Chapter Five: Re-entering the Deep Mountains

Zhang Tiejun picked up the old-fashioned double-barreled flintlock. It was likely the product of a small workshop from over a decade ago. It was clear that its original owner had held it in high regard, as every part had been meticulously polished with gun oil. The gunpowder in the horn pouch was well-sealed and bone-dry, and the small lead pellets had been polished to an exceptional smoothness.

"These were all things your father used. It’s a strange coincidence—the day before he died, he said he wouldn't go hunting anymore and packed all these things away. That day, he said he was going up into the mountains for one last look... and he never came back." Perhaps touched by a painful memory, Mother Zhang sniffled, wiped the tears from her eyes with her hand, and said, "I originally wanted to keep them as a memento, but it seems better to give them to you now. Consider it your father’s protection while you are in the mountains."

Zhang Tiejun nodded. "I understand, Mother."

He moved the wooden chest into the small courtyard, bringing the hunting gear that had been stored for eleven years out into the light of day. Zhang Tiejun examined the contents closely, dust from the chest dancing in the shafts of sunlight. A bear trap, about half the width of a forearm, lay folded shut. To Zhang Tiejun, while these items had sentimental value, they were merely basic equipment in terms of practicality.

The maximum range of this civilian-grade, old-fashioned double-barreled flintlock was no more than thirty meters, with an effective killing range of only a dozen or so meters. Furthermore, even for an experienced hand, reloading took two to three minutes. The fishing net had several tears, and the nylon thread showed signs of wear. The animal traps were well-preserved, though the springs had rusted slightly; it seemed the clamping force might be diminished, making it likely that large prey could break free.

The only item that gave Zhang Tiejun any real satisfaction was the dagger encased in a cowhide sheath. Although it lacked the sharpness of modern blades or knives forged from tungsten steel, it remained a formidable hunting tool.

The dagger, etched with wavy patterns, exuded a chilling aura in the sunlight. Though it hadn't been drawn in eleven years, one could still faintly smell the lingering scent of blood upon it. It was easy to guess that many beasts had perished under this blade in the past.

"This gear will suffice for now, though I’ll need to replace it when I get the chance," Zhang Tiejun muttered to himself.

This time, Zhang Tiejun was headed deep into the mountains, and he might have to eat his evening meal there as well.

"Brother, are you really going to be gone for so long?" Zhang Xiaohua asked, watching Zhang Tiejun as he finished dressing.

Zhang Tiejun laughed while adjusting the fishing line. "With last year’s famine, so many people went into the mountains that there’s hardly anything left at the base. This trip, I plan to bag a roe deer or something similar. They’re meaty—over a hundred catties—enough for a little glutton like you to feast on for days."

Zhang Xiaohua nodded. "I remember when Father brought us back a roe deer. It tasted wonderful. But the forest is so dense, it’s easy to get lost. Besides, aren't there wolves over there?"

"Don't you worry about that. I’m carrying Father’s gun. I’m not afraid, even if there are wolves. You just stay home and wait for me," Zhang Tiejun said, slinging the flintlock over his back.

"Wait a moment," Mother Zhang’s voice called out. "Take some food with you."

Leaning on a wooden staff, Mother Zhang stumbled out, carrying a small cloth bag that looked quite heavy.

"Mother, what is this?" Zhang Tiejun asked, taking the bag. "We still have some cornmeal at home. I made five steamed buns; I brought three for you to eat on the way."

Zhang Tiejun shook his head, preparing to refuse. "Mother, I can't eat all of this."

Zhang Xiaohua explained, "Brother, one bun a day is enough for me and Mother. You’ll be burning a lot of energy in the mountains, and I’m waiting for you to bring me back some roe deer meat!"

Their earnest expressions left Zhang Tiejun at a loss for words, so he finally sighed, "Alright then. I’m leaving, Mother!"

The place Zhang Tiejun was heading was Little Lianzi Mountain. The Guandong Mountains soared into the clouds, with countless spurs and ridges, and Little Lianzi Mountain lay nestled deep within them.

In the heart of such mountain ranges, beasts were abundant, and especially during this year of famine, there had even been reports of wild wolves.

Several communes had organized patrols to scout the mountains, but for the vast expanse of the Guandong range, it was like a drop in the ocean.

By commune custom, hunters were not allocated rations, which was why their numbers had dwindled over the years. Once a hunter entered the Guandong Mountains, they were essentially entrusting half their life to the heavens.

Zhang Tiejun headed up the mountain at dawn. Beyond a bit of wishful thinking, the main reason he dared to venture deep into the old-growth forest was that he had found a cowhide map inside the wooden chest.

It was drawn by his father, clearly recording the routes, hunting grounds, and insights he had gathered over many years. With it, Zhang Tiejun felt he was fully prepared.

Compared to the struggles between men, the process of hunting is less a fight between man and beast, and more a condensed version of man’s struggle against nature. As the saying goes, there is infinite joy in struggling against the heavens.

Amidst the ice and snow, tracking signs, crossing creeks, traversing ravines, and using a hunting knife or gun to obtain the sustenance needed to survive—this is a human instinct, and even more so, a challenge hidden deep within the heart.

That said, catching prey requires immense patience. Unlike the bustling markets, the cold Guandong Mountains were oppressively quiet.

Zhang Tiejun moved cautiously, checking his map every few miles to ensure he hadn't strayed from his route, observing the vegetation and trees for signs of being trampled or grazed.

This caution was no mere whim. Compared to starving, the dangers of the deep mountains were far more diverse, and even experienced hunters often failed to return.

After an hour of careful movement, Zhang Tiejun finally stopped beneath a massive boulder.

"According to the map, another twenty or thirty miles forward should bring me to Little Lianzi Mountain. There ought to be a herd of roe deer there," Zhang Tiejun mused. "The famine has even made the 'silly roe deer' clever."

After chewing on a couple of cold buns and washing them down with a few gulps of mountain spring water, Zhang Tiejun took two lead pellets and loaded them into the barrel. He had discovered trampled leaves along the sides of the creek, and in the damp mud, he found a trail of plum-blossom-shaped hoof prints.

"Looks like roe deer or sika deer tracks," Zhang Tiejun said, crouching to observe. "That patch of woods is sparse; it looks like there might be a large thicket nearby."

With a lead, Zhang Tiejun readied himself, lowered his rifle, and crouched low as he crept into a spruce forest.