Yang Hao and Li Cu’s guns were aimed directly at the giant white snake’s face. For humans, retracting the neck in a threatening manner held no significance; in fact, it made aiming easier. However, no one expected that when the enormous white snake opened its neck, it revealed a human face.

The face was formed from color-changing scales, with some protrusions that shaped the forehead and nose. What troubled Li Cu the most was how familiar this face looked. Due to the lighting and the tension of the moment, he couldn’t immediately recall whose face it was, but he was certain he had seen it before.

After hanging down from the roof in a threatening posture, the white snake did not attack immediately. They were at a stalemate, and just as Li Cu felt a bit dazed, the snake’s throat quivered and began to make sounds.

The white snake’s call was extremely unpleasant; it first emitted a series of sounds reminiscent of a chicken’s crow, though the frequency was slightly off. Li Cu listened with a pale face, realizing that the snake was mimicking the gunfire they had just made. After a few more calls, the snake’s throat trembled again, producing a sound that left everyone stunned.

The white snake spoke a sentence: “If we dig any deeper, we will have no chance to turn back.”

Li Cu was taken aback, thinking to himself that it was a bit late for the lady to have regrets now. Then the white snake spoke again, “Why do we all see different things?”

Li Cu’s mouth twitched as he saw the human face on the snake’s neck begin to change, morphing into a face that resembled Wu Xie, but clearly older. Then the white snake transformed into a woman’s face.

It was testing and observing them. As Li Cu looked into the snake’s eyes, he suddenly realized that these snakes could mimic human faces and even imitate human sounds. Sure enough, the snake’s neck gradually formed a blurry face that became clearer, eventually turning into Li Cu’s likeness.

Li Cu immediately covered his face with his hands; he didn’t know the snake’s intentions, but he was very unwilling to be imitated by it. The white snake’s neck slowly retracted, no longer displaying an aggressive posture, and gradually pulled back up to the roof, disappearing into the darkness.

Li Cu’s legs felt weak. He glanced at Yang Hao and found him with his eyes closed. The surrounding vines showed no signs of change. Li Cu’s mind was blank, fatigue combined with high tension almost made him faint. He gritted his teeth, knowing this was definitely not a place to rest.

He adjusted his breathing, his heartbeat gradually slowed, and the blood that had rushed to his head began to flow back into his body. He opened his eyes again, feeling much better.

He picked up the already soaked napkin, about to continue, when “beep beep beep beep beep”—Su Wan’s watch rang again.

Li Cu instantly exploded with rage, turning around and cursing, “Su Wan, how much longer are you going to keep this up?”

In an instant, a claw grabbed Li Cu by the ankle, dragging him into the vine circle. Countless vines wrapped around him tightly, pulling him toward the sand, and he was quickly dragged beneath the sandy layer.

Li Cu held his breath, feeling utterly powerless as he sank into the sand, a sensation he had experienced once before. He thought he would never go through it again in his lifetime, but unexpectedly, less than six months later, he found himself in the same situation. Fortunately, this time he had some experience.

He forced himself to hold his breath and pressed his head down, making it harder for the sand to enter his nostrils. The weight of the sand pressed down on him fiercely. He felt that he still had some air left in his chest and could hold on for a while longer, but now the pressure was increasing, and he could no longer contain the air, which burst out uncontrollably.

Dragging prey through the sand was not easy; the claws pulled him down for about three or four meters before stopping. For Li Cu, three or four meters was already deep enough. After that, most of the vines released him and quickly retreated into the sand.

Li Cu desperately moved his arms, trying to climb up and escape from the sand as quickly as possible, but he found himself trapped and unable to move. He realized that the vines weren’t showing mercy; they intended to suffocate him with the sand.

Many people had used bamboo poles to probe the sand piles because the top layer was very loose, but the deeper one went, the harder it became to insert the pole. This was due to the increasing friction and pressure from the sand.

Li Cu’s body was buried beneath the sand dune, and the resistance here was immense. The surrounding sand had stopped moving, fixing his limbs in place like plaster. He continued to struggle.

He swung his head, pressing his chin tightly against his neck, creating a small space around his nose, allowing him to take a breath just before suffocating. This breath was a great help to Li Cu. In fact, it allowed him to breathe for two or three minutes. At this moment, Li Cu forced himself to calm down. If he needed a minute to act, then spending the remaining two minutes thinking was absolutely worth it. He pondered that sand was not like water; in water, there were no gaps, but in sand, there was plenty of air. He just needed to create a space the size of a bamboo pole around his nose so that he could breathe easily, which would allow him to hold on for ten to fifteen minutes, restoring his strength to continue climbing up.

However, he absolutely could not move his hands. Moving them in the sand would require oxygen that would lead to immediate suffocation. He could only achieve this with minimal physical effort.

So, Li Cu began to carefully move with his nose, the sensation of suffocation shadowing him. He pushed and pushed, compressing the sand in front of him, and gradually the space under his nasal cavity increased. He took another breath and felt much better. Just as he was about to take a second breath, the sand in front of him collapsed, and a mouthful of sand went directly into his lungs. He started to cough violently, realizing he was doomed.

Time rewound, and Wu Xie, wearing a black canvas raincoat, stood on the sand dune, quietly watching as Li Cu and the others set up a tent in search of the lost.

The dune collapsed, and several people rolled in, disappearing from sight.

Behind him, Wang Meng said, “Boss, don’t you think this is a bit risky?”

“Since I returned from Tibet, I rarely misidentify people,” Wu Xie said. He turned to the black glasses, who was standing a bit far away, and said, “I’ll leave this to you.”

The black glasses nodded, holding an umbrella with his hands in his pockets. “You’ve really changed a lot.”

Wu Xie ignored him; he wasn’t in the mood to engage with such comments. For a long time, he had learned to focus only on the results.

“Are you really not surnamed Zhang?” Wu Xie finally asked the black glasses.

The black glasses touched his chest. “Those with the surname Zhang don’t feel pain. No matter what, I’ll still feel some pain.”

“Ah, then I’m not even as good as you now,” Wu Xie said, waving his hand as he walked down the sand dune with Wang Meng.

The black glasses called out, “Don’t get yourself killed, or I won’t be able to explain it.”

Wu Xie paid no attention. The rain began to lighten, and he pulled off his hair, revealing his shaved head. He put on his glasses, and it was clear that under his raincoat, he was wearing a lama’s robe.