Chapter 131: Eerie Happenings in the Forest

San Biangua slowed his pace, scanning his surroundings as he cautiously approached the edge of the campsite. Upon reaching it, he realized with certainty that the place was completely deserted. Everything was deathly quiet; there were no night watch lights, leaving the area plunged into total darkness.

He clicked on his flashlight and called out a few times, but the campsite remained silent. He mused that perhaps the inhabitants had returned to the county town for the day. It was plausible—city folk often struggled with the hardships of the mountains. Even though winter was approaching, the mountain insects were still a nuisance, and it was quite possible they had all retreated to town to rest.

At this thought, San Biangua felt a surge of excitement. If the place was truly empty, couldn't he help himself to a few things? The idea made him ecstatic. Even if there wasn't anything of great value, whatever was left behind would be a small fortune for someone like him.

Mountain foragers were rarely wealthy; after all, no one would endure the hardships of the mountains if they had money to spare. Suppressing his growing agitation, he crept into the camp. After confirming once more that no one was around, he cast aside his hesitation and ducked into a tent. It was filled mostly with daily necessities. San Biangua grabbed whatever looked useful—canned goods, tools, liquor—stuffing it all into his bag.

He even tossed out some less valuable foraged mountain goods to make room. He moved from tent to tent, and soon his bag was full. Just as he was about to check if he had missed anything, he felt the tent flap stir. He assumed it was just the mountain breeze and paid it no mind.

However, when he turned around, he saw the flap had indeed been lifted, and it didn't seem to be the wind. San Biangua’s heart skipped a beat. Yet, mountain foragers were inherently bold—without nerves of steel, one wouldn't dare work in such a trade. San Biangua, the bravest of them all, figured it was likely a wild beast and, feeling little fear, grabbed the short blade tucked into his belt and stepped out of the tent.

He swept his flashlight around, but found nothing. Just then, he caught a glimpse of a human figure darting into the woods. This time, San Biangua was truly rattled—not from fear, but from the terrifying prospect of being caught stealing.

He didn't know if the person was a night watchman, another forager, or someone else entirely. Regardless, he couldn't let them escape; if his theft were discovered, he would end up in the detention center.

Driven by a desperate, wicked impulse, he gritted his teeth, gripped his knife, and plunged into the woods. For a forager, navigating the forest was like walking through his own backyard. He soon caught sight of the figure again. The stranger moved with startling speed and agility, despite the tangled thorns and branches that made running through the woods treacherous. They moved with such grace that San Biangua assumed they must be an experienced forager, perhaps someone who, like him, had been caught out late and stumbled upon the camp.

Intent on eliminating the witness, San Biangua accelerated. But as he closed in, he suddenly skidded to a halt. The figure had collapsed to the ground. San Biangua initially thought they had tripped, but upon closer inspection, he realized the person was a foreigner. He knew enough to know that foreigners were never mountain foragers.

Looking at the clothing, it was clear the person belonged to the exploration team. Even more horrifying, the man was dead—and based on the state of the body, he had been dead for some time. San Biangua collapsed to the ground in terror. If the man hadn't died recently, what exactly had he been chasing? Was it a person or a ghost?

San Biangua, bold as he was, sensed something deeply wrong. He scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the edge of the forest. But when he emerged, the campsite was gone. The clearing was completely empty. Rattled and shaken, he ignored the pain in his feet and ran blindly toward the road outside the mountains. Only when he finally flagged down a passing vehicle did he exhale, hitching a ride back to the county town.

Naturally, San Biangua hadn't shared this story with anyone. It had taken a great deal of effort from Guo Fan—including money and a meal—to get him to talk. Guo Fan, a military veteran, had a tolerance for alcohol far beyond that of an ordinary man. After several rounds, while Guo Fan remained clear-headed, San Biangua was intoxicated enough to spill everything.

Guo Fan had kept his wits about him. Before leaving, he had escorted San Biangua home and memorized his address. I urged Guo Fan to take his men to San Biangua's place immediately. By now, the man would surely be passed out. I told them to find a way inside; according to Guo Fan, San Biangua had been too terrified to touch the items he brought back, and he hadn't been to the mountains in days. Everything should still be there.

Guo Fan nodded and headed out, followed by Zhang Feng. Both were experts in reconnaissance and tracking; this was well within their wheelhouse.

After further contemplation, the plan seemed solid. Everything would depend on where those trailers unloaded and where the cargo was destined to go.

Before long, Kang Bao arrived with a driver in the pickup truck. It was a modified Jeep-style vehicle, with room for two in the front and a cargo bed in the back. Its off-road capability and capacity were excellent. I took it for a test drive and was satisfied. I handed a stack of ten thousand yuan to Kang Bao. He grinned, took the money without a word, and drove off in his van. Before leaving, he left me his number, saying I could call him for anything—though, of course, nothing was free. I understood my place and knew our relationship wasn't particularly close, but having an extra contact was always good. Besides, I wasn't short on money.