The village of Hejia was halfway up the mountain, not easy to find; it was only with great difficulty, asking the tea merchants along the way, that they found the path. And it wasn't clear if it was a misconception, but the complexions of a few tea sellers, carrying shoulder poles, changed greatly when they heard the three characters of "Hejia village", wanting to speak but hesitating and hurriedly pointing out the route, then lowered their heads and added water to the pots, not breathing a word of the matter. On the journey upwards, the skies began to gradually become painted with black, twilight settling heavily, like a crude clay bowl having been overturned. Atop the mountain, in the end, was cooler than the foot, and the snow along the path had yet to melt clean; the further up they walked, the more the snow became piled on, and the path was also covered in a layer of slippery ice, only with a feew fragmentary footprints and wheel ruts, as if almost no one had walked ...