**Day One.**

The snow fell heavier and heavier, and all the prayers made before setting out had turned to naught. Indeed, no matter who it was, as long as they attempted to approach that place, heaven would not allow it. The black, exposed parts of the distant mountains seemed to have vanished from sight; that place, at any time, could never be approached easily. It was never meant to be a destination for humans.

Would there be any living creatures in this snowy expanse? Previously, it seemed someone had claimed to have seen large birds and white-haired beasts, but now it appeared that those were just tall tales. With the wind howling in their ears and no sign of life or warmth anywhere, how could there possibly be any living beings here?

The only living creatures in this world were probably the three people trudging along. Originally, there had been four, but one had already merged with the snow-capped mountains before they even set out. That person had been found dead by the roadside in the morning, having drunk himself to death, frozen into a single entity with the stones beneath him.

One of the porters was striking at every visible ice crystal in their path with an ice pick. In the wind, the sound of the strikes resembled that of a mysterious, slow instrument, echoing softly and loudly with the pressure of the wind. The second person was the one nicknamed “Dull Oil Bottle,” who walked forward with his eyes closed, following the sound, his hands groping. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to open his eyes; it was just that even with his goggles on, he could see nothing at all—feeling was better than sight.

“Should we stop and take a break?” called one of the porters from behind. Dull Oil Bottle turned to look; it was Laba, the oldest of the two porters.

Laba was a Tibetan man just over forty, but he looked nearly sixty, his dark face etched with deep wrinkles from years of wind exposure. His complexion was flushed, resembling someone who had been drinking. He was the leader among the original three and one of the most experienced porters.

“Can we rest?” Dull Oil Bottle asked.

“If we keep going like this, we’ll only move a few meters before dark. It’s better to wait for the wind to pass. Looking at the sky, it shouldn’t last much longer,” Laba replied. “Otherwise, we’ll waste our strength here without any results.”

“Then let’s stop,” Dull Oil Bottle said.

They huddled against the mountain wall but could only stand still, waiting for the wind to die down. The other porter was clearly exhausted; as soon as they stopped, he nearly slipped down the slope, but Laba caught him. Laba spoke loudly to him, urging him to regain his spirits.

Laba breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that under such wind pressure, continuing down was the right choice, but to do so meant they would have to push through this dangerous stretch while chasing the wind, without stopping. They might have to walk through the night before they could rest. By that time, they could do many things—live, sleep well—so enduring this bit of hardship was worth it. However, he was getting older and simply couldn’t take it anymore; he would rather stand here than move even an inch.

As he spoke, he feared the remaining porter would oppose him, but clearly, their strength had reached its limit. Dull Oil Bottle, lacking experience, did not scold them, unlike the heads of the muleteers from before, who would have forced them to keep moving.

In short, the situation is still under his control. Standing here, he slowly feels his strength improving, which is certainly better than pushing forward for another night only to slip and fall. With age, it’s better to endure than to rush. Accidents always catch people off guard, and at his age, his reactions can’t be as quick as they used to be.

The silent bottle is very obedient, which makes him feel somewhat guilty. He is actually a bit curious about this silent bottle. In the entire area of Motuo, there’s basically no one who enters the snow mountains alone on such a path; this should be a first. This silent bottle, judging by his age and manner of speaking, is truly mysterious and unpredictable.

“You don’t seem like someone who works for foreigners?” After resting for a moment, several people huddled together, and he asked the silent bottle. He needed to say something, as under this fatigue, if he couldn’t hold on, he might fall asleep.

“Foreigners?” The silent bottle shook his head slightly. “Why do you ask that?”

“Most of the people who hired us to traverse these routes before were foreigners, all tall and big, some with golden hair, some with white hair, and some with blue eyes, while others had green eyes, like cat eyes.”

The silent bottle didn’t respond. Snowflakes stuck to his face, obscuring his expression. He seemed to be listening but also seemed completely uninterested in answering. After a moment of silence, the silent bottle finally said, “Do they all take this route?”

“People who take all sorts of routes exist,” Laba replied. “Every path has its own dangers, but foreigners tend to hire porters more often, wanting to transport all sorts of things inside, and they pay poorly. This route is less traveled in this season; otherwise, we might encounter one or two other people. But these paths aren’t truly difficult; once the snow stops, everything becomes manageable. The truly terrifying part is the areas without paths that you’ll have to traverse later. I’ve said it before, after every mile, I’ll advise you once.”

The silent bottle didn’t respond. Every time this topic came up, he fell silent. Laba thought to himself that the time spent coming in wasn’t long enough; as long as he walked a bit slower, there would come a day when he would retreat. The environment here is not something ordinary people can endure.

“Then why did you come?” The silent bottle asked after a long pause.

Laba fell silent for a moment, recalling the children at home. He remembered why he had agreed to come here with that lama; he was driven by selfish motives. He didn’t want to continue onward, but if this silent bottle didn’t understand the need to turn back, then there was nothing he could do. He touched the Tibetan knife in his hand; it was too easy to kill someone—so easy that he didn’t even need the knife. “I owe money,” he replied succinctly.

This very small action was immediately noticed by the silent bottle, but he didn’t pay much attention to it.

“What dangers will we face?” The silent bottle didn’t continue asking him but instead posed a more practical question.

“Dangers? There’s nothing here that’s about danger or safety. Let me tell you, in the snow mountains, everything is your enemy: the sun, the wind, the snow, the sound of speaking, the stones—any one of them can go wild, and you’ll be dead. Here, there’s no concept of danger or safety; everything is dangerous, and there are all sorts of ghosts in the snow. People who die in the snow, if they can’t find their way back, will wander here forever.”

“Ghosts?” the muffled oil bottle seemed to find something very interesting, “Do you also have taboos about this?”
“Who doesn’t have taboos?” Laba replied, “Any living thing has its taboos.”
“Humans are far scarier than ghosts; the human heart is inscrutable,” the muffled oil bottle said, glancing at Laba’s concealed knife.
Laba felt a bit nervous, wondering if he had seen through something. In his hesitation, the concealed knife was swiftly drawn away and ended up in the muffled oil bottle’s hand.
“Sir?”
The muffled oil bottle tossed the concealed knife into the cliff below, saying, “Useless things should be discarded early; carrying them is too heavy.”
Laba watched as the knife fell quickly, striking the rocks and bouncing away before disappearing into the snow. He realized he had encountered a formidable character. When he turned to look, he saw the muffled oil bottle was also watching him, his expression calm, as if the earlier incident hadn’t involved him at all.
Well, in this place, the knife isn’t that important, Laba thought. Moreover, there’s more than one person with a knife. On the path ahead, there would surely be times when help or a pull would be needed, and at that moment, one could strike at any time.
The wind gradually died down, and as the knife-like pressure on Laba’s face eased, he felt much more comfortable. Then, at that moment, he saw something familiar on the mountain path ahead.
It was another group of porters walking in front of them, quite a distance away. In the earlier snowstorm, nothing could be seen, but now dark figures were emerging.
“Strange, this route seems to be quite popular this winter?” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t shout or converse here, as it would trigger an avalanche. He simply observed quietly, noticing that none of the porters had moved; they were all perfectly still, maintaining their positions.
“They’re all dead,” Laba suddenly said after watching for a while. “Those are corpses.”
They must all be dead, and they must have frozen to death here, just like them, leaning against the mountain wall, ultimately succumbing to the cold, frozen solid against the rock.
Suddenly, Laba felt a chill run through him. He immediately stood up and said to the others, “The wind has calmed down; let’s continue forward. Let’s go see who these corpses are.”