Uncle Ming, nimble on his feet, shot up behind me with a whoosh: "Brother Hu, did you... did you see that? What in the world was that thing? It felt like it was tracking us the whole time, surely with ill intent." I waved Uncle Ming silent, motioning for him to hold his tongue, then drew my gun, pointing it at the black shadow behind us, shaking my head violently, trying to force my eyes to adjust from the blinding whiteness. The dark shape in the distance gradually sharpened in my vision—it looked like a colossal black hand, easily two sizes larger than Fatty’s head. My gun hand began to tremble. Since entering the tunnel, I’d felt an uncontrollable disquiet, a hollow dread I couldn't quite place.

At that moment, Shirley Yang and Fatty also ripped the tape from their eyes, though slightly after me. I became the second person, after Uncle Ming, to clearly see what lay behind us. The white tunnel needed no artificial light to see nearby objects, but under this dim, phosphorescent glow, everything appeared hazy. About ten paces away, the tunnel curved; the slope pitched quite steeply, as if the passage had been wrenched by some immense force into a figure '8'. Right where the twist was tightest, near the apex of the '8' shape, a massive black hand was starkly imprinted on the white wall.

However, the shape of the hand wasn't perfectly distinct. Hesitant to approach rashly, I stayed put and pulled out my "Wolf Eye" flashlight, blasting it with a strong beam. The light hit the black hand, revealing that it wasn't inside the tunnel, but pressed against the outside, separated from us by the tunnel wall. The white tunnel had only a thin, crystalline, yet incredibly strong outer shell—at least at the top. Against the smooth, luminous white surface, the shadow of that black hand was jarringly conspicuous; everything visible was white, except that inky black blotch of the palm. But the tunnel bent sharply there, obscuring whether anything else lay beyond it.

Could the footsteps, which had sporadically sounded quick and slow in the tunnel, have come from this hand? But a human hand couldn't be that immense. Was it a hand, or the paw of some beast? I recalled the gusts of cold air that occasionally swept down from above as we traveled. Perhaps the tunnel ceiling had intermittent openings, allowing whatever was above to descend at any moment. Recalling the massive colonies of 'Earth Guanyins' in the subterranean mushroom forest, I was certain some ferocious creature guarded this forbidden area, watching every person who entered the tunnel. The instruction carved on the stone gate—to pass through with eyes closed—was clearly meant for the priests. For those cursed by the 'Bottomless Ghost Cave,' no one here treated you like a human; you were merely 'Serpent Bone' sacrifices, like cattle, sheep, pigs, or dogs.

Uncle Ming whispered from behind, his voice low, "What should we do?" I told him, "Let's not invite trouble. This thing is following us. Maybe if we stop moving, it won't do anything specific. That's just a maybe, though. If you don't believe me, go try it. Go practice your Eighteen Leg Sweeps and see if it reacts."

By this time, Shirley Yang had removed her eye tape and her vision was gradually returning. Seeing the motionless black hand plastered against the outer curve of the tunnel, she naturally gasped in surprise. I quickly summarized the situation for everyone. Thank heavens we guessed the up-and-down direction correctly; if we had turned back, we likely would have ended up dead in the tunnel. Now, with no other choice, whatever was behind us, we could only press forward.

So, with uneasy hearts, the group turned forward. The stone wall at the end was close now, but as soon as we took a step, a tremendous BOOM, like muffled thunder, echoed through the entire tunnel. My heart jumped, and I quickly looked back. I saw another black hand materialize on the tunnel ceiling behind us. When we stopped moving, it ceased its motion, but clearly, in the instant we moved forward, it had advanced a step as well. The tunnel amplified sound tremendously; the impact was truly shocking. Perhaps this is how 'Thunder Strike Mountain' got its name.

Yet, ignoring a palpable, physical reality was proving incredibly difficult. Now that our eyes were open, the fear was even greater. When the tape covered our eyes, at least we could tell ourselves those sounds were just echoes in the stone. But now, knowing something real was following us, pretending to be oblivious was testing our resolve to the limit.

Fatty remarked, "We feel a bit like those Yugoslavian partisan fighters being marched to execution in the movies, with an SS officer trailing behind us. Feel that way?"

I countered, "Fatty, that comparison is terribly inappropriate. Aren't you essentially cursing us to never return? If anything, we're like Song Jiang and Dai Zong heading to the execution ground in Jiangzhou—at least we could hope for allies from the underworld, like that 'White Streak on the Waves,' to stage a rescue."

Everyone’s mood was extremely heavy. Though Fatty and I were trying to sound unconcerned, I knew deep down this path might indeed lead nowhere good. Yet, facing the moment, a strange calm settled over me. I looked at the stone wall I had been groping moments before; the tunnel had truly reached its end. The surrounding walls were covered in symbols of wide-open eyes. All the crystalline formations here were twisted at impossible angles. While nature’s handiwork could certainly be described as divinely crafted, boasting infinite variety, this terrain was simply too bizarre.

A large, pretzel-shaped mass of whitish-gray rock jutted up more than a meter from the ground. It was impossible to describe its shape—sometimes square, sometimes round, sometimes resembling complex geometric figures. The stone was thoroughly contorted, not uniformly in one direction; some parts twisted clockwise, others counter-clockwise, making it feel like twisted dough. Black, flaky bits of decaying wood dust coated the exterior, perhaps remnants of a wooden structure that once encircled the strange rock, allowing access to the top.

Gripping the summit, I peered inward. It was the mouth of a sloping shaft, gleaming white into an unseen depth, seemingly without end. Steps existed inside the opening, but they were worn down almost into a ramp. Countless slaves and captives must have been driven down here as sacrifices in the past.

After a brief discussion, we agreed: we had to descend, even if it meant entering the eighteenth level of hell. There was no way to avoid this trial. Fatty tightened his climbing helmet and secured his remaining gear, taking the lead once more. Seeing his awkward posture for climbing, before I could warn him, Fatty plunged headfirst down the slope at an angle.

Then followed Uncle Ming, Shirley Yang, and Ah Xiang, descending in succession. I was left alone in the white tunnel, instantly feeling empty and isolated. Disliking this feeling intensely, I quickly scrambled back to the shaft opening. Before descending, I glanced back one last time at the black handprint deep in the tunnel. Suddenly, I noticed—at some point, a facial shadow had appeared between the two hands. The contours of a nose and mouth were discernible. But this face only showed the lower half; there were absolutely no eyes or forehead.

The black visage in the crystalline stone grew clearer and clearer, as if it wasn't external at all, but embedded within the stone of the tunnel itself. The upper part of the face also began to emerge. Just as I was about to see its eyes clearly, my intense nervousness caused me to lose my footing on the slick stone ledge. I slid down the incline, tumbling to the bottom.

The passage beneath the shaft was spacious, shaped like an inverted bell—narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, like a massive, natural crystal cavern. It was mostly circular, sloping down at about forty-five degrees. The initial section had slightly protruding steps, but the rest of the downward slope was riddled with simple grooves crudely carved for climbers to step on. These were shallow and slick, worn down almost flat from extreme use. Once you started sliding, it was like a waterslide; you couldn't stop until you reached the bottom. I slid down, headfirst, then rolling onto my back, using my backpack to cushion the fall. I used my ice axe for braking on particularly smooth sections. After sliding an indeterminate distance, the crystal slope finally leveled out. As I slid out of the cavern, I saw only Ah Xiang and Shirley Yang standing near the entrance. Fatty and Uncle Ming were gone.

Hearing the noise behind him, Shirley Yang quickly turned and grabbed my arm, halting my momentum. I looked a few meters ahead and saw the terrain made a sharp right-angle drop. My heart sank. Had Fatty and Uncle Ming fallen off a cliff? Ignoring the soreness from the impact, I immediately looked at Shirley Yang’s face, hoping to find confirmation of their safety in her eyes. Shirley Yang looked worried and shook her head at me. She had followed Fatty and Uncle Ming, and the inertia nearly sent her plummeting as well. It was only because she was quick, managing to hook her ice axe onto a large piece of nearby mica, that she avoided falling directly down. She then managed to catch Ah Xiang, who followed her, arriving only a minute before me.

My worry intensified. I rushed to the edge of the stratum break to look down. We were standing in an astonishingly large crystal mine. Water droplets occasionally seeped from the ceiling, dozens of meters high, where an underground lake hung overhead. Veins of crystal crisscrossed the area, and the ceiling was a thicket of crystals pointing downward. Any movement below sent hundreds of distorted shadows dancing above, as if we had entered an inverted hall of mirrors. We stood on a platform at the entrance, with a blinding white mist beneath our feet. This cloud-like substance, appearing like smoke or vapor, was stone vapor resulting from geological activity causing crystallization—less dense than crystal dust, odorless, tasteless, yet cohesive, maintaining a constant height that divided the cavern into two layers. The lower part resembled a lake formed of white clouds. Since we couldn't see the bottom, the stone mist obscured the terrain, making the cavern seem broad and flat, though it didn't feel particularly oppressive.

Emerging from this sea of clouds was a mountain mass the color of yellow jade. The platform where we stood connected to the summit of this jade mountain via a stone stalk—a thick vine, part fossilized, part plant-like, formed into a precarious aerial bridge for passage. I tested it; it felt sturdy enough to bear our weight. Standing on it and looking down, clouds churned beneath my feet; I couldn't see the terrain below. Was it an abyss? A pool? Or, like the ceiling, a dense field of crystals? Fatty and Uncle Ming definitely hadn't stopped; they must have fallen through. I asked Ah Xiang if she could see below, but her eyes, swollen from the tape, made even people blurry; she was useless for spotting anything else.

Shirley Yang and I shouted down a few times with no response, increasing our anxiety. Just as I was contemplating how to get a rope down to search for them, Fatty's voice echoed up from beneath the cloud layer: "Commander Hu, hurry up and drop the rope to get me! My backside feels like it’s been split into eight pieces!"

Hearing Fatty, I immediately relaxed. Judging by his voice, the drop wasn't too deep. We were standing on the aerial bridge, not far above his head. I called back, "Where am I supposed to get a rope? I can't even twist bark into one in time. Can you find a spot and climb up yourself? Oh, and how's Uncle Ming? Did he fall down there too?"

Fatty shouted back through the thick stone mist, "Uncle Ming lost his climbing helmet and cracked his head open on the crystal below! Who knows if he's alive or dead. This place is layered with this mist, and the ground below is all mirror-like stone. If I move an inch, everything around me wobbles. I can't even find a way to climb out, I keep hitting walls! You better find a rope fast. When Uncle Ming fell, he nearly collapsed this whole area. We might sink into the lake and end up feeding the turtles soon."

Hearing that Uncle Ming had hit his head and that there was a danger of collapse, I knew the situation was grim, but our climbing ropes had been lost earlier; we had no suitable cordage.

Shirley Yang suddenly remembered the 'load-bearing straps' and 'utility belts' everyone carried. Everyone had them, and they could be tied together; they were strong enough. She quickly got to work, lowering a load-bearing strap. First, she had Fatty tie up all his and Uncle Ming's ropes and straps—anything sturdy—to ours. We pulled up Fatty's backpack and rifle first, then tied up and hoisted Uncle Ming.

Uncle Ming’s face was covered in blood. I reached out to touch it and realized it didn't feel quite like blood. I immediately groaned, "Damn it, Uncle Ming has 'returned to origin'—his brains are spilling out." Hearing that her godfather’s brains were leaking, Ah Xiang’s nose tingled, and she started crying again.

Shirley Yang snapped, "Stop talking nonsense! It's just blood. The hemoglobin is starting to change, but he still has a pulse. He might just be stunned. Let's wrap the wound first."

While bandaging Uncle Ming, I tried to comfort Ah Xiang, "Don't cry. A little blood loss won't kill him. At worst, it's a concussion... a mild concussion."

Fatty waited below, growing impatient: "Hey, are you guys ever going to deal with me? If you're going to mourn Uncle Ming, at least pull me up first! We can all cry together, right?"

It then occurred to me that Fatty wasn't built like Uncle Ming; hauling him up wouldn't be easy. I lowered the load-bearing strap. "I can only assist; I can't pull you up alone. You need to use some initiative."

Fatty pulled the rope from below and called out, "Even though I'm full of 'initiative,' I'm not a jet plane; I can't just jump up here."

I guided the strap toward the rock face next to the stem bridge. With a directional guide, Fatty scrambled below, moving up and down, maneuvering through the crystal maze. He managed to latch onto a protrusion on the rock wall. With Shirley Yang and me pulling from above, he finally made it up. The fall hadn't been gentle; even with knee and elbow pads, his tailbone ached terribly, and it took him a while to recover.

The bleeding from Uncle Ming's head had stopped. I checked his pulse; it was relatively stable. But if we didn't reach the altar soon to lift the curse, he might be the first to 'return to origin.' Given our shared fate, I couldn't abandon him. After everyone caught their breath, Fatty hoisted Uncle Ming onto his back. We stepped onto the pale yellow stone peak using the aerial bridge suspended over the clouds. The terrain here formed a very regular semicircle, topped by a line of fluttering flag-like clouds, giving an aura of ethereal mystery. Occasionally, ghost-fire-like lights—hundreds of them, blinking on and off—flickered from the crystal veins overhead, dazzling as a star-strewn sky.

On the pale yellow, spherical mountain, the darker patches faintly suggested the ancient features of a face, though it clearly wasn't man-made. Up close, the stone peak’s geological structure was undecipherable—part sacred, part fossilized. Occasionally, we heard the crisp, clear sound of running water from deep within. The Xun Long Jue spoke of a 'Dragon Elixir' beneath the Ancestor Dragon's peak; perhaps this subterranean spire was that 'Dragon Elixir' where vital energy coalesced, as seen by Feng Shui masters.

I kept looking back at the scene behind us. Whatever was in the white tunnel had clearly stopped at the entrance and hadn't followed us in. But our route back was completely severed. However, I couldn't worry about confronting it on the return journey now, especially since I hadn't mentioned the last thing I saw in the tunnel to avoid increasing their stress further.

The end of the roof beam led directly into the mountain's core. The internal space was not large. There were two pools of water on the floor, and the walls were carved with ferocious ghosts. On either side stood dozens of ancient, hardy white stone figures, slightly taller than an average man. Each held a stone bowl resembling a giant serving dish. I remembered the ritual depicted in the human skin murals—eyes plucked out were placed in such vessels. I looked into the stone basins, but they were empty.

Seeing we had arrived, Fatty laid Uncle Ming on the ground to rest. Uncle Ming woke up then but seemed disoriented, shaking his head and saying nothing, not even recognizing his goddaughter.

The altar area contained several smaller grottoes, heavily imbued with religious mysticism. I took out the Head of the Tribute King—that 'Phoenix Gallbladder'—and asked Shirley Yang if she had found a way to use it. The longer we delayed, the more danger we faced in this life-or-death matter.

Shirley Yang was intensely focused on one spot. The area was surrounded by bizarre, grotesque carvings. On the floor was a human-shaped depression, limbs spread wide, clearly an execution site. Years of accumulated blood had stained the stone trough from pale yellow to a dark crimson; just looking at it felt cruel.

It took me asking twice before Shirley Yang snapped back to attention. Her face was ashen. After taking several deep breaths, she pointed at the stone slabs, signaling for me to look myself.

Although I was unfamiliar with these ancient, mysterious rites, the carvings here were so direct that even I could grasp the essence. After only a few glances, my own breathing grew labored. I finally asked Shirley Yang near the dark-red, human-shaped trough, "To perform the ceremony, we need at least one living sacrifice. Without this victim, none of us can leave alive. But who can we just casually sacrifice? Are we supposed to draw lots?"