Chapter 3: The Old Story of Qinling Mountain

　　“Hinson!”

　　I turned to see my classmate Sven approaching me with a grin.

　　“Forgot your umbrella?”

　　“Yeah, rushed out this morning.” I offered an embarrassed smile.

　　“I knew it!” Sven wagged the little umbrella in her hand. “Heading to the dorms? I’ll walk you back—it’s on my way.”

　　“Ah...” I mumbled, hesitating.

　　“Come on!” Impatient as ever—and clearly disliking my hesitancy—Sven snapped the umbrella open and pulled me into the downpour.

　　A sudden gust of wind and rain slammed into us. Sven, slight of build, struggled against the onslaught; the umbrella nearly wrenched free from her grip. Instinctively, I grabbed the handle—and felt how cold Sven’s fingers were in the wet chill. I kept my grip but, feeling awkward, remained silent as we huddled together beneath the small shield. Hugging my computer bag tightly to my chest to protect it from the rain, I didn’t relax until we finally reached the dorm building. One shoulder each was thoroughly soaked. With the semester still a few days away, the elevator lobby was deserted. I closed her umbrella, and we stepped into the elevator together.

　　“Go dry off, don’t catch a cold!” I called after her.

　　“Just hug your precious PC, then!” Sven brushed off my concern. She stormed away the moment the elevator doors opened, radiating anger.

　　Clutching my computer, I stood rooted in place with a baffled expression. What on earth did I do to upset her?

　　Heavyhearted, I trudged back to my dorm room. Evening approached, yet the storm showed no sign of abating; an oppressive gloom hung over the sky. With my roommates yet to return, the entire dormitory stood silent and unnervingly still. Preoccupied with Mr. Egg’s proposed route, I booted up my computer once more.

　　“Namjagbarwa... Namjagbarwa...” I muttered under my breath, scanning the target area’s topographical data on 3D mapping software. Civilian-grade maps could only render contour lines at 10-meter intervals. Even so, the path beyond the eastern pass of Namco Lake made my blood run cold — the contour lines clustered together like a frenzied scribble.

　　I couldn’t fathom it. Mr. Egg was nearing fifty! Why insist on such a treacherous path? According to the map, a clear route existed between Zhiba Village and Namtso Lake — yet he’d vowed to blaze a new trail with me through the eastern sector of Namtso Lake. What gave him such confidence that no other traveler had ever crossed that terrain?

　　"Even if the trail ahead truly has no record of travelers—

　　isn't that precisely because it's impassable?"

　　I scrutinized the map repeatedly. The more I studied it, the more inconsistencies surfaced, yet an inexplicable anticipation—a primal stirring from deep within—began to rise.

　　Brimming with questions, I resumed researching Namjagbarwa: climate, elevation, accessibility, and its captivating legends... The epic of King Gesar's Battle at Menling proved mesmerizing. But as my search drifted from the fall of King Chixin into obscure folklore and ghost stories, I lost track of time. Midnight loomed. Engrossed in horror videos, I hadn’t eaten dinner.

　　Silence thickened the night. Tree shadows clawed at the windows. A mournful weeping waxed and waned, now near, now distant. Corridor lights flickered, hissing with erratic currents. Piercing cat yowls sliced through the gloom. Footsteps echoed disjointedly... A flash of crimson darted past my door.

　　Click.

　　I habitually muted the sound—

　　—yet still heard the distinct creeeak of aging hinges.

　　"Hinson!"

　　"Gah!" The sudden voice jolted me. My foot slammed into the desk leg with a sickening CRACK. Pain lanced through my toes; I doubled over, gasping.

　　"God! Are you okay?" Sven rushed to examine my injury.

　　"Fine..." I hissed through clenched teeth, clearly not fine. "Why are you here?"

　　"Well..." She fidgeted. "My dorm's empty. It’s... creepy. I wanted company."

　　"Couldn't you knock?!" I groaned.

　　"Your door was unlocked!" She blinked up at me, wide-eyed and dewy—as if I were the offender.

　　"But... cross-dorm visits aren’t allowed at night..." I hinted pointedly, dreading a run-in with the matron finding us alone.

　　Sven nodded. "I know!

　　"Just a quick chat! I’ll leave soon." Her gaze snagged on my glowing screen. "Ooh, what’s thi—"

　　"Don’t—!" I lunged to block her view. Too late.

　　"AAAHH!" As a spectral image flooded the screen, Sven jammed her hands over her eyes. Her shriek dwarfed mine.

　　"Told you not to look." I sighed, surveying her trembling form.

　　"Why would you watch this at night?!" she accused, recovering swiftly.

　　"I... alright, alright! My fault!"

　　"Tell me a story!"

　　"What?"

　　"You scared me! Fix it!"

　　Seriously? I screamed internally. You’re not my girlfriend!

　　"Were you writing travel notes in the library today?"

　　My head snapped up. "How’d you know?"

　　"Saw your screen when I passed!" She drummed the desk with a sly smirk. "So? Spill!"

　　"You— Ugh. Fine." Reluctance bled into my voice. "But briefly. Matron’s rounds."

　　"Deal!" Triumph glinted in her eyes as she dragged a chair beside mine.

　　Strangely, that mischievous smile disarmed me. Pulling up last year’s Qinling Mountain trek photos and route book, I began recounting the journey—detail by deliberate detail.

　　Section 2: Breaking Free

　　Winds on the ridge assaulted us with brutal force. Though roped together in summit-line formation, the gale plastered us flat against the snowpack, immobilizing all movement.

　　Only during fleeting lulls could I inch forward on all fours, clawing through ice-rimed scree.

　　I screamed Mr. Egg’s name into the void, desperate for an anchor-point shove—

　　—but the howling tempest drowned my own voice. Mouthfuls of freezing air ripped down my throat, crystallizing in my gut. No help coming.

　　One agonizing meter. Two. Three.

　　With winds shifting erratically, rhythm proved impossible. Each gasping breath burned as I crawled between gusts, patience and stamina bleeding into the maelstrom.

　　Worse yet, the whiteout drove visibility below three meters. Zero reference points. Navigation became tactile—until my glove scraped against granite. I heaved myself over the col’s knife-edge, collapsing into the boulder field beneath.

　　Windstill screamed in my ears. Exhaustion clamped my lungs—but camaraderie overrode collapse. I forced myself upright.

　　"Mr. Egg! Anchor!"

　　Grabbing the wind-whipped 6mm cord, I hauled. The line filleted my gloves, exposing raw flesh. Pain detonated up my arm; I bit down until molars threatened to crack.

　　As slack coiled at my boots, a hand thrust through the murk—Mr. Egg’s arm, flailing.

　　"GRAB ME!"

　　My fingers viced his wrist. Throwing full body-weight backward, I pulleyed him through the vortex, peeling him from the windwall’s maw.

　　A watch-check froze me. Four vertical meters. Thirty minutes of extraction.

　　By the time we staggered off the ridge, we lay crumpled on the ground like discarded puppets, every muscle screaming surrender.

　　“Still with us, Mr. Egg?” I wheezed, icy gusts razoring past my ears as I slumped against glacial rubble.

　　“Alive... more or less.” His voice faded to a thread, his body limp as a drowned moth.

　　No wonder—pushing fifty, his boasts of youthful vigor (six-pack abs! varsity soccer!) had curdled into reality: leathery wrinkles stretched over a single doughy slab of torso.

　　“Move!” He slapped ice from his trousers and lurched upright.

　　“Rebooted already?” My leaden legs refused cooperation.

　　“Didn’t. But waiting kills.” Dragging me up, he stabbed a finger toward distant folds of terrain. “Abandoned temple—north slope. Follow the deer track. Shelter by dark.”

　　“A temple?” I cradled my concave stomach. “Hot food?”

　　Hours chewing jerky had left me hallucinating banquets.

　　“Dream on,” he snorted. “Winter clears that ruin—pots hauled off, not even a wok left.”

　　“...Right.” My gut howled betrayal.

　　Weak sunlight filtering through pines vanished mid-step. Granular snow pellets machine-gunned our faces as thick fog congealed like sour milk, slashing visibility to arm’s length.

　　An hour’s trudge yielded no temple. Dusk bled into gunmetal shadows. Unease prickled my spine.

　　“Positive this is the route, Mr. Egg?”

　　“Certain... almost.” He fumbled out his GPS. The arrow spun like a drunk.

　　“Glitched?”

　　“Can’t be!” He hammered the unit—slamming, shaking, rebooting—but the display shivered in epileptic fits.

　　“Plan B!” I unholstered my analog compass. Its needle whirled like a dervish.

　　“Magnetic anomaly...” He sank onto a boulder, hollow-eyed. “Carbon copy of Baiqi Temple.”

　　“You walked into this trap *before*?!” Fury spiked my throat—criminal negligence!

　　**⸺⸺ FLASHBACK TRIGGER ⸺⸺

　　Years prior, crossing Qinling’s Aotai Graveyard Trail**, Mr. Egg partnered with Laodao—Shaanxi’s folk-hero outdoorsman. Freestyle swimmer. Conqueror of Langta’s whitewater. Sole savior of a three-hiker drowning in the Bailong rapids.

　　At Baiqi Temple, they’d hit an identical trifecta: blizzard + zero-visibility fog + navigational sabotage.

　　Tracking required boot-to-boot proximity. Two-meter separation equaled vanishing.

　　GPS and compass: scrambled into noise.

　　Blind progress carved a perfect 800-meter circle in the snow.

　　Protocol screamed dig a snow trench and wait. But hurricane winds stripped that option—only naked rhododendron thickets breached the snowpack.

　　“How’d you break the loop?” I pressed.

　　“Divine stupidity.” He barked a laugh. “Voices... led us to a *solar-powered speaker looping noodle ads*!”

　　“Commercials?! In a war zone?!” Surrealist pollution.

　　“Some bureaucrat’s brainstorm!”

　　“—But the fog *lifted* afterward. We camped under pines ten paces away.”

　　“Miraculous timing.”

　　“*Selection bias*,” he countered, gesturing at the storm. “Aotai kills yearly. Baiqi’s roadside graves? They’re trail markers now.”`

　　**⸺⸺ FLASHBACK TERMINATED ⸺⸺**

　　“Orders?” I scanned the murderous gloom.

　　Mr. Egg stomped his cigarette into a snow grave. “Five more minutes. No temple = *hasty bivouac here*.”

　　“Copy that.”