Chapter 18: The Burdened Advance

　　Scarface stared at the foul-smelling bear paws, his expression flickering with unreadable thoughts. After a long silence, he spat viciously into the sack. He hoisted it as if to hurl it into the mountain gully, only to hesitate and lower it again. In the end, he retied the opening and looked back at Mr. Egg.

　　“You got a smoke, old-timer?”

　　“Brother, it’s not that I lack basic decency. That really was my last one. Don’t believe me? Look.”

　　With that, Mr. Egg turned out every pocket of his jacket and pants. The white linings were cleaner than his face—not a shred of tobacco in sight.

　　“Fine.”

　　Scarface said nothing more. Dragging the sack, he limped back up the mountain path. As they passed each other, Mr. Egg caught a fleeting glint of murderous intent in the man’s eyes. It vanished in an instant, but it was enough to make Mr. Egg’s heart jolt. He instinctively sidestepped. He knew—if not for Scarface’s exhaustion and injured leg, he might not have made it off the mountain alive.

　　Deeply shaken, Mr. Egg abandoned all thought of mushroom hunting. All he wanted was to get down the mountain, reach his car, and go home. But as he hurried along the trail, several uniformed figures suddenly blocked his way. He looked closer—rangers from the Taibai Mountain Nature Reserve.

　　“Illegal entry?”

　　They surrounded him at once.

　　“No, no!” Mr. Egg hurriedly explained. “I’m an associate professor from Annan Forestry University! I’m here for research!” He frantically dug out his campus meal card from his chest pouch and handed it over.

　　“Li Gangdan…”

　　The rangers exchanged looks. “You sure this name isn’t a joke?”

　　“No! My parents gave me that name—you can’t just humiliate a man like that!” Mr. Egg bristled, his eyebrows shooting up.

　　“My family was poor when I was a kid! My parents weren’t educated! They believed the old village superstition that a ‘humble’ name would make a child easier to raise! So my hard, miserable past is funny to you? What’s so damn amusing?!”

　　“Uh… well…”

　　“Well what? You eat rice when you eat, and you speak with reason when you talk! You went straight for a personal attack. Is this the standard of a national nature reserve? Is this what nine years of compulsory education produces?!”

　　As he spoke, Mr. Egg practically slapped his national ID card into their hands, proving that the name on the meal card was indeed his real name.

　　Truth be told, in a war of words, even the entire ranger team put together couldn’t match a single tooth of Mr. Egg’s. Especially since they had mocked him first and lost the moral high ground. Realizing they were in the wrong, the rangers backed off and instead asked whether he had seen a man with a scarred face.

　　“Yes! Just ran into him! He was carrying a sack full of bear paws!”

　　Seeing that the rangers were also caked in mud, Mr. Egg immediately understood that Scarface must have been fleeing from them. He told them everything he knew and pointed out the direction the man had gone.

　　“Thank you, Professor Li.” The lead ranger respectfully returned his documents.

　　“You should head down the mountain now. We’ll handle the rest.”

　　“Alright. Thanks for your hard work.” Mr. Egg paused, then added, “Oh—and be careful. That guy might be armed.”

　　“Understood.”

　　The leader nodded and waved the team onward.

　　Watching the exhausted rangers disappear uphill, Mr. Egg couldn’t help feeling uneasy, worried they might fall victim to Scarface’s cunning. But there was nothing he could do. The best thing was to get off the mountain quickly and not become a burden.

　　The frantic run had left him drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. All he wanted now was some water to wash his face and cool off. Looking around, he remembered a small stream at the foot of a nearby slope. Hoisting his pack, he hurried toward it.

　　The sky was clear, clouds sparse. Mr. Egg took off his shoes and stepped into the stream. Cool, clear water flowed past his ankles, wonderfully refreshing. He bent down and splashed water onto his face, washing away the sweat. A breeze stirred, and his whole body seemed to lighten. Standing in the bright sunlight, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, trying to experience that sense of “oneness with nature.”

　　For a fleeting moment, he felt a hint of enlightenment. Even the sensation of water flowing around his feet seemed to fade—from his ankles down to the tops of his feet.

　　“Huh? Have I really achieved a spiritual breakthrough today?”

　　Puzzled, he opened his eyes.

　　The water level had dropped noticeably. Worse, the stream was turning murky.

　　“Oh no!” Mr. Egg cried out. “Flash flood!”

　　He didn’t even bother drying his feet. In a panic, he pulled on his socks and shoes and turned back up the mountain trail, chasing after the rangers. He knew they were heading straight into a flash-flood-prone area.

　　Despite their visible exhaustion, the rangers were still agile on the mountain paths. Even pushing himself to the limit, Mr. Egg couldn’t catch up. The sun beat down mercilessly, and dizziness forced him to stop for water. He had barely taken a sip when a low, rumbling roar echoed ahead, mixed with faint shouts.

　　This is bad!

　　He dropped the bottle and charged toward the sound.

　　“Stay back! Stay back!”

　　A ranger trapped on a small islet spotted him and shouted desperately, afraid he’d be swept away.

　　The roar of the flood drowned everything out. Mr. Egg could only see the ranger’s mouth moving. Seeing the other rangers stranded helplessly on the bank seven or eight meters away, he sprinted over to them to figure out a rescue plan.

　　“While the water’s still manageable, we might have a chance with a rope team!” the leader yelled over the noise.

　　“Then get a rope!” Mr. Egg shouted back.

　　“He was carrying it! He was the lead!”

　　The leader pointed to the trapped ranger. “The rope got washed away!”

　　“Damn it!”

　　Mr. Egg rolled his eyes, shrugged off his pack, pulled out a coil of 3mm Dyneema cord, doubled it, and measured out roughly ten meters.

　　The rangers immediately understood. They secured one end around a sturdy tree for an anchor. Two of the tallest, strongest rangers clipped in with slings and carabiners and waded into the current. Mr. Egg volunteered to climb a nearby high slope to watch upstream, ready to signal at the first sign of a surge.

　　The water was waist-deep, swift, and murky. The two rescuers were half-floating, their toes barely finding purchase. Watching them sway and struggle on the brink of being swept away, everyone on the bank held their breath. But with their teammate’s life at stake, they gritted their teeth and pushed forward.

　　Spray flew, waves churned, battering their bodies. Sand and silt filled their pants and pockets, weighing them down. With upstream water threatening to rise at any moment, they had no choice but to give everything they had. A distance of just a few meters took over five agonizing minutes, and the diagonal current turned the once-sufficient rope into a hindrance.

　　“Water’s rising! Upstream!”

　　Mr. Egg raised both arms overhead in a “Y” shape—the agreed danger signal.

　　“Hurry! Hurry!” the rangers on the bank shouted, voices hoarse.

　　The two in the water fought desperately and finally grabbed their trapped comrade.

　　“Sling! Connect the sling! Now!” the leader roared.

　　Mr. Egg’s own position was becoming dangerous. Water that had once stayed neatly within the channel was now licking at his toes. If he didn’t retreat soon, even the people on the bank would be in danger.

　　At the critical moment, the trapped ranger showed remarkable calm. His hands moved swiftly and precisely, securing the ropes before he leapt into the flood to assist the others back toward shore. Those on the bank hauled with all their strength, determined to finish before the next surge hit.

　　Mr. Egg kept snapping his gaze between the upstream flow and the rescue below. The two rescuers reached shore; only the originally trapped ranger remained half-swimming. Suddenly, a broken log surged down from upstream, riding a rising wave straight toward them. The wave leapt from the channel, nearly knocking Mr. Egg off his feet.

　　He screamed a warning down the slope, not caring whether he was steady. His foot caught on an old root, and he tumbled head over heels down the embankment.

　　The log raced alongside him, blasting past in a blink and hurtling toward the ranger about to climb out. It plunged into the water, resurfaced through the murk, and spun violently. At the last second, a ranger on the bank grabbed his teammate’s wrist and yanked him clear. The log skimmed past, grazing the spot where his foot had been.

　　“Retreat!”

　　The leader ordered everyone to untie and scramble to higher ground.

　　Mr. Egg staggered up, only to discover the “tree” he’d crashed into toppled over. A familiar, foul stench flooded his nose.

　　“You bastard! You damn old fool—you ran into me!”

　　The “tree” snarled.

　　“Don’t stand there—run!”

　　The rangers rushed to drag Mr. Egg away, none of them noticing the talking “tree” on the ground.

　　“That’s him! Arrest him!”

　　Mr. Egg finally snapped out of it, pointing at Scarface sprawled in the mud. The rangers pounced, subdued the cursing “mud-man,” and hauled him uphill.

　　Afterward, everyone finally reached safety. Mr. Egg collapsed, gasping.

　　“Run, huh? Thought you could run?”

　　The leader pinned Scarface and removed the knife sheath from his belt.

　　“An empty shell,” he said dryly.

　　“You bald old goat—I’ll remember you!” Scarface snarled, pointing at Mr. Egg.

　　That did it. Mr. Egg exploded. Propping himself up, he unleashed a two-minute verbal barrage—no profanity, just pure linguistic annihilation. The scene fell into stunned silence.

　　Scarface’s face burned red, even the old scar darkening with rage. After a long silence, he spat, “Next time I see you, I’ll stab you!”

　　“Hmph. If you ever get the chance.”

　　Mr. Egg lay back down, utterly dismissive.