I had no source of light around me, and the branches created a closed space, a dead angle where it was difficult to see what was inside under such dim lighting. I stared at those blood-red eyes, feeling a tightness in my throat, momentarily forgetting to react, and I locked eyes with it.

After a few seconds of staring, I noticed something was off. The blood-red color of the eyes seemed to be more than just ordinary bloodshot; they were genuinely stained red with “blood.” The color even seeped out of the eye sockets, and the eyes didn’t blink at all, as if they were frozen in place.

A living person can stay still, but they definitely can’t resist blinking—this is common knowledge, and suspicion immediately arose in my mind.

I fumbled around my body and found a few fire sticks. I twisted off the waterproof reed shaft and carefully lit one before cautiously sending it toward the opening.

As I got closer to the hole, the situation inside was illuminated. Upon seeing it, I felt as if I had been blown apart; a chill ran from my forehead to my toes.

What came into view was a grotesque, swollen face that could hardly be called a face at all, as the jaw was missing. The lower half of the face had been torn away by something, leaving a bloody mess. The entire tongue was hanging out, disconnected from the jaw, protruding from the throat and looking absurdly long, like a rotting snake.

This was a corpse. I immediately felt nauseous, barely managing to suppress the urge to vomit, but a wave of chilling horror washed over me.

From the hairstyle and gear of this person, it was evident that he belonged to my uncle’s group, and he hadn’t been dead for long. He must have been swept in by the water and got stuck among the branches. But if this was a corpse, then who had just called out to me?

I quickly looked back at the body, but by then, the fire stick had burned out, and that grotesque face vanished back into the darkness. All I could see were those blood-red eyes still glaring at me with a vengeful intensity.

Goosebumps covered my entire body as I glanced around. This was a pitch-black underground water pool, and there seemed to be no one else around. I hadn’t heard any sounds of movement either.

Cold sweat poured down my back, and my neck felt stiff. Suddenly, I realized something was very wrong; something bizarre had definitely occurred here. I couldn’t stay any longer; no matter what, I had to get Fatty out of here immediately.

Taking a deep breath, I crawled back, untied the few sturdy vines left on my waist, and wrapped them around me before leaning down to grab Fatty’s hand and pull him up.

Fatty was just too heavy, and with his clothes soaked, he felt like a lead weight. I could only use one foot for leverage, and after a few attempts, I barely moved him an inch, almost slipping back down myself.

I quickly realized that pulling him by hand wasn’t going to work. Looking around, I noticed that Fatty was still tied to the makeshift stretcher I had made, so I tied the vines from the stretcher to those around my waist. I fashioned a makeshift handle using a wooden stick, placing it under his armpit, and propped the other end on the ground. Then, using my body weight and strength, I gritted my teeth and pulled him up like a boatman on the Yellow River.

This was the triangle mechanics of architecture. At that time, our teacher taught us how to use a stick and a rope in conjunction with our body weight to create a traction device. There were also courses in civil engineering that covered this.

With my weight helping, it was much easier. I grabbed the vine and slowly ran towards the well, and the fat guy in the water was gradually lifted up by me. In the end, I managed to pull most of his body out of the water, but at this point, the vine around my waist had almost turned me into a pair of nunchucks.

I found a thicker gap between the rocks and wedged my spare stick into it, then looped the vine around my waist over the fat guy to secure him. After that, I crawled back into the water, lifted his legs up, and dragged him to a safe area. I then untied the vine harness from his body, checked the pile of branches for any immediate dangers, and immediately began performing CPR on him.

I had no professional training; my actions were all learned from TV dramas. I only remembered that if the heart stops, the critical time is eight minutes—there’s a good chance of revival within that time. The fat guy still had a faint pulse and weak breathing, which should be symptoms of poisoning. I wasn’t sure if CPR would be effective.

After a few attempts without knowing if I was doing it right, I could only grit my teeth and continue. After pressing for about two to three minutes, the fat guy suddenly coughed, his whole body convulsed, and he spat out a lump of yellow liquid. Then he took a deep breath, and his chest began to rise and fall, but after just one or two breaths, his eyes rolled back, and his breathing weakened again.

I looked at the bite mark on his neck; it was clear that this snake was indeed deadly, and the venom it injected was precise. The fat guy was practically incapacitated—he wouldn’t survive unless the poison was removed. I took off my clothes, scooped some water from the pool, and used my knife to cut open his wound, washing it out and letting the black blood flow out. Meanwhile, I continued to press on his chest, trying to keep him going while thinking about what to do next.

After just two presses, I suddenly heard a chilling voice coming from behind me, also from within the pile of branches. In my urgency, I couldn’t make out what was said, but it sounded familiar, and it frightened me stiff. I quickly turned my head again and shone my flashlight at the hole I had just dug in the pile of branches.

I vaguely saw the blood-red eyes of the corpse still staring at me, cold and unsettling, making me extremely uncomfortable. What made my scalp tingle was that I saw the corpse’s tongue moving.