"Watch and learn, Hinson!" Mr. Egg snatched a fistful of dry grass from the woodpile, cramming it into the stove’s belly. "Light the end sticking out."

　　I pulled my flint striker, scraping steel against stone—shhhk-shhk-shhk! Sparks showered the grass. A bright tongue of flame licked up instantly.

　　Mr. Egg crouched, puffing air into the fledgling fire. Hoo—hoo—HOO! Flames roared to life… then coughed back a plume of soot straight into his face.

　　*“Gah! Cough! See? Wheeze! Fire-building ain’t your Jetboil ballet!” He slapped soot off his pants, hefting the dented steel bowl onto the stove.

　　“Got it! Thanks for teaching the ropes, Mr. Egg!” I pocketed the flint, grinning.

　　He eyed me sidelong. “Why the caveman tools? A torch lighter won’t bite.”

　　“Reliability. High altitude. Deep freeze.”

　　“Please,” he snorted. “Butane torch lighters laugh at blizzards.”

　　“Eh… habit, I guess.”

　　“Kid doesn’t smoke—shocker.” He lit a cigarette with a sleek titanium lighter. Fwoosh.

　　I chuckled, nodding at the snow-packed bowl. “Seriously—where’d you score this?”

　　He took a slow drag, smoke curling like a secret. “I’ve got my ways.”

　　“Pfft! Playing Mystic Meg now, are we?”

　　While waiting for snowmelt, we unrolled sleeping pads and bags. I’d even brought heavy-duty shrink-wrap plastic to cover the grimy kang bed—perfect fit.

　　“Gotta savor this—warm sleep in this godforsaken ravine!” Mr. Egg changed into dry thermals, hanging soaked clothes on a makeshift clothesline strung near the stove.

　　“Whoa—where’d that line come from?” I swore it wasn’t there earlier.

　　“Guyline! 3mm Dyneema—used it on the ridge descent, remember?”

　　“When’d you rig this? Ninja moves!” I added my damp layers to the line.

　　My boots squelched with sweat. I yanked out the insoles, stuffed ’em with paper towels, draped socks over the tops—keep creepy-crawlies out.

　　“Man, you’re meticulous!” Mr. Egg gave an air fist-bump.

　　Honestly? I’d have dried the boots by the stove—if glue wouldn’t melt. Waterproof membranes suck for breathability. Thank God for merino wool socks or my feet’d reek like roadkill.

　　With freeze-dried rice pouches ready, we watched snow crawl toward water-state. Boredom struck.

　　“Sir… which god is this shrine for?”

　　“NOW you’re asking!” Mr. Egg crushed unmelted snow, eyes gleaming. “Bet your bottom dollar nobody else knows!”

　　“Huh? Locals worship here—surely they know?”

　　“Snort! This dump sees more rats than pilgrims. Only visitors: mountain rangers… and one Tibetan caretaker.”

　　“Tibetan? But they’re only in Gannan region—”

　　“What if I told you… he trekked from Zhagana?”

　　“...No way.”

　　“Full story then.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

　　“Way back when, tiny Tibetan group settled here. God knows why—place makes Siberia seem cozy. Predictably? Life sucked. They bailed… but left this behind—” He gestured at the altar. “A shrine to King Gesar—their warrior-god.”

　　“King Gesar? That altar’s for King Gesar?” Hinson’s jaw hung slack. “But this temple’s pure local Han architecture!”

　　“Temple’s a later add-on.” Mr. Egg eyed the altar. “Decades back—maybe centuries—a herb-hunter found this lone statue. No clue which god, but figured ‘where there’s a god, build a temple!’ Rallied villagers to slap this shack together.” He snorted. “Originally honored more deities. Time ate the others.”

　　“Now the Tibetan style makes sense! But how’d you uncover this?”

　　Mr. Egg stroked his beardless chin like a wise sage. “Now that’s a campfire tale…”

　　“We’ve got all night.” Hinson cross-legged on the bedroll, eyes wide.

　　“Then listen up!” Mr. Egg sipped tea, slipping into storyteller mode.

　　“You know I’m China’s premier Qinling mushroom scholar. But what you don’t know…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Young me dreamed big: a complete genetic library of every Qinling fungus!”

　　“Holy biomass! Think big, Professor!”

　　“I was your age! Hauled this military-surplus rucksack, swinging a geological hammer—single-handedly cataloging fungi for weeks. Came out looking like a Yeti’s cousin!” He chuckled darkly. “Worst was chasing a hubcap-sized reishi on a cliff. Slipped—tumbled straight into dagger bamboo.” Mr. Egg mimed slashing. “Clawed out looking like ground beef. Shredded clothes, blood-river forearms…”

　　“Holy hell! You were hardcore, sir! Did you get the reishi?”

　　“Nope!” Mr. Egg slapped his knee, scowling. “Total waste of damn skin! Lost the mushroom AND bled like a stuck pig. If that herb hunter hadn’t dragged me out? Still rotting in that ravine!”

　　“Jesus—” Hinson’s mouth hung open.

　　“Worst part?” Mr. Egg leaned in, voice dropping. “My clothes were plastered to me—blood and mud turned ‘em into concrete. Poor guy had to soak me with his grandpa’s mystery herbs just to peel ’em off!”

　　“Gah…” Hinson squirmed, phantom itch crawling up his spine.

　　“Couldn’t repay him proper. Gave him my ice axe. Still hangs in his damn cowshed.”

　　“Thought you’d romance his daughter!” Hinson grinned.

　　“Ass!” Mr. Egg’s glare could’ve melted steel. “But it taught me something.”

　　“What?”

　　“My dream? Cataloging all Qinling fungi? Bigger than one man.” He spread his hands. “So I pivoted: buy local mushrooms, hire villagers to hunt rarities.”

　　“But you still go out?”

　　“Hell yeah!” Mr. Egg’s eyes sparked. “Like now.”

　　“Wait—this trip’s really about mushrooms?” Hinson gaped.

　　“Told you weeks ago!” Mr. Egg feigned indignation, then dropped his voice. “Level with you… we’re chasing something nobody’s documented. Find it? Biology community loses its damn mind.”

　　“How big?”

　　“Big?” Mr. Egg scoffed. “NSFC grants raining like confetti. Tenure? Automatic. Journals begging for scraps.”

　　“Bullshit. NSFC’s harder than Everest’s north face!”

　　“Dead serious.” Mr. Egg leaned closer. “Know the rarest mushroom type?”

　　Hinson shook his head.

　　“Bioluminescent. Glow-in-the-dark. Fewer than 15 species worldwide.”

　　“So…” Hinson’s eyes widened. “Winter… high altitude… you need cold-adapted glowing fungi?”

　　“Bingo!” Mr. Egg beamed. “Glow + alpine growth = headlines. But that’s not the kicker…”

　　“What else?”

　　“Texture’s like Jell-O. Probably tastes like lychee jelly.”

　　“And toxicity?”

　　“Taste first, test later!” Mr. Egg licked nervous saliva.

　　“But… if it’s undiscovered,” Hinson frowned, “how d’you know the details?”

　　“That’s where this dump comes in.” Mr. Egg jabbed a thumb at the temple walls.

　　Turned out, park rangers tipped him off about this place. Years back, he’d helped them bust poachers—risked his hide. Earned their trust. Over beers, they spilled the mountain’s secrets, this temple included.

　　Earlier this year, Mr. Egg got caught in a freak storm while mushroom-hunting. Bailed to this shack. That Zhagana Tibetan? He answered the door. Over tea, the caretaker unraveled the temple’s past:

　　“My people don’t know which clan left King Gesar. Old tales get fuzzy. But when word spread about this shrine, devout pilgrims like me came—taking turns guarding it. That iron pot? Rangers left it for stews during patrols.” Mr. Egg paused. “But come winter? Caretaker leaves. Rangers skip visits. Poachers and grave robbers creep in. So now—they take the damn pot. Starve those assholes.”

　　“MUSHROOMS, professor!” Hinson cut in. “Where’s the fungi?”

　　“Hold your horses, kid! Gold’s coming.” Mr. Egg’s smirk was pure torture.

　　“The mushroom was the caretaker’s find. Dude lived here months! Rangers brought rice, but he foraged—herbs, mushrooms… survival. My visit? He’d just found this luminous fungus. Too scared to eat it. Then—“ Mr. Egg mimed a lightbulb flash. “—enter Professor Mushroom! He shows me.”

　　“Man ate rabbit though?” Hinson mumbled.

　　“Hunted cottontails. Rangers turned a blind eye. But quit food-jacking my story!”

　　“He hands me this mushroom…” Mr. Egg’s voice hushed. “Twenty years studying fungi—never saw anything so alive. Storm-darkened temple… this thing glowed. Pale blue. Translucent. Like frozen Arctic ocean light.”

　　“Why not take it?”

　　“I tried!” He slammed his fist. “WHOOSH—wind blasts the door open. Rain sheets in. Then… boom! Some ghost-pale pheasant dives in, snatches the mushroom mid-air, and vanishes.” Mr. Egg stared into the fire. “Chased it barefoot into the storm. Watched that glow disappear over ridges.”

　　Hinson sighed, sharing the ache. “But… summer find. Why winter hunt?”

　　“Life, kid! Caretaker couldn’t pinpoint the spot. I had to bail—sick parent, kid’s school chaos. Then…” Mr. Egg leaned in. “A ranger found a twin mushroom here last month. Plucked it—rot to slime in three hours. So here we are—racing decay itself.”

　　“Damn…”