After years of exploring the outdoors, this was the first time I'd spent two consecutive days fleeing for my life in mountain ravines. If yesterday's "haunting" could be written off as a farce, today's "bear encounter" was a genuine life-or-death threat. To make matters worse, during this frantic escape, Mr. Egg insisted on regaling me with local tales of bear attacks, scaring me into a non-stop sprint. I didn't dare slow down.

　　"Hinson, you know what's interesting about the bears here in the Qinling?"

　　"Interesting? What do you mean?"

　　"Literally, interesting." Mr. Egg managed to light a cigarette without breaking stride. "I heard a story once—don't know if it's true—about a local farmer's wife, years back. She was heading to the next village on an errand when she ran into a bear."

　　“Oh no! Was she done for?”

　　“Yeah, that’s what she thought too. But you see, bears are actually afraid of people too. So they just stood there, locked in a stalemate, neither daring to move.”

　　“Uh-huh… Then what?”

　　“Well, just then, someone came by driving a tractor. You know how loud and clattering those things are—scared the bear half to death. The startled bear took a swipe at the woman, then without even checking the result, scrambled headlong into the woods.”

　　“Wow, what a cowardly bear! And the woman? She must have been okay, otherwise the story wouldn’t have gotten out, right?”

　　“Mm-hmm, she was mostlyfine. Just had her scalp scalped off.”

　　“What the—?! ‘Scalped’ literally?! And that’s called fine?!”

　　“Eh, fate is a funny thing,” Mr. Egg tapped his cigarette ash, squinting. “Some people fall out of bed in their sleep and die. Others can have their scalp peeled off and live to tell the tale.”

　　“How is that even possible?”

　　“Nothing too miraculous. The tractor driver rushed over, saw the woman was still breathing through her nostrils, pressed her scalp back onto her head, rushed her to the hospital, and they actually managed to save her!”

　　“Ugh… alright then…” All I could say to that ending was that the woman had insane luck. I silently prayed we wouldn’t run into that underfed bear.

　　Leaving the mushroom-hunting ridge behind, we descended rapidly into the forest on the opposite side. The trees were dense here, with no proper trail, forcing us to follow narrow animal paths, struggling forward. The snow was deep, but our wide snowshoes had become a hindrance. We had to take them off and trudge through the woodland, each step sinking deep into the snow. As dusk began to settle, a steep ridge loomed before us. Mr. Egg checked his GPS and announced that we first had to climb this ridge, then follow its crest straight to reach our destination.

　　"Better eat something," Mr. Egg said, shrugging off his pack to boil water for a meal.

　　"You go ahead, I'm not really hungry." I found a tree stump to sit on and looked up at the ridge looming before us. It stood tall and steep, a sheer wall blocking our path. Though it wasn't heavily vegetated, as far as I could see it was covered in snow-capped boulders with no discernible trail. We'd likely have to zigzag our way slowly up.

　　"Hinson, listen to your uncle. Eat something. We've got over four hundred meters of elevation gain straight up to the ridgetop!"

　　"Four hundred meters?"

　　"That's right! And it's all boulder fields. Even after we reach the top, there's a long stretch of the same. It's no walk in the park."

　　"Fine." I fished some rock-hard rations from my waist pack and forced myself to take a few bites, the effort making my molars ache.

　　By the time Mr. Egg finished eating, the sun was already sinking in the west. I held my fingers up between the sun and the horizon and measured—a little over two hours until sunset.

　　"Let's move," Mr. Egg said, slapping the snow from his pants, shouldering his pack, and calling me to start. Just then, a familiar squawking sound came from the woods behind us. I turned to see the same little white pheasant from earlier flapping frantically out of the underbrush, nearly crashing into my face.

　　"Hey! You little thief! Still thinking about my mushroom?" Mr. Egg cursed and moved to grab it, but I stopped him.

　　"Mr. Egg, look!" I pointed in the direction the pheasant had fled from. A pair of fierce, gleaming eyes was fixed on us from within the shadows.

　　"Golden leopard!" Mr. Egg gasped.

　　In the Qinling Mountains, the golden leopard is likely the most formidable predator still roaming these parts. Solitary, elusive, and exceptionally powerful, they sometimes even initiate attacks on humans, making them extremely dangerous. Though the one before us seemed, by my estimate, smaller in frame than Mr. Egg, facing such a perfect "killing machine" head-on clearly offered us no chance of winning. To make matters worse, dusk was approaching. Once the sun set, we'd lose sight of it, while it could use its superior feline night vision to pick us off with ease—this wasn't just my own speculation; there was a real precedent. Though in that case, the players weren't a man and a leopard, but Tibetan Mastiffs and a snow leopard.

　　Years ago, in Tibet, there was an incident. One winter, a snow leopard—starving, who knows for how long—had the audacity to venture into a village in broad daylight to steal chickens. It was, of course, promptly beaten up by a pack of the villagers' Tibetan Mastiffs. But the snow leopard wasn't one to be trifled with. If it couldn't win by day, it would take revenge by night! That very night, leveraging its excellent night vision and near-silent steps, it picked off over a dozen guard dogs one by one. If the villagers hadn't sensed something was wrong and come out to drive it away, the mastiffs might have been slaughtered to the last. By dawn, the few surviving dogs were gravely wounded, while the snow leopard escaped unscathed, having helped itself to a few more village chickens for its trouble.

　　Though a golden leopard and a snow leopard aren't the same species, their combat effectiveness at night is equally not to be underestimated. As the light faded, our situation grew increasingly dire.

　　"What do we do?" My voice trembled as I gripped my trekking poles.

　　"Don't move. See if it leaves on its own." Mr. Egg's voice shook even more than mine, his eyes locked on the leopard.

　　The golden leopard crept forward from the shadows, back arched, its low growls carried on the wind. I watched it, tense, cold sweat soaking my back, the muscles in my thighs twitching uncontrollably. The poor little pheasant was too terrified to move, pressed silently against my leg.

　　We hadn't actually seen the takin or the bear. But this golden leopard now paced less than ten meters away, seriously evaluating our threat level. I knew that if it decided to attack, at that speed, it would cover the distance in under a second. We'd have no time to react.

　　Mr. Egg and I stood facing the threat, one on each side. As time dragged on, our feet sank so deep into the snow it was hard to shift our stance. The leopard, however, moved with a feline grace, padding back and forth. I couldn’t bring myself to meet its gaze directly, yet I dared not look away from its movements. As my eyes darted nervously, I noticed something—the leopard seemed to favor one of its hind legs, moving with a slight limp.

　　“Mr. Egg… does its leg look injured?” I barely moved my lips, the words a tense whisper squeezed through my teeth, foolishly hoping the leopard wouldn’t hear, forgetting it couldn’t understand me anyway.

　　“Yeah. Looks like birdshot,” Mr. Egg replied in an equally hushed tone.

　　“Birdshot?” For a second I thought I’d misheard, then I realized—he meant the small pellets used for hunting birds, as opposed to larger buckshot or slugs.

　　“Someone shot a leopard with birdshot?” I thought to myself. What kind of idiot does that?

　　“Maybe it was up a tree and got caught by someone shooting at birds,” Mr. Egg whispered back.

　　As we exchanged these furtive words, the leopard let out an impatient growl. It was a wounded, desperate loner. Its plan had likely been to ambush the little pheasant for a much-needed meal, only to have its scheme ruined by two unexpected humans. Anyone would be pissed.

　　“Leopard… sir… our mistake. The pheasant is yours. We’re not stealing it.” Slowly, keeping my eyes locked on the predator, I bent down and scooped up the shivering little bird from behind me.

　　The leopard seemed to understand. Probably weighing the trouble of a fight in its injured state, it stood its ground, lifting its head as if to accept my “peace offering.” Seeing the leopard bare its fangs, Mr. Egg took a trembling step closer to me, keeping both trekking poles pointed defensively forward. The leopard advanced with caution. The little pheasant, perhaps sensing its fate, went still in my arms. It let out one long, mournful cry to the sky.

　　Pressed against my chest, the bird’s soft, final lament sent an unexpected tremor straight through my heart.

　　"Mr. Egg, this..."

　　"Survival of the fittest. Law of the jungle. We shouldn't interfere."

　　"Maybe... we could give it some of our food?"

　　"What?" Mr. Egg's voice, momentarily uncontrolled, rose louder than intended. The leopard did notappreciate it.

　　Sensing I was about to renege, the leopard took several quick steps back, arching its spine high. Its growl turned raspy and menacing.

　　"Have you gone full bleeding heart?!" Mr. Egg, furious at me, wanted to yell but, afraid of further provoking the leopard, had to grit his teeth and hiss the words.

　　"It's not about being a bleeding heart," I whispered back, my eyes fixed on the leopard. "Humans shot it. It's... compensation."

　　"Bullshit! Did youshoot it? Did I? Why should we pay some poacher's debt?" As he spoke, the leopard began shifting its weight from paw to paw. The ferocity in its eyes cut through the vapor puffing from its nostrils, making my skin crawl.

　　Slowly, I set the little pheasant down. My right hand stayed clenched around my trekking pole. With my left, moving with minimal motion, I opened the pack at my feet, fumbled inside, and pulled out a stick of beef jerky.

　　"Here!" I tossed it underhand. The jerky tumbled through the air and landed in the snow behind the leopard, sending up a small puff of white.

　　The leopard watched me with wary suspicion, sidling backward, and sniffed the jerky. But it didn't dare eat.

　　"Hmph. Ungrateful," Mr. Egg sneered quietly. "I'm telling you, this beast has probably seen those damn poacher's traps. It doesn't trust humans. And you just jerked it around. I bet it won't touch it."

　　Stung by his scorn, a stubborn idea took hold. If the leopard was afraid of being tricked, I'd prove the food was safe the old-fashioned way. I pulled out another stick of jerky, made sure the leopard was watching, and took a big bite out of it.

　　"What are you doing?"

　　"Establishing credibility!" I said, then tossed the remaining half. The leopard looked at me, trotted over, sniffed the meat, pawed at it cautiously, then jumped back as if dodging an explosion.

　　This cowardly display made me roll my eyes. "Scared of what?! It's pure Tibetan yak jerky! No poison, no bomb!"

　　Maybe it understood my grumbling, or maybe it was just hungry enough to risk it. The leopard took tentative steps toward the jerky and ate. The tough, dried strips were gone in under a second, gulped down whole.

　　Figuring that small amount wouldn't satisfy it, I tossed out the rest of my jerky stash. It scrambled after the pieces in the snow, gobbling them down one after another with clear relish. Mr. Egg, still deeply wary of the leopard's inherent ferocity, kept his trekking poles raised defensively, fearing a sudden lunge at our throats.

　　The jerky was gone quickly, but the leopard lingered. I sensed its gaze had softened, but the look of unmet expectation still made me nervous. I had no choice but to keep tossing food. Its appetite, however, was monstrously large. I fed it days' worth of my rations, meat and vegetarian alike. Anyone watching would think it was an omnivore.

　　"Mr. Egg, I'm out. Care to contribute?"

　　"What? You fed it everything? That freeze-dried stuff costs a fortune!"

　　"Cheaper than my life!"

　　"Ugh..." He sighed in defeat. With no other option, he told me to stay on guard and began mimicking me, tossing his own food to the leopard. At first, he tried a miserly, piece-by-piece approach, hoping to save some. The leopard, impatient with the slow service, growled a clear demand for more.

　　"Hey! You're eating my food and you have the nerve to complain about the service?!" Mr. Egg's temper finally snapped. He raised his trekking pole as if to challenge the beast. I tried to stop him, but it was too late.

　　The leopard, now fueled by a full belly, saw this defiance as an insult and an opportunity for dessert. It crouched low, preparing to spring. A bloodbath seemed inevitable.

　　As part of the proposed menu, I suddenly remembered an old trick. While hiking in Western Sichuan once, a herder told me most predators nowadays recognize the threat of a rifle. If you mimic aiming a long object like a gun, sometimes it's enough to scare them off. I had no idea if it would work, but we were out of options.

　　I raised my trekking pole to my shoulder, assuming a clumsy, amateur rifleman's stance, and pretended to take aim at the greedy leopard.

　　ROAR!

　　The sound shook the trees, rattled the stones, a thunderous growl that seemed to change the very air. I nearly wet myself.

　　This is it,I thought, I'm going to die on this godforsaken mountain.

　　I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end.

　　Instead, I heard the rapid crunch of paws on snow.

　　I opened my eyes. Whoa.The golden leopard was actually running away, tail tucked between its legs!

　　"Holy mother of..." Mr. Egg collapsed, all strength draining from him as he sat heavily in the snow, muttering, "You were leaving anyway... why the dramatic exit roar?"

　　"Maybe... it was just hurling some final insults our way..." I stared dumbfounded at the fleeing predator until its form vanished into the winter forest.