Chapter 37: Mourning Mountain, Part One

Chapter 37: Mount Mourning, Part 1

The midday sun filtered through the scattered clouds, casting its light onto the path leading into the mountains. Guo Wang and several men stood beside the wagon, busily loading every necessary supply one by one. The cart was packed to the brim—with dried rations, clear water, blankets, along with wound powder for injuries they might encounter, various insect-repellent ointments, and tools for emergencies.

The men checked their own gear as well. Each hunting bow was carefully inspected for proper tension, the hunting knives were sharpened to a fine edge—essential tools for survival and hunting in the wild woods. Three hunting dogs bounded excitedly around the cart, their tails wagging happily, bright eyes gleaming with anticipation, as if they believed an exciting hunt was about to begin. Once all was ready, the wagon began to move slowly along the path, its wheels leaving deep tracks in the soft earth.

Twelve people set off after bidding farewell to the village chief, elders, and fellow villagers, formally embarking on their expedition into Mount Mourning.

Zhang Sanlu sat in the driver’s seat, adjusting his posture to make the coming bumpy ride more bearable. While the others seemed to have great faith in his ability to ward off evil spirits, only he knew the truth—he had no talent for exorcism or soul-calling. He had simply resolved to find the old crone and deal with her once and for all.

At first, the sky was clear, and sunlight streamed through the gaps in the leaves, dappling the ground with shifting patterns. The wagon rumbled slowly along the forest path, making unhurried progress.

Yet as they penetrated deeper into the mountains, the thick canopy gradually blotted out the sun, and the light around them grew dim. The air was thick with the scent of soil and leaves. From time to time, the distant cries of birds and unknown beasts drifted through the woods.

After more than half an incense stick’s time walking, the wagon reached a narrow, rugged section of the trail where low-hanging branches nearly scraped the canopy. The road here was no longer fit for wagons. Everyone had to stop. Supplies, rations, ropes, and all essentials were taken from the cart and divided among the group to carry on their backs.

Hefting their burdens, they pressed onward, leaving the cart and horses to return the way they’d come. Though the journey had grown more arduous, they all knew the true test was just beginning. Old Yao, their guide, said that in the heart of Mount Mourning, even the most seasoned hunters entered with the resolve that they might never return.

As the path grew harder, the group could no longer walk abreast, and the line stretched into a long column. Guo Wang and two other men took turns leading the way, switching with those behind as needed. Zhang Sanlu walked near the middle-rear, a position from which he could keep track of both the group’s issues ahead and behind, as well as the general situation.

They trod over layers of leaves fallen over countless years, following a stream. After a while, Zhang Sanlu found the scenery less oppressive than he’d imagined. The forest wasn’t the sunless thicket he’d expected; the view was actually open—blue mountains, flowing water, and lush trees. If not for their forced pace, the walk might even have been pleasant.

Old Yao explained that, according to their usual schedule, they would soon reach the first rest stop. After replenishing food and water, they would enter a dense thicket where, even at midday, not a ray of sunlight could penetrate. Unlike the tourist trails Zhang Sanlu had seen in another world, where paths were trampled out for ease, these woods were wholly untouched and wild.

During the first leg, few spoke. Some had nothing to say; others were still somewhat in awe of Zhang Sanlu. When they reached the resting place—a broad patch of muddy ground beside the stream—Old Yao called for a break. Some gathered firewood, others tended the fire; as they busied themselves, a sense of camaraderie grew.

They soon realized Zhang Sanlu wasn’t the capricious, curse-wielding figure they’d imagined. In fact, he was far more approachable than the Great Shaman. Several of Guo Wang’s young kinsmen began to gravitate towards him, their curiosity piqued. While the older villagers were deeply superstitious, the young men possessed the fearlessness of youth.

Guo Xiaoshu was the boldest among them, frequently offering Zhang Sanlu strips of dried meat. Noticing his fondness for dogs, Guo Xiaoshu brought over his own black wolfhound, Blackie. His older brother, Guo Dashu, kept a wary eye on them while working, as if afraid his brother might offend Zhang Sanlu.

Both Guo Dashu and Guo Xiaoshu were nephews of Guo Wang, but in truth, most people here were related. Even Old Yao had married a woman from the Guo clan and become a son-in-law of Guo Village.

Within the group, subtle divisions emerged. One cluster included Guo Wang and the Dashu-Xiaoshu brothers; another, Guo Qi and Guo Ji, who, according to Zheng Ji, were more closely tied to the village chief, Guo Quan. Zhang Sanlu found this perfectly normal. Every group has its affinities and distances—and if the villagers were willing to risk even their own kin for this mission, he had nothing more to say.

After their break and a short rest, they resumed their journey. Thanks to the mountain folk’s stamina, they made good time and, before afternoon’s end, forded the stream at a shallow crossing and reached Mount Mourning.

It was not a very tall mountain—perhaps two or three hundred meters high—with some vegetation but lacking great trees, so the rocky form of the mountain was visible.

They faced the shaded side, where an incline rose at an angle of more than sixty degrees. From below, the slope looked daunting but not impossible with care.

Yet the true difficulty became apparent as they began the ascent. After climbing less than a third of the way, everyone was drenched in sweat. Zhang Sanlu found himself wondering if this was indeed the spot where those who’d lost their way had entered the cave.

Climbing here was nothing like tackling a tourist mountain. No matter how high or perilous, tourist trails still had manmade paths, stone steps, and chains for support. On Mount Mourning, though not sheer, some sections demanded almost a crawl.

With only one hand, Zhang Sanlu found climbing especially hard. He grasped a shrub branch, pulled himself up to a jutting rock, and, after testing its strength, hauled himself over the steep stretch.

Watching from above, Guo Wang hesitated before taking out a rope. He asked, “Immortal, we have a rope here. If you don’t mind me wearing it, it can save you much effort on the climb.”

Frustrated, Zhang Sanlu replied, “Why didn’t you bring it out earlier?!”

“We were afraid to offend you, Immortal.”

Zhang Sanlu was left speechless.

With Guo Wang’s rope to help, the ascent became much easier. Now Zhang Sanlu had time to notice the mountain’s swarming insects and rodents. The vegetation wasn’t high, but it was thick and sturdy, and so were the insects. Sometimes, turning over a stone revealed a centipede a foot long; brushing against waist-high grass sent dark shapes buzzing up with a piercing whirr. Fortunately, everyone had applied the villagers’ homemade ointments to repel snakes and insects, dabbing it on hands, feet, and faces so that the creatures kept their distance.