Chapter 218

In the undulating mushroom forest, "Wanxia" suddenly curled into a ball, and Pangzi, standing on the "Emperor Mushroom," kept swinging his arms, signaling an emergency retreat. I quickly grabbed Ming Shu's arm and dragged him backward.

Behind me came the rustling of shaking mushrooms—many of them, at least three sides surrounding us, only the lakeside direction clear. I didn't dare look back to see what it was, just sprinted straight toward Pangzi's position. Pangzi never fired his gun, meaning those things were still far off or hadn't caught up yet. When we climbed the terraced mushroom hill and returned to the Emperor Mushroom, Ming Shu collapsed immediately, panting "hoo-hoo-hoo" like a broken bellows.

Pangzi and I took out our binoculars and looked back along our path. In the clearing of the mushroom grove we'd just passed, hundreds of creatures resembling small foxes or snow rats appeared—the "Earth Guanyin." Their fur was finer than silver fox, teeth and claws sharp, adept at digging. Because their cries sounded like tigers, their scientific name is Snow Hu, but they only survive in areas with hot springs or geothermal heat. Naturally cunning and ruthless, in Kalamir they're colloquially called earth wolves or "Earth Guanyin." Many local households use their pelts for daily goods, extremely valuable. They exist in the northeast too, but fewer in number, and their pelts aren't as fine as those from Kunlun Mountain—more like yellow weasels.

The large group of Earth Guanyin formed a white wall, tightly encircling "Wanxia." They moved with strict discipline—none acted rashly, just silently crouched around. After a while, a silver-furred Earth Guanyin crawled out from the ranks, seemingly their leader. It raised its forepaws, stood upright, pushed at the motionless "Wanxia" with its claws, circled it twice, then returned to the group.

The other Earth Guanyin surged forward, approached "Wanxia" at close range, opened their mouths, and blew air into the tight seams of its contracted shell. Soon, "Wanxia" seemed unable to endure the itch, its shell unfolding with no resistance. Dozens of Earth Guanyin flipped it over, belly-up, leaving it helpless as they stripped it.

Due to the distance, though the cave glowed with fluorescence everywhere, dark intervals absorbed and weakened the light. Pangzi and I couldn't see what dark technique the Earth Guanyin used—we only saw the poor "Wanxia" shrink like a shrimp, its shell peeled off instantly, revealing translucent flesh beneath. The Earth Guanyin carried off the meat, hauling it to a distant corner.

Pangzi and I stared at each other, perched on the Emperor Mushroom, speechless for a long time. Though hundreds of Earth Guanyin meant nothing to us, that scene was absolutely not something ordinary beasts could do. Their nature is to gather in threes and fives; such massive, orderly aggregation is unheard of. Most astonishing: after stripping "Wanxia," they didn't fight over the food but carried it away as if in ritual—yet they have no habit of storing food like termites. This behavior was utterly abnormal.

Pangzi pondered for a long time and said: "Maybe they know recent prices have risen sharply, want to stockpile scarce goods—this is just a group of speculators hoarding for profit."

I shook my head, suddenly feeling a bad omen. In ancient skin murals recording rituals and legends, and in the tales of the World-Subduing Treasure Pearl Dragon King, the priests of the Demon Kingdom are repeatedly said to command beasts, collectively called "yao slaves." Such control isn't impossible—lost herbal formulas from antiquity could indeed influence simple animal behavior.

I felt the Earth Guanyin were highly unusual—they must be under some power's control. That food wasn't for themselves; likely near the underground altar, something guarded it, and these slaves were bringing it food. If Shirley Yang and Ah Xiang mistakenly entered the altar, they'd be isolated and helpless—trouble would follow.

Seeing the Earth Guanyin troop off into the distance, probably hunting other food, Ming Shu finally caught his breath. I asked if he could walk; if not, he should wait here while we went to the lower underground lake to find the two missing persons. Perhaps this Emperor Mushroom emits a special odor that keeps ordinary things away—staying here should still be relatively safe.

Ming Shu immediately declared: when he was washed down from the temple by water, he saw no one else, relying on his excellent swimming—he'd crossed great rivers and oceans before, surviving on just a few mouthfuls of water. Now of course he wanted to join the search. If Ah Xiang came to harm, he'd die without peace. So we descended from the Emperor Mushroom, circled to the edge of the underground lake. Here, giant mayflies swarmed—not just in the air, but covering the ground with their bodies and molted nymph carcasses. The whole area lay under a deathly fluorescence.

By the lake were several giant natural tunnels; the underground lake's water drained into them, forming vast dark rivers. This was only the exposed part—adding hidden deeper water systems created this place's immense, tangled water network. No need to say it—we all knew we were basically lost, dared not wander far from the double-layer underground lake. All around was unknown terrain, completely unfamiliar geology and landscape, including strange insects never seen before. Plus, that sieve-like arched ceiling: easy to descend, hard to ascend—no way back from there. Thinking this made me anxious. Shirley Yang had flares and a signal gun; logically she should have contacted us by now, but there was no sign… I really didn't want to think the worst.

This underground lake was huge. We walked along its shore for a long time, having covered less than half a circle, still no trace of Shirley Yang or Ah Xiang. Pangzi seemed fine—always the same, just itching to roast and eat anything he saw. Ming Shu was exhausted and hungry, like a deflated balloon. I encouraged them: this underground lake surely had good things. I'd long heard "Dragon Peak" had the "Dragon Elixir" refined by the Queen Mother of the West—maybe we'd stumble upon a pot while walking. Eat one grain, light as a swallow; two grains, reborn; a handful, and you'd live as long as heaven and earth.

Pangzi said: "Commander Hu, you political commissar again trying to scare us with this talk—I've heard this before, like the blind fortune-teller Chen selling strength pills. Don't mention Dragon Elixir or immortal pills now—just give me some fried soybeans, and I'll be satisfied."

I told Pangzi: "You're thinking like a small farmer—small profit, small peace. What's so great about fried soybeans? I'm not fooling you—this underground lake isn't ordinary water. In feng shui, this is Dragon Peak; these waters are the brain fluid of the Ancestral Dragon. Don't believe me? Drink two sips—it's more nourishing than bean juice. A few mouthfuls will fill you up."

Ming Shu, hearing us talk about food, swallowed and said dismissively: "Bean juice is hard to drink, anyway. Back when I was in Nanyang, I drank everything imaginable—of course I've tried it all. We there also valued feng shui. But does good feng shui mean nutritious water? No such logic, Old Brother Hu—you're just spouting nonsense."

I thought this harbor farmer wasn't as frightened as earlier, like he'd seen three grandsons, so I told Ming Shu: "Feng shui—without true transmission, it's just pseudoscience. How much do you really know about this place's secrets? Let me tell you honestly: this underground lake's water isn't just good to drink—it's worth a fortune. How much is China's dragon vein worth? This lake is worth that much. It's not that only Kunlun has dragon veins; without this lake, the Ancestral Dragon of Kunlun would be nothing. Ancients had a perfect analogy: without Xiangyang and Jingzhou, you can't wage war; without Hanzhong, Bashu can't hold danger; without Guanzhong and Henan, you can't settle Yu. Likewise, since wind and water are objective realities, without this underground water, Kunlun Mountain wouldn't deserve to be the Dragon's Head. Though aside from ancient Demon Kingdom followers, outsiders may never have seen this underground water system, in nearly all feng shui theories, its existence has been proven—this is the work of heaven and earth, the principle of yin and yang."

After that long discourse, Ming Shu was left speechless, but the distraction eased our fatigue. Hunger just had to be endured. Once we found the missing Shirley Yang and Ah Xiang, we could figure out how to sacrifice to the Five Temples. We'd walked nearly a full circle around the lake's edge, and the deeper we went, the colder our hearts felt. No living soul, no corpse—we stared at the lake's heavy black mist, truly fearing they'd already been fed to giant fish, or swept deeper in. Where could one even search in this dark, gurgling abyss?

Just as we grew frantic, planning to search the lower-level underground lake's channels, suddenly from the center of the lower lake, a flare rose into the air, hanging there and illuminating the entire lake surface. Startled mayflies dragged their light tails in all directions, chaotic and dancing—this scene was like fireworks bursting in a dark sky, brilliant and radiant.

Pangzi, Ming Shu, and I exchanged delighted yet shocked glances. Shocked: we'd searched the lake in vain, but there was actually a small island in the dark lake center—truly unexpected. Delighted: since a flare was fired, Shirley Yang must at least still be alive, perhaps Ah Xiang beside her. But under the pale light, the island showed only a conical mound—no human silhouette. The light faded; before we could look closer, it vanished into the lake's darkness.

Ming Shu startled: if no one was there, who fired the flare? And why the delay in signaling? These questions all pointed to one thing: perhaps the island had a trap, luring us in—recklessly going would mean getting ambushed like dumplings in a pot. We should think carefully.

I ignored Ming Shu's guess. While the flare still hung unextinguished, I raised my binoculars and studied the lake's terrain. The island was indeed empty, but I noted the flare's launch angle—it was vertical, not the usual arc we use. Moreover, the angle was wrong, meaning the flare was fired from below the waterline. There must be a cave opening on that island; they might have fallen in. No delay—we had to swim over quickly to reinforce them.

The three of us quickly readied our gear, took out the last remaining searchlight, didn't dare delay, and plunged into the underground lake, swimming desperately toward the island. But we found this lonely little island in the lake—no footprints nearby, not even a trace of cave entrance on the ground. Only behind a rock lay a discarded MI911 pistol, its ammo expended, shells scattered around, as if a fierce battle had occurred. The pistol's owner was clearly Shirley Yang.

This island was about half a football field in size, raised in the middle like an inverted horn—terrain very strange. I looked at the rocks underfoot and told Pangzi and Ming Shu: "This is a dead volcano in an underground mountain, with a crater on top. If they're still alive, they might have fallen into the crater." Having said that, I sprinted ahead, Pangzi dragging Ming Shu behind me.

After just a few steps, I saw volcanic rock scattered with many rotted, decayed cypress trunks; nearby stone piles looked artificially stacked. Could the belly of this dead volcano be the underground altar of E Luo Hai City? As we walked, I suddenly saw a severed human hand on the ground, blood still wet—a woman's hand, with a ring for good fortune on the finger, the one the Iron Staff Lama gave Ah Xiang.