In the early winter of the Qinling Mountains, frost and snow blanketed the sky.

　　My "old teammate," Professor Li Gangdan (affectionately known as Mr. Egg), had secured legal mountain access under the guise of scientific research. He eagerly took me to traverse an unnamed ridge nestled within the range.

　　Shortly after leaving the car, we followed a pre-set GPS trail into the woods at the foot of the mountain. The surrounding rime was indeed picturesque, but for someone like me, who grew up in Northeast China, such scenery was nothing out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, Professor Li, walking ahead, kept extolling the beauty of the Qinling Mountains, insisting that the ridge would leave me "dumbstruck."

　　"Right," I replied.

　　"What? Don’t believe me?" Before he could finish, a thunderous roar erupted behind us. The deafening echo reverberated through the valleys, making us turn around in alarm.

　　"What was that?" I craned my neck to peer into the distance, yet saw nothing but endless forests and snow.

　　"Oh no, Xiaohui! Could we have stumbled upon tomb raiders in these mountains?" Professor Li's nervous expression sent a ripple of panic through me.

　　It's said the Qinling Mountains hide many ancient tombs, making them a hotspot for grave robbers. Since the rocks here are tough as nails, these tomb raiders often blast their way in with dynamite. But setting off explosions in broad daylight? That's ballsier than a fox in a henhouse!

　　"Never mind that, let's scram!" Mr. Egg feared being offed by the tomb raiders, hauling me up the ridge like a bat out of hell.

　　"Come off it! Ain't they worried the reserve rangers will catch 'em red-handed?"

　　"Ha! You greenhorns don't know squat about the underworld! I'm tellin' ya, some folks would sell their granny for a quick buck!" He spat while bolting forward like his pants were on fire.

　　"No need to hightail it like this! Even if they're tomb raiders, they'd be digging near the blast site, not tunneling through the whole damn mountain!" I yanked his sleeve to slow his roll.

　　"Hmm, you've got a point..." He paused on the slope, squinting back. "But... That bang sounded straight-up like TNT! What if it's poachers?"

　　Now he was really off the rails. "Cut the crap! Poachers pack heat, not explosives!"

　　But the old Egg wouldn't drop it. With a grimace, he launched into some tall tale about poaching in Mount Taibai...

　　Back in the day, he claimed, gangs would sneak into the Qinling Taibai Mountain Reserve armed to the teeth. These yahoos didn't just carry rifles – they had homemade "dumb bombs" rigged to blow. Here's the kicker: Those contraptions wouldn't explode if you lit 'em with a match, but splash some kerosene on 'em and – BOOM! – they'd go off if a mouse farted. Poachers used these devilish traps to blast animals munching on bait. And if the "Taibao" – the reserve rangers – came sniffing around? Those bastards would plant the bombs as landmines! Nasty business, I tell ya.

　　These yahoos didn't just pack heat – they rigged homemade "dumb bombs" for hunting. Here's the kicker: Those contraptions wouldn't blow if you lit 'em with a blowtorch, but splash some kerosene on 'em and – BOOM! – they'd go off if a leaf farted! The poachers baited these devil traps with meat. Any critter taking the bait got turned into ground beef instantly. And if the "Taibao" – the reserve rangers – came sniffing around? Those bastards planted the bombs as landmines! Sick sons of bitches, I tell ya.

　　"What the hell? That's ballsy!"

　　"Tell me about it!" He cocked an eyebrow like this was old news.

　　"But... those dumbasses ever screw up?" I asked.

　　"Damn straight! Play with fire and you'll get burned!" Mr. Egg grinned, spinning some rumor he probably heard at a backwater bar.

　　Couple years back, some herb-picking locals got jumped by a leopard – almost got turned into cat food. News like that spreads faster than wildfire in these hills. So these money-hungry morons snuck past the rangers, hell-bent on bagging a few leopards for their pelts.

　　Talk about bad luck – those chuckleheads spent a whole week in the mountains without spotting so much as a rabbit turd! When their supplies ran low, they decided to try one last ditch trap. Found some game trail and planted their dumb bomb. Wouldn't ya know it? On their final damn day, they blew up a black bear!

　　No leopard, but bear parts fetch good money too. Some rookie got trigger-happy with his skinning knife. Little did he know – the bear was just knocked cold! That first stab woke Mr. Grumpy real quick. The dazed bear roared up, swatted the idiot ten feet into a pine tree – SPLAT! – brains everywhere.

　　The others pissed their pants, dropped their gear and bolted like scared rabbits – didn't even fire a warning shot! Ran twenty miles nonstop... straight into a ranger patrol. Got collared faster than you can say "poach my ass!"

　　"HA! Serves 'em right!" I slapped my knee howling.

　　"Keep it down, dumbass! You'll bring the whole mountain down on us!" Mr. Egg hissed, finger to lips. "These bastards play dirty! After the bust, their buddies poisoned three wells along the patrol routes! Only reason nobody croaked? Some local tipped off the rangers."

　　"Holy shit! These sons of bitches could give the Hoh Xil poachers a run for their money!"

　　"So, we'd better scram before those poachers spot us!" With that, Mr. Egg turned and trudged ahead without hesitation. His warnings spooked me enough to hurry after him.

　　As we gained elevation, the snow deepened until it threatened to swallow our calves. Each step required wrestling our boots free from the quicksand-like drift. If not for the gaiters, snow would've flooded our footwear long ago.

　　"Mr. Egg, let's take five! I'm dead on my feet!" I doubled over, panting like a steam engine.

　　"Alright, rest it is. I'm bushed too." Mr. Egg jabbed his trekking poles into the snow, shrugged off his pack, and plopped onto a partially cleared boulder. "Oh, Xiaohui—better strap on the snowshoes. This powder's waist-deep."

　　"Roger that." I found a rock to perch on and buckled the two-kilogram snowshoes onto my boots.

　　"Solid upgrade!" Testing them in deeper snow, I barely sank—it felt like walking on clouds. Still skeptical, I tackled a steep slope. Whoa! The steel crampons under these bad boys bit into the soft snow like pitons, holding firm as bedrock.

　　"Told ya they'd work!" Mr. Egg grinned smugly.

　　"Listen, this baby works like a charm on both snow and ice!" With that, Mr. Egg actually spotted a glossy patch of ice beneath a boulder. He dragged his snowshoe onto the slick surface, then—predictably—yelped and ate shit face-first.

　　"Mr. Egg!" I bolted over like a startled deer, bypassing all "should I help fallen elders" debates.

　　After wrestling his deadweight up (he later claimed it "nearly knocked the wind outta me!"), I pointed at the ice spike where he'd fallen. The damn thing stood waist-high, its tip glinting like a diamond in the sunlight.

　　"Holy hell..." He wiped sweat off his brow. "That could've cracked my ribs like kindling!"

　　"Damn straight!" I eyed the rock ledge above—meltwater from its snowcap had dripped into this deadly icicle.

　　"Hiking's no cakewalk – watch your step!" I hammed up a radio announcer voice.

　　"Yeah, yeah..." Mr. Egg dusted snow off his pants, wincing.

　　"You good?"

　　"What? You wanna piggyback my ass down?"

　　"Hard pass!" I threw up defensive hands, mocking my noodle arms versus his dad bod.

　　After catching our breath, we pushed through thickening snow toward the treeline.

　　Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the woods ahead. I froze, ears pricked like a fox.

　　"What's up?" Mr. Egg halted, tracking my alert stance.

　　"Someone's there." The words barely left my lips when another shout erupted ahead—deep and booming, like a burly lad's.

　　"Holy shit! What the hell? Actual folks in this wasteland?"

　　"Poachers, you think?" I tensed up.

　　"Doubt it." Mr. Egg scratched his stubble. "We're past the treeline here. No game for poachers. Rangers patrol this edge to bust hikers trespassing into the core zone."

　　"This area's restricted?"

　　"Damn straight! Illegal entry means seven days in the slammer plus a 5K yuan fine!"

　　"The hell? Let's bail!" I spun toward the downhill trail.

　　Mr. Egg snagged my collar. "Chill, kid! I'm a tenured professor—pocket change for the fine. Jail's just fieldwork with worse food."

　　"You rich ass! I can't afford this! Plus a police record would nuke my civil service exam hopes! Let go!" I writhed free as his cackles echoed.

　　"HAHAHA! Xiaohui! You're a riot, I swear!" His laugh lines deepened like canyons.

　　"What's so funny?"

　　"Genius! We've got permits!" He flicked my forehead. "Dumbass!"

　　"Oh. Right." Heat rushed to my ears.

　　"Move it!" He stomped ahead.

　　Minutes later, the eerie cries persisted—guttural, less human. I nudged Mr. Egg. He froze, ear cocked, then paled.

　　"We're screwed."

　　"What now?" My throat tightened.

　　"Not human. Definitely not."

　　"Then what? "

　　Mr. Egg's jaw clenched. "Budorcas taxicolor. A lone one."

　　My blood turned to slush. "Budorcas taxicolor...?"

　　Before the trip, I'd stumbled upon news of Budorcas taxicolor (Takin) attacking tourists in the Qinling Mountains and did my homework. These beasts can weigh up to 400kg—alert, territorial, and built like tanks. Herd-bound Takin are mostly chill except sentry bulls, but lone males? Pure rage on hooves. Outrun them? No shot. Outfight them? You might as well hug a grenade.

　　"Whistles! Now!" Mr. Egg whipped out an emergency whistle faster than a gunslinger, blasting eardrum-shattering screeches.

　　I followed suit, huffing the whistle like my life depended on it—which it did. The valley echoed with our desperation. Maybe it worked—the Takin's bellows ceased, fading into the pines.

　　"We good?" I gasped, cheeks burning like I'd run a marathon.

　　"Should be." Mr. Egg plopped onto the snow, wheezing. "Took students here years back. Heard sentry bulls make that exact call! Damn senile memory..."

　　"You've seen a live Takin?" I leaned against a pine, chest heaving.

　　"Yep! Looks like a steroid-pumped sheep. Locals call 'em 'mountain mutton'." His breath fogged the air.

　　"Research mission that time?"

　　"Field trip. Students ain't allowed this deep. Dean would have my hide!"

　　"Ah..." I nodded. "So...what's this winter 'research' really about?"

　　"Mushrooms!"

　　"The hell? Winter mushrooms?"

　　"Exactly! No competition for rare fungi now!" He patted his pack, grinning.

　　The penny dropped—his "research permit" was bullshit! I'd hauled gear up mountains dodging poachers and Takin for this?

　　"No wonder you're bald," I muttered.

　　"Eh?"

　　"I said you're brilliant!"

　　"Kid, you'll learn." His smirk screamed "dirty professor"—flip-flops, plaid shirt, laser pointer in one hand, dad jokes in the other...

　　"Thank God I'm not your student!"

　　As I savored this thought, the thunderous roar erupted again—closer now, branches snapping like gunfire.