Chapter 410 – Snow Mountain (10): “Playing the thighbone trumpet and the kapala while singing loud.”

“In-depth cooperation and sharing clues?” Lin Chen paused on the stairs, startled by Fu Jue’s proposal.

He knew it was the best way to clear this instance, and he was, on paper, the guild leader of the Unnamed Guild—he ought to negotiate with Fu Jue.

The problem was… his current state was off. He still remembered his identity and the basics of the Eerie Game, but who knew whether he’d give himself away mid-conversation?

Worse, he couldn’t tell whether his present thoughts came from an adult’s rational mind or a child’s naïve whims.

“Fine.” Saying as little as possible to avoid mistakes, Lin Chen gave a small nod and turned toward the door.

Behind him, players from Jiuzhou and Tingfeng were each writing on a sheet of white paper—maybe pooling information, maybe using the old trick to see who else had “shrunk into a kid.”

Curious, Lin Chen slowed his steps without seeming to, and heard Shuomeng call out, “This shouldn’t count as getting hit, right? I’m forever eighteen, okay? Fine, but I really don’t think I did anything special…”

Clearly the situation was grimmer than expected; more than one person had been affected. If a player prized for intellect and experience got unlucky, it was like having a ball and chain clamped on.

Lin Chen had no blind faith in his own mind, yet he couldn’t help a deep sorrow—for those struck and for every player’s fate.

“Let’s go.” Qi Si stood at the door, speaking through the Soul Leaf. “If you don’t want to climb the mountain at midnight, I suggest we start our prep now.”

Lin Chen collected himself and followed. The instant he stepped out of the inn’s shadow, light poured over him.

Shangri-La had neither dawn nor noon; sky-brightness from the dome was already full, yellow glare coating every corner, carving the wooden eaves and window frames in sharp detail.

Colorful prayer flags crossed overhead in a net. Wind laced with ice shards swept down the snow mountain, whipping the flags into rattling clacks, the bone pendants on their tails clattering like hail.

The day bustled like the last: pilgrims and lamas in the streets, the former chanting “Om mani padme hum,” the latter murmuring sutras.

The two voices blended into something soft and harmonious, like a newly formed embryo floating in its mother’s waters.

Lin Chen relaxed a fraction, glancing left and right to take in the shops lining the street.

Every building was a two-storey wooden house, roofed with prayer flags, second-floor windows draped in blossoms—only the signs above the doors differed.

Nearest the inn, a placard in Sanskrit read: 【Mountain Gear Depot】.

A language nearly dead in this era, yet he understood it without the Eerie Game’s translation—like reading his mother tongue.

As though, here and now, nations, cultures, borders had melted; all divisions erased; the world shared one mother.

Lin Chen did quick mental math. “Brother Qi, are we visiting every shop? There are so many—will we finish?”

Qi Si sighed. “Obviously I’d planned to split up, but given your current state, to avoid losing a teammate early, we’d better stick together.”

He walked toward the shop bearing the 【Mountain Gear Depot】 sign.

It was Lin Chen’s first instinct too—by proximity and priority, this was the place to start.

He followed Qi Si across the threshold; a breeze from his steps set the wind chimes overhead into tinkling song.

Inside was not small, yet crampons, oxygen tanks, trekking poles, ropes and more left it feeling cramped and cluttered.

With daylight outside, the ceiling lamp stayed unlit; orange light spilled through the door, illuminating motes of dust frozen mid-air, casting speckled shadows on tables and floor—time seemed to stop.

Lin Chen held his breath. Memories surfaced: sitting on childhood steps watching crickets; napping in a classroom while pulling curtains shut.

He’d been class monitor through junior and senior high, doing whatever he could. Those ten-odd minutes after lunch before the nap bell were his busiest—handing out workbooks or hauling trash downstairs.

Life then was simple. Knowing his family was poor and many things out of reach, he tried harder, never pitying himself, never blaming fate—never thought of death, never feared life.

“Planning to climb the snow mountain?” A gentle, melodious voice rose from the shadows, breaking his reverie.

Only then did he notice a young woman sitting in the corner.

She wore a red-and-blue Tibetan robe, multicolored beads circling her neck, her ruddy face handsome and calming—oddly reassuring in this eerie place.

Seeing him look, she smiled. “I’m one of the local guides. Call me Baima. If you want to climb, I can lead you.”

“Baima” means “lotus,” symbol of purity; Lin Chen had crammed local lore before entering the instance and the fact surfaced at once.

Of course, it seemed useless for clearing the instance and vanished as quickly.

Remembering not to be a burden, he answered calmly, “Hello, Baima. We’re not sure we’ll climb; just looking. By the way, if we do, must we hire a guide?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “The snow mountain is the Mother Goddess’s sleeping body. Wake her and she rages; the consequences are dire. Only locals know the safe ways so as not to offend her.

“Some travelers climbed alone, offended her, and never came back.”

Lin Chen seized the key point. “That many climbers? But I don’t see many tourists here.”

“True, yet every visitor—however unwilling at first—ends up climbing,” Baima said, eyes shining. “They say wishes made on the mountain come true. Many ask to revive loved ones, then live here happily together.”

Live here… happily… together?

Lin Chen pictured his silver-haired parents, Qi Si, the other players he had met in past instances, and many classmates he had once been close to… and, for no reason, his mind painted a cozy scene: everyone dressed in hemp, staying in a Shangri-La inn, faces glowing with happy smiles. Hand in hand they sang to him, “We’ll stay here forever…”

Forever… stay…?

Lin Chen instinctively followed that possibility in his thoughts, but a blood-soaked human-skin thangka suddenly flashed before his eyes—five hollow blood-holes where the face should be, like a vengeful ghost demanding his life.

The sight jolted him; the eeriness he’d ignored surged in waves, and at last he realized how wrong the scene had been. Cold sweat broke out all over him.

That was close—had the memory of that human-skin thangka not surfaced in time, he would have been trapped in the nightmare. Was that why Sangji had the players look at it?

Lin Chen guessed uneasily, grew more alert, and asked casually, “Baima, may I ask how many travelers have stayed here over the years?”

Baima seemed completely unaware of what Lin Chen had just experienced. Without batting an eye she counted on her fingers: “Twenty-two eleven years ago, twenty-two twenty-two years ago…”

Twenty-two—the exact number of players currently in the inn. In all likelihood, every traveler who had ever arrived here had been a player.

Before their group, two batches of players had come: one eleven years ago, one twenty-two years ago—matching Xiao Fengchao and Lin Jue on the Revelation fragments. The more Lin Chen heard, the more convinced he was that climbing the snow-covered mountain was a trap.

“Are you going to climb the mountain?” Baima asked again.

“We’re still thinking it over,” Lin Chen said.

Qi Si had remained impassive; now he gave a slight nod. “Maybe tonight, maybe not.”

Baima nodded and said softly, “The wind and snow are heavy at night; it’s not a good time to ascend. But different people and different destinies call for different times—perhaps you are meant to climb in the dark.”

“Time?” Qi Si asked. “Sangji avoids talking about time, claiming Shangri-La has none. You don’t mind?”

Lin Chen added silently that the guide who had led them hadn’t minded either, bluntly telling him of the “seven-day” limit yesterday.

What, exactly, was the difference?

Baima smiled. “I’m different from them. They’re still atoning; I’ve finished. I’m not afraid of time…”

She rose from the corner and slowly walked to the counter. Lin Chen saw her lower body was bare—no skirt, no trousers, no skin, only scab-covered flesh from which the hide had been flayed.

Lin Chen clamped his lips tight to stifle a cry, frantically telling himself “pretend it’s a sausage,” yet… it looked even more horrifying.

Qi Si seemed not to notice her grotesque lower half and calmly asked, “What happens if someone who hasn’t finished atoning speaks of time?”

“They grow old, like some among you.” Baima lowered her head and whispered, “None of you have finished. Remember: do not speak of time, and do not let others speak of it.”

“Which of us are growing old?” Qi Si narrowed his eyes.

Lin Chen pricked up his ears as well.

He couldn’t recall any player aging; if anything, some—including himself—felt younger in spirit.

Could it be that in this instance “growing old” meant the opposite of what it did in reality?

“I can’t say more. Telling the sinful too many secrets would stain me with sin again.” Baima shook her head, took a bronze mirror from beneath the counter, and set it on the table. “Before you climb, look at your fate.”

Lin Chen lowered his gaze. In the clear glass a warm scene appeared.

He, Qi Si, his parents, and many friends sat at a huge table laden with rich dishes; everyone smiled as they raised their cups.

It looked like a welcome-home feast after a long adventure—no worries, no hatred, no fear, no anxiety. A victory banquet after clearing the Final Dungeon? Did it mean they would succeed?

Lin Chen glanced at Qi Si beside him, but saw no joy on the other’s face.

Qi Si’s eyes were downcast; within the scarlet irises nothing reflected, and his expression was utterly indifferent.

Baima explained, “Each person’s fate is tied to desire; you will see the truest wish in your heart.”

So the mirror showed desire, meaning each person would see something different?

Lin Chen looked away, unwilling to pry into Qi Si’s privacy—both out of politeness and fear of seeing something he couldn’t accept.

Qi Si seemed oblivious to the small movement and studied the mirror with interest.

A black-haired, red-eyed youth smiled at him—his own reflection—white mist swirling around him like a sea that filled the background.

Something seemed hidden within. He strained to see, to think, to remember, yet the view grew hazier; the once-clear surface clouded.

Suddenly an almost explosive scene unfolded before him: colors splashed in streaks and specks like an Impressionist canvas… Qi Si smiled. “I saw nothing.”

Baima sighed softly, took back the mirror, and looked at him with pity. “Without a heart, you cannot leave the mountain; to leave, you must grow one.”

“Without a heart”—another cryptic remark. A kindly warning or malicious manipulation? He couldn’t rule out the ancestral god trying to rattle him… “All right, I’ll try.” Qi Si answered perfunctorily, took Lin Chen’s arm, and walked out of the shop.

Behind them Baima murmured, “You will come back.”

A prophecy—or a curse.

Uneasy, Lin Chen followed Qi Si a short distance before hesitantly asking, “Brother Qi, what does ‘without a heart’ mean? I remember the Investiture of the Gods has the tale of Bigan having his heart cut out—could it be related?”

“No idea. Maybe.” Qi Si gave the six-word reply, then stopped and turned back. “Lin Chen, how old are you now? Don’t think—answer from instinct.”

After what had happened to Yu Su, everyone knew what such a question implied.

Lin Chen was silent a long moment, then whispered, “My first thought was: after my birthday I’ll be fourteen. Brother Qi… I seem to have grown a little younger again…”