills? Forget the Dragon Elixir for now, Commander. If you can bring me a handful of roasted soybeans, I’ll be satisfied."

I told the Fat Man, "That’s petty-bourgeois thinking, being content with meager gains. What's the point of roasted soybeans? I'm truly not fooling you. This underground lake is no ordinary water. What place is this? In Feng Shui, this is the Dragon’s Crown; this water is the brain fluid of the Ancestral Dragon. If you don't believe me, try drinking a few mouthfuls. It’s more nutritious than douzhi [fermented soybean milk]; a few sips will fill you up."

Hearing us discuss food, Old Ming swallowed hard but said dismissively, "But douzhi is notoriously awful. Back in Nanyang, what haven't I drunk? I've drunk everything. We took Feng Shui seriously there too. But does water in a place with good Feng Shui truly have nutritional value? That makes no sense, Brother Hu, you’re talking nonsense."

I thought to myself that this Hong Kong local wasn't trembling like a newborn calf anymore. So I told Old Ming, "The art of Feng Shui, without the true transmission, remains mere superficial learning. How much do you truly grasp about the intricacies here, Elder? Let me tell you the truth: this underground lake water is not only good to drink but also incredibly valuable. How much is China's Dragon Vein worth? This lake is worth that much. It’s not that Kunlun must have a Dragon Vein; without this lake, the Kunlun Ancestral Dragon would be nothing. The ancients had a very apt analogy: without Xiangyang and Jingzhou, it’s hard to wage war; without Hanzhong, Bashu cannot maintain its perilous position; without Guanzhong and Henan, you cannot occupy Yu. It is dictated by circumstances. Since wind and water exist objectively, similarly, without this subterranean water, Kunlun Mountain doesn't deserve to be the Dragon Head. Although besides the ancient Demon Kingdom adherents, outsiders may never have seen this underground water system, almost all Feng Shui theories have proven its existence. This is the creation of Heaven and Earth, the parallel principle of Yin and Yang."

My lengthy discourse left Old Ming speechless, but the distraction eased his fatigue somewhat. Hunger would have to be endured until we found the missing Shirley Yang and Ah Xiang, after which we could worry about feeding our stomachs. We circled the perimeter of the underground lake for nearly a full round, and the longer we walked, the colder my heart grew. No sign of life, no sight of death. We stared at the somber, black water, truly fearing they might have already been devoured by big fish or swept into deeper recesses. How could we search in this impenetrable darkness?

Just as we grew frantic and prepared to search the dark river channels, a flare suddenly shot up from the center of the lower underground lake. It hung suspended in the air, illuminating the lake surface brightly. The startled Mayflies, trailing luminous tails, scattered in all directions, their streams of light dancing wildly. The scene resembled fireworks bursting across the dark canvas of the heavens.

Old Ming, the Fat Man, and I were overcome with mixed emotions. We were startled because, after searching the lake’s perimeter fruitlessly, the existence of a small islet in the dark center was entirely unexpected. We were overjoyed because the flare meant Shirley Yang was at least alive, perhaps Ah Xiang was with her. Yet, under the pale light, the small island only showed a conical rise, resembling a single mountain, with not a single human figure visible. The light gradually dimmed, and before we could examine it further, it vanished into the darkness of the lake.

Old Ming was alarmed: If no one was there, who fired the flare? And why such a delay in signaling? All these questions suggested a trap might be set on the island, waiting to envelop us if we rushed in rashly. A long-term plan was needed.

I ignored Old Ming's speculation. While the flare was still suspended and hadn't yet extinguished, I raised my binoculars and carefully studied the terrain on the lake. There was indeed no one on the island, but I noticed the angle at which the flare was fired was vertical, not the usual arc we employ. Moreover, the angle was wrong, indicating the flare was shot from below the water line. There had to be an opening on the island; they might be trapped inside. There was no time to waste; we had to swim over immediately to support them.

The three of us quickly adjusted our gear and retrieved the single remaining searchlight. Without delay, we plunged into the underground lake and swam desperately to the center islet. Upon reaching the solitary island, however, we found no trace of anyone nearby, nor any sign of a cave entrance on the ground. Only behind a slab of rock lay a spent I911 pistol, its shell casings scattered around—evidence of what must have been a fierce fight, and the pistol's owner was, of course, Shirley Yang.

The island was about half the size of a small football field, rising in the middle like an inverted funnel, presenting very strange topography. I looked at the rock beneath my feet and told the Fat Man and Old Ming, "This is a dead volcano inside an underground mountain; this top part is the crater. If they are alive, they might have fallen into the crater." Saying that, I ran ahead, with the Fat Man dragging Old Ming behind me.

After a few steps, I noticed several pieces of decayed hard cedar scattered among the volcanic rocks, and the nearby stone piles showed signs of having been artificially stacked. Could the hollow center of this dead volcano be the subterranean altar of the City of Erolhai? As we walked, we suddenly saw a severed human hand lying on the ground; the bloodstain was still fresh. It was a woman’s hand, wearing a ring engraved with a symbol of good fortune—the ring Lama Iron Rod had given Ah Xiang.