Just as we were getting deep into our conversation, the two small pots we’d placed on the stove to melt snow began making a plop-plopsound. I quickly pulled on my gloves and moved the pots onto the kang(heated brick bed). To my dismay, the water from the pure white snow had turned murky and yellowish, with a layer of crushed leaves floating on top and a sediment of fine sand settled at the bottom. I wished I could boil it for another half hour.

　　"Mr. Egg, are you sureyou want to drink this tea of dirt and grass stems?"

　　"Come on now, don't be so picky. It’s better than nothing!" Mr. Egg picked up his pot and poured the water over his packet of rehydrated rice. Following his lead, I did the same, trying my best to avoid the bits of debris as I prepared my own bowl of "high-altitude snow-water rice."

　　The rice needed fifteen minutes to soak. We used the time to fill our thermoses and gave ourselves a thorough wipe-down with hot water. I even filled my cup with water for brushing my teeth in advance.

　　"I'm going to fetch more snow," I said, noticing our water supply was running low. It seemed a good idea to melt more snow for later. The leftover warm water in the pots would help speed up the melting, so the second batch should boil faster.

　　"Good idea. Remember to pack the snow down firmly—it melts faster and yields more water that way," Mr. Egg reminded me just before I stepped out.

　　I grunted an acknowledgment, picked up the basin, and went outside. After just a few steps, I saw that article of clothing still lying sprawled on the ground. The memory of that eerie smile I’d seen earlier sent a fresh shudder through me, so I gave it a wide berth. Even while scooping snow with my small shovel, I couldn't bring myself to turn my back to it, terrified it might suddenly spring to life and strangle me.

　　Outside, the snow had stopped and the fog had cleared, but the wind was still howling. I packed two pots full of snow as fast as I could and hurried back toward the temple. Just as I reached the dilapidated door, a sudden rustle-swishsounded behind me—exactly like cloth flapping wildly in the wind.

　　“Holy crap, is that hanged ghost back for my soul?!” Every hair on my body stood on end. I kicked the wooden door open and bolted inside without looking back.

　　Mr. Egg was mid-sip of water. My dramatic entrance made him choke and sputter. He slammed his cup down. “What in the world is wrong with you?!”

　　Before I could answer, something swooshed past the temple entrance. Thinking the ghost had followed me, I yelled, “Mr. Egg, save me!”

　　“Save you, my foot!” he snapped, scolding me outright. “Getting scared by a damn pheasant—are you even a man?!”

　　“A pheasant?” I froze, just as a strange bird call echoed outside. It did sound a bit like a hen, but louder and fuller. Summoning my courage, I glanced back. No bird in sight. The damned piece of clothing lay exactly where it had been, utterly still. The whole panic was just in my head.

　　“Mr. Egg, you think that’s a pheasant? Could it be the one that stole your mushroom?” The thought popped into my head, and I blurted it out without thinking.

　　“You know what? It damn well could be!” As soon as the words left my mouth, Mr. Egg’s temper flared. He was ready to march out there with his rice and teach that bird a lesson.

　　“Wait, no! I was just talking! Don’t be impulsive! That thing’s a Class II protected species—you can’t touch it!”

　　But Mr. Egg, now fully pissed off, ignored my protests. He just told me to watch the boiling water, threw on his coat, and strode out the door with purpose. No idea where he found the energy.

　　I checked the time—the rehydrated rice should be ready. Starving, I decided not to wait for Mr. Egg to share the meal and started eating. The beef and potato freeze-dried meal was my absolute favorite; both the flavor and the price made it the best choice among outdoor food. The only downside was the portion size—it never quite filled me up. But paired with some beef jerky and dried cheese, it still made for a decent meal out here.

　　“Oh, you’ve started already!” Mr. Egg said as he hurried back into the temple, dust and cold clinging to his clothes.

　　“Yep! Yours should be ready too—better eat it while it’s hot before it goes cold!” I glanced at the thermometer hanging from my pack. Even with the stove going, the temperature near the kangwas still hovering around 0°C—not exactly cozy.

　　“Alright, let’s eat.” Mr. Egg picked up his spork and grumbled, “We’re not leaving tomorrow. We’re staying right here to roast that damn pheasant.”

　　“Okay.” Seeing he was still seething, I didn’t argue and just lowered my head to focus on my food.

　　Once I’d eaten my fill, I checked the time again. It wasn’t even 8 p.m. yet, but outside the sky was pitch black. With no electricity or signal, there was nothing to do but sleep. As I relaxed my shoulders and back, a powerful wave of drowsiness washed over me—the exhaustion of the day finally overwhelming me.

　　“Mr. Egg, I’m turning in first.”

　　“Alright.” Mr. Egg, who was jotting down notes, dimmed his lantern a notch. Looked like he still had work to do.

　　Maybe it was because I hadn’t used a sleeping bag in a while, but I just couldn’t get comfortable. Especially deep into the night—I kept feeling like something was moving about nearby.

　　“Was it Mr. Egg getting up in the night?” The thought crossed my mind, and I suddenly felt the need to go too. To protect my night vision, I switched on only the red auxiliary light on my headlamp. In its crimson glow, everything in the room looked eerie and menacing. Then, suddenly, a patch of pure blackness appeared before me. The light seemed to be swallowed whole; the red beam was there, but it illuminated absolutely nothing.

　　I looked down, intending to switch on the main white light, and my eyes caught the edge of this darkness—it hovered above the ground, like a swaying curtain blocking my path. In shock, I raised my head and found myself locked in a soundless stare with a blurred face. An overwhelming sense of pressure slammed into me. My throat constricted, my chest felt crushed, and my entire body went rigid.

　　The faint red light outlined the contours of a cheek. I heard it whisper, “Hinson,” and saw it curl its lips into a crimson smile. I realized with a jolt—this was the exact same face as the “hanged ghost” from before!

　　I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. Even when I squeezed my eyes shut with all my might, the scene before me remained perfectly clear. I’ve met a ghost. I’ve really met a ghost! What do I do? What do I do? I remembered what the old folks said when I was a kid: if you see a ghost, you must curse it, and the filthier the language, the better! I immediately started hurling the most vicious insults at it in my mind, cursing its ancestors for eight generations back!

　　As I cursed, the “hanged ghost” suddenly teleported far into the distance. As that “curtain” receded, brilliant sunlight and swirling snowflakes rushed toward me. The oppressive force faded. I found myself inexplicably standing at the foot of a snow-capped mountain. Golden morning light ignited the spear-like peaks, painting a picture-perfect scene of “sunlight illuminating the golden summit.”

　　“It was a dream?” Sven, who had been listening intently, couldn’t help but interject.

　　“Yeah, it was a dream,” I replied, carefully recalling the dream’s content. That snow mountain felt strangely familiar.

　　"Hiss... Namcha Barwa?"

　　"What?"

　　"Oh, nothing! Let me continue!"

　　In the dream, a deafening roar filled the entire valley. The scene before my eyes shattered and collapsed, and I jolted awake inside my sleeping bag. My ears were flooded with the thunderous sound of Mr. Egg's snoring, which was on par with a supercar's engine. I'm usually quite alert in the wild, but the fact that I managed to fall asleep to that racket today just shows how utterly exhausted I was.

　　The fire in the stove had long since died out, and the temperature inside had plummeted below freezing. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I thought about stepping out to relieve myself, but then I heard a sound like stones shifting. I hurriedly switched on my headlamp, directing its bright beam toward the noise—the altar dedicated to King Gesar was actually shaking, as if something was about to burst out from it!

　　Mr. Egg’s snoring stopped abruptly. A second later, the LED strip lights hanging from the rafters flickered on. Without a word, in perfect sync, we both grabbed our trekking poles propped in the corner, ready to face whatever was coming.

　　Squeak, squeak…A large swarm of pitch-black rats scurried out from under the altar. Unwilling to be exposed in the light, they scattered and disappeared into cracks in the walls.

　　“Holy crap, those are huge rats!”

　　There were so many of them, and several were enormous, nearly the size of cats! As they burrowed fiercely at the base of the altar, they actually managed to turn the massive stone structure—which must have weighed hundreds of pounds—just slightly! In the headlamp’s beam, I thought I glimpsed another face, a dark one, painted on the back of the statue, but before I could get a clear look, the rats pushed the altar back to its original position. I didn’t have the courage to mess with such a large swarm of rats, much less get any closer to the altar, so I just sat on the kang, my mind racing.

　　Furious at the rats and their theatrics, Mr. Egg cursed, “Damn it, this place is cursed! First a hanging rag, now a rat circus—enough to scare a living man to death!”

　　“Mr. Egg, still planning to sleep?” Any drowsiness I had was completely gone. Checking my watch, I saw I’d already slept about eight or nine hours—that was plenty.

　　“Not sleeping?” Seeing I had no intention of crawling back into my sleeping bag, Mr. Egg withdrew his hand, which had been about to turn off the lights.

　　“I just had a nightmare. That piece of clothing came after me again.”

　　“Haha! You’re still scared of that rag?”

　　“Yeah! Why would anyone hang a perfectly good piece of clothing out there? Who does that?”

　　“Well, actually, it’s a local custom here in the Qinling Mountains.”

　　“What kind of custom? Using clothes as security guards?” I spread my hands and let out a helpless, dry laugh.

　　“Not quite! I’ve heard two explanations. The first is that some kind-hearted families hang old cotton jackets or coats they no longer need along paths near temples. If someone gets lost nearby, they at least won’t freeze to death in the mountains.”

　　“Oh, so it’s wholesome folk kindness. I was being narrow-minded. And the second explanation?”

　　“The second one… is a bit darker. There’s a local folk belief that if someone in the family falls gravely ill and can’t be cured, you take an old piece of the sick person’s clothing and hang it on a mountain path. If someone picks it up and wears it, the illness is believed to transfer to that person, and the original owner recovers quickly.”

　　“Talk about a plot twist!”

　　“Right? The two explanations are completely different. It just depends on which one you choose to believe.” With that, Mr. Egg sat up and lit another cigarette.

　　“Mr. Egg, which one do you believe?”

　　He looked at me, took a deep drag that made the cigarette’s ember glow brightly, and said, “Me? I believe half of each!”

　　“What? You can split it down the middle like that?”

　　“Here’s what I think. Someone’s family was struck by illness. To pray for the patient’s recovery, the family hung an old padded coat on the temple path. If someone in need found and used it, that act of kindness, done in the sight of the gods, would accumulate merit and help the patient recover sooner.”

　　“Interesting idea! Sounds a bit… transactional, though.”

　　“Isn’t it? What do us ordinary folks pray to gods and Buddhas for, anyway? Nothing but peace and smooth sailing in life!”

　　“But does it really work? Look at all those deities. They sit in temples accepting offerings, but stripped down, isn’t it just a lump of clay with a stick of incense in front of it?”

　　“Hahahaha! You kid… Hahahaha!” Mr. Egg’s sudden laughter startled me.

　　“Hinson, do you really think everyone who comes to a temple sincerely believes in ghosts and gods? Let me tell you, most who worship here probably understand the logic you just described, and they understand it very, very well. They come to the temple purely for peace of mind.”

　　“Heh. What’s the use? Fooling themselves?” I shook my head with a bitter smile.

　　“Objectively speaking, not much. But Hinson, the human heart needs comforting; it needs solace! Otherwise, why do Catholic churches have confessionals? In that sense, human nature is sometimes universal.”

　　“Human nature… universal…”

　　“Dawn is still a ways off. Whether you can sleep or not, I suggest you at least lie down on the kangand rest. We have to go back up to the ridge today—it’ll be trouble if we run out of stamina!”

　　“Alright. Oh, right! Should we secure our food? We can’t let those rats get to it!”

　　“Oh yeah! I almost forgot!” Mr. Egg slapped his forehead, knocking off a bit of ash.

　　I quickly stuffed all our food back into bags, then secured them under our windbreaks and aluminum pots, placing the whole bundle between us, leaving no opening for those giant black rats.

　　“Next time, I’m definitely bringing a bear canister. Then it won’t matter if it’s rats or even a bear—they won’t get our food!” Mr. Egg muttered as he packed up.

　　“That’s going a bit far,” I said. “Who worries about bears on a winter trip? Don’t they all hibernate?”

　　“That’s true… but what if the Luminescent Gel Mushroom doesn’t grow in winter? I’d have to come back in summer!”

　　“What mushroom?”

　　“The. Lu-mi-nes-cent. Gel. Mush-room!” Mr. Egg dragged out each syllable.

　　Wow, he’s already named it, and we haven’t even collected a specimen yet?

　　“Aren’t you worried it might just be an individual mutation?”

　　“Not worried! At worst, I’ll put in the effort to try and cultivate a new breed artificially. Besides, since it’s appeared twice now, there’s real hope!”