The Stone Stem Sky Beam, crafted from an entire ancient fossilized tree, stretched over thirty meters long and about five meters wide, meticulously sturdy, disappearing into the white clouds below. One end connected to the platform before the white tunnel, the other reaching directly into the cavern entrance within the heart of Jade Mountain's altar mountain. Numerous ancient white stone figures stood upon the Sky Beam, startlingly similar to the Celestial Staging Diagram found in the Tomb of the Xian King.

Uncle Ming perched atop the shoulder of one stone figure, raising the hand that clutched the Phoenix Gall high, reaching out beyond the edge of the Sky Beam. Fatty and I dared not move rashly—even without intervention, Uncle Ming had an old affliction: the moment he became tense, his hands would shake uncontrollably, making it impossible to hold anything steady. Should the gem fall into the mirror labyrinth below, retrieving it would take more than a short while; our time was perilously short. This placed Uncle Ming in the position of holding an extremely unstable bomb, and should anything go wrong, the five of us were fated to perish together.

Uncle Ming’s head was wrapped in bandages; his eyes wide, teeth clenched, his entire being whipped into hysteria by a storm of excitement, fury, and hatred. This was the most dangerous moment; perhaps one more sliver of pressure, and the fuse in his mind would blow, leaving him teetering right on the precipice of a total mental collapse.

He shrieked at the top of his lungs, threatening to toss the Phoenix Gall far down if anyone dared disobey his order to back off. I was utterly helpless, forced to retreat several steps, cursing Uncle Ming’s entire ancestry under my breath. This old Hong Kong rogue was truly devious—after plummeting into the crystal layer below, although his head was cracked and bleeding profusely, they were superficial injuries; he had only been briefly stunned. By the time we were debating the execution of the killing ritual, he had already been fully lucid. Yet, upon sensing the tide turning against him, he feigned severe brain damage, and upon learning the crucial significance of the Phoenix Gall, he resorted to trickery to seize it. We were caught off guard, our minds complicated by conflicting emotions, and we fell right into the Hong Kong rogue’s trap.

Regardless, the priority was to stabilize him. I gave Fatty and Shirley Yang a subtle signal behind my back to remain completely still, instructing them that if they had to strike, their blow must be fatal, eliminating any risk that could cause the Phoenix Gall to be lost. Then, I spoke to Uncle Ming on the stone figure: “Why must you go to such lengths, Elder? We are all caught on the same rope; if you cannot leave, neither can I, and I never intended to sacrifice anyone! Fatty’s words earlier were based solely on the assumption that you had become incapacitated; since you are physically fine, I urge you to stop this charade now, come down, and let us discuss another path.”

Uncle Ming sneered, his facial muscles contorting from sheer agitation, spitting out, “Bah! You clever little brats think you can still fool your old uncle! Think I, ‘Little Zhuge’ Lei Xianming, would be duped? I was slaughtering chickens and burning yellow paper at thirteen, sailing to the South Seas at fourteen, and personally ending a life at fifteen. I’ve faced bandits blocking the road and man-eating fish in the water; I’ve navigated half a lifetime through gunfire and monstrous storms—how could I possibly fall for your trickery and lose my life!”

I retorted, “You’ve got that backward. What do you mean we’re being too clever? If you hadn't been so suspicious back then, refusing to trust my counsel and insisting we couldn't separate even in death, we wouldn’t be in this predicament now. That’s what they mean by hard truths being hard to swallow! And it’s dragged Ah Xiang into this mess—what did she ever do to deserve this? Arguing about this now is useless. We must weather this storm together, or none of us will have a place to be buried!”

Fatty bristled with rage, rolling up his sleeves and adopting the look of a man ready to kill: “Old Hu, why waste breath on him! If he wants to hold us hostage, it just proves he cherishes his old life. I refuse to believe the old bastard would dare throw the gem away! Let’s just rush over and chop him into eight pieces; whatever needs sacrificing, whatever needs tossing—let’s do it!”

Fatty’s outburst actually scared Uncle Ming, because over the past few days, he had gotten a clear picture of Fatty’s character—the type immune to threats or blandishments. Such people are the hardest to deal with; once angered, they’re capable of anything. As Fatty himself claimed, when he was happy, he wouldn’t hesitate to pinch the backside of a celestial fairy. Uncle Ming’s tension caused his hand to tremble slightly, and he quickly stammered, “No, no… don’t come closer! We can talk this out! Don’t think I won’t do it; if you push me, Fatty, I’ll show you—it’ll be fine if we all die here!”

I knew that although Uncle Ming feared Fatty, a cornered dog will jump, and a desperate man will abandon all limits. Uncle Ming certainly didn't want to die; even if his end was foretold for tomorrow, living one more moment now was better, and you couldn't blame him for being selfish and despicable. Every man for himself is the natural law; even an ant clings to life. Those who sacrifice themselves for the greater good are heroes, but they are still flesh and blood mortals; ninety-nine percent of people lack such high moral awareness—and even among that one percent, many heroes only emerge because they are cornered. No one has the right to demand another die for them, especially not through such a cruel demise.

There was another point: the workings of the human psyche are incredibly subtle, with some shifts entirely inexplicable. For instance, if a person knows they have an incurable, terminal illness with little time left, the resulting anguish is unimaginable. However, if that person suddenly learns that everyone else in the world has contracted the exact same symptoms, they will find significant psychological comfort; the sense of isolation and helplessness will not be as intense. It’s the feeling that if the sky falls, everyone will bear the weight together.

Then Uncle Ming continued, “We’ve all been cursed, but I know there’s a way out, though someone must die. I think… you… you should kill Ah Xiang! I’ve raised her painstakingly all these years; it’s time for her to repay that debt.”

At this point, I had gauged Uncle Ming’s bottom line—he knew perfectly well there were only five people here; killing any one of the three of us—Fatty, Shirley Yang, or me—would guarantee he wouldn't leave alive. Returning from this underground realm to Kharamir was simply impossible for him alone. Moreover, Uncle Ming was unwilling to die here, and under these circumstances, the only sacrifice he would permit was his goddaughter, Ah Xiang. As a fallback, if we refused this condition, Uncle Ming intended to take everyone down with him if he had to die.

Since leaving the altar, I hadn't checked the timing crystal sand, but I guessed little time remained. Now that I had divined Uncle Ming’s limit, I had a strategy. I knew the old rogue didn't want to push things to the absolute limit, meaning there was room for maneuver. Although I couldn't reclaim the Mo Chen Bead, I could gamble on luck. I said to Uncle Ming, “A tiger won’t eat its own cubs; if you kill Ah Xiang to save yourself, what difference is there between you and a beast? You might be willing, but we will not participate in such a depraved act. How about this: you, I, and Fatty—the three men—draw straws for life and death. Let fate decide.”

Uncle Ming saw this as his only chance to live, but a one-in-three chance of death was too high. He ground his teeth and spat out, “My luck has always been decent. I’m notoriously hard to kill; I’m willing to gamble with you, but if we draw straws, all five of us draw. No one gets to sit back and watch; otherwise, we all die together.”

Without waiting for our agreement, Uncle Ming immediately dictated the terms. Everyone had to swear a binding oath: life and death are determined by fate, and whoever draws the death lot accepts it as their misfortune without complaint. Furthermore, he demanded we hand him a handgun, lest someone renege on the deal and try to kill him.

I glanced at Shirley Yang; she nodded at me. I figured we could give him the gun because he wouldn't dare fire it carelessly—he was perfectly aware of the consequences if he did. So, I took Shirley Yang’s 1911, leaving only one bullet, intending to give it to him and use the opportunity to yank him off the stone figure. But Uncle Ming refused to let me approach half a step, ordering me to hand the handgun to Ah Xiang to pass to him.

Once he had the gun, Uncle Ming held the Phoenix Gall in one hand and urged us to swear the oath quickly, stressing that time was running out; if someone drew the "death lot" and the ritual couldn't be performed in time, everything would be for naught.

I thought to myself, It’s just an oath. Oaths have ‘loose clauses’ and ‘binding clauses.’ A ‘loose clause’ involves invoking thunderbolts or some obscure, rare death, or using flowery language. The words sound grand and solemn, but the content is vague and ambiguous—just empty talk, as good as saying nothing. A ‘binding clause’ means swearing a genuine, serious oath, perhaps even involving the entire family or clan; even those who don't believe in oaths wouldn't utter such words lightly.

I, however, was unconcerned. Having never sworn brotherhood or made any formal vows, I wasn't familiar with the specific rhetoric. I raised one hand, signaling I was ready, perpetually ready...

Uncle Ming cried out, “No, no, you’re trying to slip by! I’ll speak first, and you all repeat after me.” He then led the group in a truly binding, severe oath. Out of necessity, we mumbled through a repetition of the same words.

As for the implements for drawing life or death, we had to improvise. We found a small, sealed plastic bag and took the five bullets just removed from the 1911. We marked the tip of one with a red permanent marker to represent the "death lot." We would take turns reaching into the bag, and whoever pulled the marked bullet would die in place of the other four, accepting their fate without a single complaint.

Uncle Ming still felt uneasy and demanded that everyone draw using their gloved hand. I inwardly cursed the old rogue’s cunning, then made a counter-demand: Ah Xiang and Shirley Yang must draw first. This was non-negotiable. With only five lots in total, the earlier you draw, the lower the probability of getting the death lot. However, it was still a matter of chance; every unmarked bullet removed increased the death probability for the remaining ones. It was similar to the Russian Roulette often associated with revolvers, where only one chamber is loaded, except here the number of participants differed.

Uncle Ming gritted his teeth and agreed to this condition. After all, it was possible the first person to draw might step right into the muzzle. Time was slipping away; there was no room for delay in this life-or-death situation where cheating was impossible. I reluctantly braced myself to enter a deadly gamble with Uncle Ming—to see whose fate was harder: the Mojin Xiaowei or his ‘corpse-carrying grave-robbing’ luck. Shirley Yang guided Ah Xiang to draw first. Since Uncle Ming suggested she could be killed, Ah Xiang had been in a state of daze. Mechanically, with Shirley Yang’s help, she reached into the bag, pulled out a bullet, and dropped it on the floor without looking. It was unmarked.

Uncle Ming, watching from atop the stone figure, swallowed hard. The probability of death had now climbed to one in four. In the near-frozen atmosphere, Shirley Yang calmly reached into the bag and drew the second bullet. She seemed mentally prepared, having already dismissed life and death. She slowly opened the hand holding the cartridge, a pale, unmarked bullet resting in her glove. Shirley Yang sighed softly, but there was no discernible relief in her expression.

I reached for the bag, exchanging a look with Fatty. Only three people remained; the one to be sacrificed would be chosen from among us. If Uncle Ming drew the death lot, then so be it; killing him would be justified. If Fatty or I drew it, I resolved to first trick the Phoenix Gall away and then act according to circumstances. With that thought, I asked Uncle Ming, “Do you want to draw first?” Uncle Ming weighed his options for a long moment. He knew he didn't have the nerve to reach in and draw one of three, but if he refused and the next person also drew safely, the risk would jump to fifty percent. After a pause, he shook his head at us, telling me and Fatty to draw first.

Fatty swore under his breath and reached in to retrieve a bullet. He held it pinched between his fingers, looked at the tip, and froze: “Damn it, I must have forgotten to burn incense before leaving the house today. How could Fatty be the one to draw the short straw?”

Seeing that Fatty had drawn the death lot, Uncle Ming did not celebrate. Instead, a murderous glint flashed across his face. He raised his gun, pointed it at Fatty, and snarled, “You little fat dog, you’re even more detestable than Hu Bayi! Die!” He squeezed the trigger.

Fatty was unarmed. Having just drawn the death lot, panic seized him, assuming he was truly about to die. The Sky Beam was narrow, and he hadn't anticipated Uncle Ming would shoot here—surely the sacrifice was supposed to happen at the altar? But Uncle Ming’s mental state was dangerously unstable, and he was determined to act right then. Fatty scrambled wildly behind the stone figure, only then realizing Uncle Ming’s gun had clicked but failed to fire.

When the gun didn't discharge, Uncle Ming instantly froze, then burst into a torrent of curses: “Hu Bayi, you short-lived bastard, you used another trick! You must have removed the primer! Throw it! Let’s all just die then!” He threw the Phoenix Gall upward, sending it plunging into the cloud-lake beneath the Sky Beam.

Although I had tampered with the mechanism beforehand, I had completely underestimated Uncle Ming’s impulsive willingness to shoot right then. Seeing his weapon fail, I tried to rush forward to stop him, but we were still six or seven paces apart. By the time I wrestled Uncle Ming down from the stone figure, it was too late.

Chaos erupted on the Sky Beam. In the confusion, I saw Shirley Yang dash to the edge of the beam, ready to leap down and retrieve the Phoenix Gall, but she suddenly stopped: “No, time’s up!” As she spoke, the light from the crystal veins overhead began to dim rapidly, and darkness started to engulf the surroundings.