You All Stay Here—I'll Go On Ahead

The three men's mouths twitched, but none of them dared to step forward. They were a useless pack of cowards—aside from Xiao Wang, who could throw a punch, the other two were so out of shape they'd be winded after two steps. And with that knife in front of them, they were even less inclined to charge.

Director Zhang and Di Zhonghai both took a step back in unison, leaving Xiao Wang standing alone at the front. He turned to look at the two of them, his face a mask of disbelief.

Song Weishi walked up to him, blade raised. "Looking to die, are you?"

She made to stab, and Xiao Wang hastily retreated a step, glaring at her with fury. He'd often boasted that a real man, when provoked, could take on any threat. Song Weishi sneered and suddenly swung the knife in a wide arc.

All three men's faces changed in an instant, and they scrambled backward as one.

Idiots—they'd come looking for trouble without even bothering to arm themselves properly. Their broken chair legs and sticks weren't going to scare anyone.

While Song Weishi slashed at them, the two behind her weren't idle either. They wielded their ski poles, driving the three men back step by step.

She'd expected something more intimidating from people bold enough to eat human flesh, but they turned out to be this cowardly. The two behind her had been a little scared at first, but seeing the three men retreat with no way to fight back, their confidence grew with every swing.

Those men were still hoping for outside rescue, so they wouldn't risk a desperate fight unless absolutely forced. And now that they had a food source, they'd be even more content to stay here, not willing to risk their lives.

After driving the three back into their room, Song Weishi and her companions stopped in the corridor. She felt her whole body heating up.

She hadn't forgotten to set the room on fire before leaving, and now smoke was already curling from their quarters. Perfect timing.

Song Weishi signaled the other two, and they quickly strapped on their skis.

The moment the door swung open, the cold air hit her like a wall, making her shiver all over. Wang Jie and Xiao Li beside her were trembling even harder.

"Oh, and I thought we'd warmed up enough out there. I'm freezing!"

Song Weishi pulled the balaclava she'd prepared over her head. Once she adjusted, it wasn't so bad. She carried almost nothing, so she could move with ease.

The snow at the door had frozen solid, no longer soft and powdery—perfect conditions for skiing.

The daylight outside was blinding, and it took Song Weishi a moment to adjust, squinting against the glare.

She spotted a long rope hanging down the slope from the doorway, anchored to a wooden stake driven into the packed snow, with carved footholds dug into the ice. They'd set this up on their earlier trips out, to help them climb back. Now it saved them a lot of trouble.

Song Weishi went first, pulling herself up the rope hand over hand to the top of the slope. When she emerged, all she saw was an expanse of white.

Apart from the jutting cliffs, there was almost no way to tell directions. Fortunately, the Garden of a Hundred Herbs had distinct elevation changes, so as long as she skied downhill, she'd be fine.

The other two were struggling up behind her. Song Weishi glanced back and saw their little cabin half-buried in snow, though the roof was mostly clear—someone had swept it the last time they went out.

A tangled mess of footprints surrounded the place, but they faded quickly into the distance, leaving no clue how far anyone had ventured.

Song Weishi stood on the mountainside, with about a dozen kilometers to the bottom. Not too far, really. If all went well, she'd make it down quickly, but she was a novice, so she'd better be careful.

Before setting out, the three had agreed: help each other if possible, but if not, each would look out for themselves. Out here in the frozen wilderness, every extra minute was a test of survival.

Wang Jie and Xiao Li confirmed the direction, called out to her, then took off—two strokes of their poles and they were already far ahead, leaving long furrows in the snow.

Song Weishi didn't rush. Once their figures had vanished, she took off her backpack and pulled the down jacket from her space, slipping it on. Instantly, the cold lost its bite, and warmth flooded her body.

She felt wonderfully comfortable. From her space, she retrieved a new plastic basin, hauled up the rope, then used the basin to scoop snow and push it into the slope they'd descended. The snow there wasn't packed hard yet, so it was easy to scrape.

By the time she finished, her body was thoroughly warm, and her spirits were soaring.

Those three deserved worse than this. They'd seen what she was wearing; they might try to replicate it and escape. But it was kill or be killed now—she wasn't about to make it easy for them.

Song Weishi turned, planted her ski poles in the snow, and cautiously began her first-ever ski run.

The night before, she'd asked Wang Jie and Xiao Li for tips. Speed didn't matter, they said; the key was balance and control of your center of gravity. Her gear wasn't great, so stability was her priority, and she absolutely couldn't use brute force. She knew her own sense of balance was only so-so.

Yesterday, she'd checked her reflection in her phone and found her face almost identical to the original owner's. Their builds were similar too, just her hands were softer. Same body, so her balance probably wasn't much worse, right?

She leaned forward slightly, constantly adjusting her posture, hugging the cliff face as she made her way down. There were no sharp turns here, but she was still cautious and careful.

Xiao Li and Wang Jie were long out of sight ahead. She envied their luck in knowing how to ski. But she improved quickly, and after a few tumbles, she began to grasp the fundamentals.

She'd never been to a ski resort up north, but this felt just as scenic. The views were lovely—bamboo groves, their tops snapped under heavy snow, some branches poking through, others buried completely.

Song Weishi didn't mind the occasional spill; she was having the time of her life, feeling freer than she had in weeks.

Meanwhile, back at the staff rest station, the three men were in their room, disposing of Zhong Xiaomin's body.

Her head—the symbol of her status—had been tossed into the toilet, as if that would somehow hide what they'd done.

They ate their fill, their faces savage and numb. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs with a physical weight, and even eating couldn't dull the ache.

Director Zhang's swollen eye was half-closed; he found it hard to open. Two days now, and there was no sign of the swelling going down. In fact, a strange, thick fluid had just started oozing from it.

He bit viciously into a chunk of tender thigh meat, while the other two ate even more ravenously.

The three of them stuffed the flesh into their mouths as if they hadn't eaten in days.

Soon, thick smoke filled the room, stinging their eyes. They turned to look, and Director Zhang shouted, "What's going on? Is the rescue team here?"

The smoke had them coughing and choking. Di Zhonghai reacted first, throwing open the door, and a billowing black cloud rolled in.

Xiao Wang slammed the door shut. "That bitch and her cronies set the place on fire!"

Di Zhonghai started crying in panic. "What do we do?! Should we go out?! Cough, cough... cough, cough, cough..."

Their conversation was punctuated by hacking coughs. Xiao Wang grabbed his hand as he reached for the door again. "No! If we go out there, we'll die faster!"

"Then what—what should we do?!" Di Zhonghai wailed.

"Get a wet towel first, cover our mouths, then head out."

The two argued back and forth, but behind them, Director Zhang had stopped eating. His green-tinged eyes were fixed on the body lying beside him, barely touched, not yet fully dismembered.

A strange sensation rose in him. He suddenly craved raw meat—not animal flesh, but something else. Something like him. Human.

"Crunch... heh heh... crunch... heh heh..."

At some point, the coughing faded, or rather, it was drowned out by a hair-raising sound of chewing.

Terrified, the two men whirled to where Director Zhang had been sitting. He wasn't there.

Thin smoke hung in the air, and the firelight flickered, illuminating a monstrous face in the corner.

The face that had been Director Zhang's was now glistening like candy, slick and runny, his features nearly unrecognizable. His pupils had become two orbs of green, glowing in the dark. Even his already bloated body had swelled further, his skin weeping a layer of grease like a corpse left out too long.

Zhong Xiaomin's abdomen—still intact until moments ago—had been torn open by the creature. He cradled her entrails and a leg, devouring them in a frenzy of blood and flesh.

Di Zhonghai opened his mouth to scream, but Xiao Wang clamped a hand over it. They exchanged a tearful, desperate look, and without a word, both made a silent dash for the door.

The sound of chewing stopped the instant they turned. But then Director Zhang's voice—the same oily, familiar tone—was right behind them, as if whispering in their ears: "Where are you going? Didn't you say the fire outside was too dangerous to leave?"

Two blood-curdling screams echoed through the snow-buried cabin. Then, nothing but silence.

Song Weishi had reached the foot of the mountain by now. After half an hour of stumbling and practicing, she made it to the entrance of the Garden of a Hundred Herbs. A few hundred meters more, and she'd see the hotel.

Two Route Maps of the scenic area were pinned to the half-standing gate, likely left behind by Wang Jie and Xiao Li. The terrain was flat here, so Song Weishi stowed her skis, pulled on the boots she'd scavenged earlier, and set off toward the hotel. She had the rest of her journey ahead of her.