With the hiking team finalized at three people and the group chat set up, it was time to start writing the route guide for the Namcha Barwa trip. Task assignments were quickly outlined, and a rough itinerary soon took shape. At this stage, only one thing remained: naming the route. After all, the first team to pioneer a new wilderness route earns the right to name it.

　　I went through every reference and photo I could find, brainstorming a string of oddball names—Namcha Barwa South Route, South of the Southern Mountain Line, Nam Lake to Duoxiong Valley Route… Yet the more I thought about them, the less satisfied I felt.

　　“What on earth should we call it?” I muttered, tugging at my hair in frustration before finally opening the three-person group chat for inspiration.

　　The mouse wheel spun endlessly as the chat history crept toward the top. I stared blankly at the route map, my mind completely empty.

　　“What should we name it?” My gaze drifted across the snow-capped peaks on the map, my finger unconsciously tracing back to the starting point—the tranquil Chunbai Village, sitting at an elevation of 3,000 meters, nestled like a child beside the Brahmaputra River.

　　“The Pure White Route!”

　　The words slipped out before I could stop myself. “That’s it!”

　　With the first draft of the route guide finally finished, I eagerly posted it to the group chat. Mr. Egg, ever the enthusiastic liker, immediately replied with a “Sick!” and then promptly added a stranger to the group.

　　“Brother Dao!” Before Mr. Egg could even make introductions, Young Master Feng typed out a greeting. Lao Dao fired back a “Long time no see” meme. Mr. Egg then reposted my route guide.

　　I quietly deleted the half-written message in my own input box and simply watched the three of them chat.

　　From their conversation, I learned that Young Master Feng and Lao Dao had known each other for years through an outdoor gear forum. Both hardcore gearheads, they always had plenty to talk about, frequently praising each other’s setups in the group chat. They often talked about meeting up, but for one reason or another, it had never happened—they didn’t even know what the other looked like. As Mr. Egg put it, they were “kindred spirits who’d only ever met in the digital realm.”

　　“Brother Dao, you’re not gonna bail on me this time, are you?”

　　Young Master Feng struck first. Lao Dao immediately shot back with a meme that basically said anyone who bails is a coward, adding that if he flaked this time, he’d change his name to “Old Flake.”

　　“I’ll witness that!” Mr. Egg chimed in at once, volunteering to be their official, free-of-charge witness.

　　“Hahaha! Thanks, Old Egg!”

　　After the banter died down, Lao Dao suddenly posted a screenshot of the traverse section leading to “Lake No. 1” from the route map and asked bluntly:

　　“Which jackass drew this line? Trying to get someone killed?”

　　Lao Dao’s bluntness was music to my ears. I covered my mouth and snickered at my screen. Finally—someone to call Mr. Egg out!

　　I was still too naive.

　　That jackass, Mr. Egg, promptly took a screenshot of the chat where I had uploaded the route guide and sent it straight to Lao Dao.

　　The depths of human treachery.

　　I stared at the screenshot, swallowed my words, and said nothing.

　　“Oh?” Lao Dao replied. “There’s another guy in the group? So you’re the trip leader?”

　　Trip leader? No way. I’d be lucky not to slow them down.

　　“Yes, yes he is!” Mr. Egg leapt in gleefully, his love for stirring trouble fully activated.

　　“Yes, my foot!” I finally snapped and was forced to clarify. I hadn’t expected thick-browed, big-eyed Young Master Feng to betray me too, chiming in with a casual “He is the leader.”

　　I slapped my desk in frustration.

　　“The schedule’s way too packed,” Lao Dao said. “For a route this intense, with unknown trail conditions, it’s better to hike one day and rest the next.”

　　Resting my chin in my hand, I seriously considered his suggestion. But the more I thought about it, the less feasible it seemed. Hiking one day and resting the next would stretch a five-day trek into nine days. That wasn’t a medium-length trip anymore—it was a major expedition. Forget vacation days; the extra supplies alone would be a massive burden.

　　On this point, Mr. Egg and Young Master Feng agreed with me.

　　“And don’t forget, we only get pack animals on the first day. After that, it’s all on us. Nine days’ worth of supplies? These old bones can’t take it!” Mr. Egg typed, followed by a “poor me” emoji—and then quietly changed the group chat name.

　　The Namcha Barwa Elderly Tour?

　　…Yeah. That fit a little too well.

　　After a brief silence, Lao Dao spoke again. “Actually, now that I think about it, only days two, three, and five are really intense. We could probably manage with just two rest days. Eat lighter on those days to cut weight. What do you think?”

　　“Make it a seven-day trek?” Young Master Feng asked.

　　“Right. When you’re pioneering a route, you always budget extra days and pack extra supplies anyway.”

　　“Plus travel to and from, that’s thirteen days total.” Young Master Feng took a screenshot of the itinerary and added, “If we leave the day before Mid-Autumn Festival, I can manage seventeen days.”

　　“I’m about the same,” Mr. Egg said.

　　“I can do fifteen,” Lao Dao added.

　　Good grief—why do you all have so much vacation time?

　　The pressure shifted squarely onto me. I checked my newly posted class schedule, counted my work shifts, and helplessly sent a crying emoji.

　　“What’s wrong?” Mr. Egg teased. “The esteemed leader doesn’t have availability?”

　　I had nothing to say.

　　“Don’t worry! Worst case, I’ll swallow my pride and personally go plead your case with your dean!”

　　“No, no, that’s really not necessary!” I quickly shut that down. There was no way the school would officially approve a student joining such a risky trip. Sneaking off was the only option.

　　“So what now?” Lao Dao asked. “If the leader can’t go, how does this work?”

　　“It’s not that I can’t…” After a moment of internal struggle, I decided to tell the truth. “Including the Mid-Autumn Festival holiday, I can barely scrape together fourteen days. But… my part-time job income won’t cover the travel costs.”

　　Mr. Egg immediately sent a reassuring message:

　　“Hinson, don’t worry about that! Your travel and lodging are on me. We’ll put it on the research grant!”

　　“Huh? You really don’t have to—”

　　Before I could finish my half-hearted refusal, Mr. Egg privately sent me a screenshot of his grant budget, saying there was money left anyway, so he might as well “sponsor” me.

　　“Thank you, Mr. Egg!”

　　“Wait,” Lao Dao asked in the group. “He’s a student? From your university?”

　　“No, no!” Mr. Egg quickly clarified. “I wouldn’t dare take one of my own students. The higher-ups would skin me alive!”

　　“Exactly,” Lao Dao said. “This kid’s impressive—so young and already leading a trip like this. Respect!”

　　I typed: “…”

　　Fine. If you say so.

　　A sudden wave of drowsiness washed over me. I fell silent, letting the three of them hop from route planning to gear, from gear to food. The group chat buzzed with energy as I slumped over my desk, completely out cold—until Sister Molly’s voice pulled me awake.

　　“Hinson, want to go play outside?”

　　“Okay!”

　　In my dream, I happily ran to the flower bed by the street. A few kids were there chasing butterflies, but when they saw me, they backed away, whispering that I was weird and that they couldn’t play with me.

　　“Sis Lili, they’re talking about me!”

　　“It’s okay,” Sister Molly whispered gently. “I’ll play with you.”

　　“Okay!”

　　I nodded vigorously at empty air. The strange sight drew puzzled looks from passersby. A few aunties pointed at my younger self, whispering among themselves.

　　“Hey, look at that kid. Who’s he talking to?”

　　“No idea. Heard he’s… not quite right.”

　　“Isn’t that the weird kid from that family? I heard he’s actually really smart—knows all kinds of rare animals.”

　　“Yeah, that’s him. Strange kid. One moment a genius, the next dumb as a post. When he’s ‘on,’ he can solve my son’s high school math problems. When he’s ‘off,’ he’s like a toddler who knows nothing.”

　　“A toddler? He already looks like one.”

　　“I think he’s only in second grade.”

　　“What a pity. So young, already mentally ill…”

　　“Tragic, really.”

　　I heard every word clearly, but couldn’t be bothered to argue. You’re the adults. If you say so, then so be it.

　　“Hinson. Hinson, wake up!”

　　I lifted my head. Sven’s face slowly came into focus through bleary eyes.

　　“Hinson, what were you dreaming about? Your face is soaked with tears.”

　　“Tears? No, no—drool! As the ancients said, ‘Three feet of drool doesn’t come from a single craving.’ I’m just really craving fried rice!”

　　“Oh? So now you drool from your eyes?”

　　I had no comeback. “…”

　　“Crying from craving, huh? Get up. You’re coming with me.”

　　“Coming? Where?”

　　“Heh. You’re taking this lady out for a fancy meal.”