It was a clear morning after the rain. Mr. Egg, out mushroom hunting with a large wicker carrier on his back, had found a wide mountain path on the outskirts of Zhouzhi County and wandered lazily into the depths of the Qinling Mountains.

　　Washed clean by a night of rain, the forest air was exceptionally fresh. Mr. Egg, who hadn’t slept enough, opened his mouth in a wide yawn, filling every alveolus in his lungs with the scent of morning dew.

　　“A perfect day for a smoke!” he declared, gazing at the distant peaks, finding yet another fine excuse for his failed attempt to quit. He wiped a large, flat roadside stone dry, sat down, and pulled out a crumpled cigarette. He held it under his nose, greedily inhaling its scent a few times.

　　“Mmm, perfect,” he said with deep satisfaction.

　　A mountain breeze swept through, startling flocks of birds into the sky. Mr. Egg placed the filter between his lips, eagerly anticipating that long-missed comfort. It had been ages since he’d last felt it, ever since his wife had forced him to quit “for their daughter’s health.”

　　“Now, where’s my lighter?” He patted down every pocket but couldn’t find it.

　　“Oh, come on! Did she confiscatemy lighter?!” Mr. Egg slumped on the rock, staring miserably at the “precious treasure” he’d gone to such lengths to sneak out from under his wife’s watchful eye.

　　“Maybe I could try rubbing sticks together?” The mental image of himself awkwardly trying to start a fire that way made him chuckle. He shook his head, deciding to put the cigarette away and move on. Just then, a rustle came from the grass behind him. A startled rabbit, from who knows where, burst out and shot into the distance with powerful kicks of its hind legs.

　　“Old-growth forests for you, full of rabbits,” Mr. Egg thought. He turned his head, about to get up, when a large, scarred face suddenly appeared right in front of his eyes. He stumbled back, nearly falling.

　　“Need a light, old-timer?” The scarred face grinned, offering a lighter.

　　“Holy crap! You trying to give me a heart attack?!” Mr. Egg cursed, a powerful urge to slap the man rising in him. If there’d been a brick nearby, Scarface would’ve gained a few new injuries.

　　“Whoa, my bad! Didn’t mean to!” Scarface took half a step back, but extended the lighter a little further.

　　Mr. Egg, regaining his composure, took a closer look. The man looked like he’d just fled from deep in the mountains—covered in mud, a dirty, oversized woven sack on his back, and reeking of a foul, fishy stench.

　　“You are…?”

　　“Ah, just a local, getting some mountain goods!” the man quickly replied, his face obsequious as he flicked the lighter on.

　　Mr. Egg had almost decided against the smoke, but the sight of that dancing flame made the craving irresistible. His stocky neck unconsciously leaned forward until the cigarette in his lips met the fire as if guided by a ghost. He took a deep drag. A strand of pale blue smoke first filled his lungs, then escaped his nose and mouth, carrying a wave of instant, blissful relief that rushed up to fill his entire skull.

　　“Heaven,” Mr. Egg thought, though he kept a stern face.

　　Seeing him enjoy the smoke, Scarface leaned in again. “Hey, old-timer, you got another one? I’d kill for a smoke. Haven’t had one in days.”

　　“So, what kind of ‘mountain goods’ are you in for? Mushrooms?” Mr. Egg, protective of his cigarette, cut straight to the point.

　　“No, no, I’m… uh… See for yourself. If you’re seriously interested, just name a price!” With that, Scarface set the sack down and deftly untied the cord at its mouth.

　　Curious, Mr. Egg stood up and peered inside. A wave of foul, bloody stench hit him. Fighting back the bile rising in his throat, he squinted into the shadows. Several black bear paws were piled together. He staggered back several meters, nearly falling into a ditch. He covered his mouth, gagging but afraid to vomit, his eyes now filled with wariness.

　　“Not interested?” Scarface’s expression instantly darkened, all trace of his earlier fawning gone.

　　Mr. Egg watched him warily. The man’s right hand was slowly moving toward his waist. Beneath a large smear of mud there, something was concealed—its outline vaguely resembling a knife sheath.

　　A knife?A bolt of alarm shot through Mr. Egg, though his face remained an impassive mask, as if this were nothing unusual.

　　“Look, brother, it’s not that I don’t want them. It’s that your… your goods are spoiled. Can’t sell rotten merchandise!” Mr. Egg forced calm into his voice while secretly assessing the threat. Scarface looked exhausted, but he was tall, strong, and young—no easy opponent for Mr. Egg. And if the man truly had a knife, provoking him could lead to unimaginable consequences.