The wheels rolled over the gravel, making a tooth-piercing groan. Lu Li gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white from the exertion. Outside the window, there is an all-devouring thick fog, rolling like gray cotton wool, smearing the continuous dark green mountains until only a vague outline is left. The air was damp, cold, and sticky, with a fishy-sweet smell of rotting leaves, earth, and some indescribable smell that resembled old herbs mixed with rust. Is this what "Blackwater River" tastes like? A dusty corner deep in his memory was disturbed, and a cold, sticky chill filled his mind. More than twenty years later, this road of death leading to his mother's hometown, Heishui Village, is still as dangerous as the intestines of a giant beast.
