It started when a bloody rain was about to fall.

Shi Linglong's eyebrows were like distant mountains shrouded in mist.

It's not the curves that a paintbrush can outline, but the edges of a Song Dynasty landscape painting, half-dry, blurred by the morning mist—faint, distant, and imbued with eternal tranquility.

Her eyebrows rose slowly from the root of her nose, like a bluish-green mountain ridge, and then slightly lifted at the corner of her eyes, only to suddenly stop just before they were about to rise, leaving behind a hesitant, unspoken curve.

When she relaxes, her entire face is like spring water just beginning to flow—as if all things are reviving, and the mountains and rivers are smiling for the first time.

When she furrows her brow—like now as she crouches and stares at the rock core sample in front of her—it seems as if the weight of a thousand mountains and valleys has gathered between her brows, enough to contain the geological history of the entire North China Plain.

That was the expression of the earth in deep thought.

Just then, someone outside the tent inadvertently looked up and peered in. A page slipped from his notebook and was swept away by the wind without him even noticing.

That was a veteran team member who had been with the team for three seasons. His name was Li Guozhu, and his cheekbones were tanned dark red by the high-altitude ultraviolet rays, resembling the cut surface of a dried rock.

As he gazed at Shi Linglong's profile, a thought inexplicably arose in his mind: Some people are born to belong to the mountains and rivers.

A woman next to him who was sifting samples also stopped. The sieve was suspended in mid-air, and fine rock fragments were leaking down from the edges, but she was completely unaware of it.

The woman's name was Wang Xiuying. Her hands, rough from years of holding a sieve, had surprisingly long and slender knuckles, like newly sprouted branches on an old willow tree.

She thought of the wild orchids on the mountain in her hometown, which also bloomed alone, never caring whether anyone saw them.

Shi Linglong's eyelashes resembled folded black raven feathers.

It was incredibly dense, yet not heavy.

It was as if a master calligrapher had used the finest wolf-hair brush to apply a stroke of ink to the tip of each eyelash—as it fell, it cast two tranquil, crescent-shaped shadows on her eyelids, deep enough to hold the starlight of the entire night.

As it rises—night falls abruptly.

Those eyes.

How should it be described?

The Tianchi Lake, crystal clear and untouched by the dust and noise above the snow line, is so deep that it seems to reflect the end of the universe.

The pupils are extremely pale, so pale that they appear as translucent as amber in the sunlight, yet deep within them lies a profound blue—the color of the core of the millennia-old glaciers atop the Himalayas, the color of the earth's oldest condensed memories.

In moments of tranquility, the flowing clouds reflected in his eyes seem to mirror the most intricate curves on a map, encompassing the ever-changing landscape of geological eras.

But what's truly breathtaking is when Shi Linglong is focused—like right now.

A sharp glint suddenly flashed in his eyes.

It is not an aggressive edge, but a cold flame forged from the clash and tempering of reason and spirituality at their limits.

Enough to penetrate rock layers that are hundreds of millions of years old, and look directly into the darkest secrets deep within the earth's core.

A young man in the distance was so thirsty that his hand, which was reaching for a water bottle to his mouth, froze in mid-air, and he forgot to take it back.

He'd been with the team for three years and should have gotten used to it by now, but every time he saw the stonemasons in this state, he still felt like he'd glimpsed something he shouldn't have looked at directly—like suddenly stumbling upon a fairy in a myth opening her eyes.

The young man's name was Zhang Xiaoshan. He had high and prominent brow bones and slightly sunken eye sockets, as if he was always listening intently to some sound.

He sighed inwardly: Three years have passed, and I still can't get used to it. Some people are just naturally impossible to get used to.

The afternoon sun slanted through the tent window, illuminating half of Shi Linglong's face.

The illuminated half of the skin was as pure as freshly snowed ground—like the untouched snow on the highest peaks of the Himalayas, its color bathed in the first rays of dawn.

So white it was transparent, so white it shone, even the finest downy hairs were edged with gold.

Beneath the skin, faint blue veins are faintly visible, like ancient algae hidden deep beneath the frozen surface of a lake.

The other half, hidden in the shadows, is like the moon reflected in a deep pool—its outline is deep and mysterious, and every undulation contains a breathtaking beauty.

The less you can see, the more it haunts your dreams.

Light and shadow divided her face into two worlds, yet they met perfectly at the sharp, precipitous line of her nose.

That nose bridge is like the silhouette of the morning light cutting through the mountain ridge—straight and upright, cascading down from the forehead in one continuous stroke, without hesitation or excess.

The light swept across from the side, and the boundary between light and shadow formed the most breathtaking contours of the entire face.

An elderly man who was taking notes not far away pushed up his glasses, and the tip of his pen left ink dots on the paper.

He was over fifty and considered himself to have seen it all, but every time he saw the light and shadow fall on Shi Linglong's face like that, he would stop and wait for the shock in his heart to subside before he could continue writing.

The old man's name was Chen Houde. His gray hair peeked out from under the brim of his hat, blowing in the wind like a clump of dry straw.

He looked down at the ink spots on the paper, thinking to himself: There are two kinds of beauty in this world, one that makes you want to get close, and the other that makes you only want to look at it from afar.

Stonemasonry is the second type.

At the same time, Shi Linglong's lips are like the delicate smudges of cherry blossoms on pure white Xuan paper.

It contains the beauty of spring without the application of rouge.

The color is extremely pale, almost blending into the skin tone, yet within that invisible pink lies a myriad of variations—

It is the first blush of cherry blossoms when they first bloom, the last ray of afterglow as the sunset fades, and the first petal revealed after the snow melts.

The upper lip has a distinct peak, like distant mountains with faint glimmers; the lower lip is full and just the right amount of plumpness.

When Shi Linglong focused, her lips pursed slightly, forming an almost invisible straight line, yet a very faint upward curve remained at the corners—

It's not a smile, but a curve that transcends a smile, resonating with the universe.

The thin-rimmed metal glasses perched on his nose did not conceal anything; rather, they seemed to drape this overly dramatic scene with a layer of rational veil.

The frame is extremely thin, almost invisible, yet at certain angles it reflects a ray of cold light—a concrete manifestation of the light of reason.

Sunlight refracts strangely as it passes through the lenses, making those eyes sometimes clear as if they were right next to you, and sometimes blurry as if they were separated by clouds.

Behind the lenses, it seems as if another universe is hidden deep within the eyes—a universe composed of the memory of rocks, the pulse of the earth, and the changes of time.

Shi Linglong's hair is the most dynamic part of the entire painting.

The hair color is not pure black, but a deep brown with hints of dark green, and indigo flowing through the dark green—like raven feathers bathed in moonlight, like the starry sky reflected in a mountain stream at night.

The afternoon light fell on her hair, each strand revealing different layers: the surface was plated with a light golden brown, the middle layer was a deep ink color, and the bottom layer had a faint blue light.

A few strands of hair slipped from Shi Linglong's ears, brushed against her jade-like cheeks, and across her elegant neck—a long and straight neck, like the first stream of melting snow and ice, flowing smoothly into the shallow bay of her collarbone.

The delicate collarbone, like a jade ornament sculpted by a craftsman, rises and falls subtly with each breath, infusing the coldness with the warmth of life.

The tent was quiet at this moment.

Everyone held their breath, as if afraid of disturbing a geological epoch unfolding before them.

There's a tacit understanding in this silence—not the shock of first meeting, but an almost resigned amazement that remains irresistible even after knowing each other for a long time.

The driver, who had been driving for most of the day, was resting by the tent entrance when he took the cigarette from his lips, but didn't light it; he just held it in his hand.

He had been running this route for almost ten years and had seen all kinds of scenery, but now he turned his head to look at the distant mountain ridge where there was nothing.

The driver's name was Liu Demao. He had an old scar on his cheek, and when he smiled, it looked like a cracked riverbed.

He suddenly realized that after running this route for almost ten years, this was the first time he felt the mountains looked different. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different, but it felt like the mountains were watching him.

Shi Linglong simply squatted there silently.

But this silence itself creates a powerful field.

The low hum of the instruments fades into the background. Distant voices are filtered into the distant wind.

Shi Linglong itself became a tranquil core—like a giant rock in the center of a deep pool that never moves, remaining steadfast despite the ripples spreading.

It was as if she wasn't squatting here, but had been standing here since time immemorial.

It is a kind of delicate beauty, like an orchid in a secluded valley, and a profound weightiness, like the earth bearing all things—a contradictory yet harmonious blend of qualities.

Even the most ordinary indigo work clothes cannot conceal the natural rhythm in her movements.

Every fold perfectly accentuates the sharp shoulder line, slender waist, and long legs.

At this moment, Shi Linglong leaned slightly forward to examine the rock core sample; the curve of her back resembled the slow, solemn movement of a mountain ridge in the light of dawn and dusk.

That is the form of the mountains over millions of years, the way the earth has shaped itself.

At the same time, Shi Linglong's movement of raising her hand to brush away the stray hairs from her forehead was as fluid as a mountain stream flowing around a rock, each subtle adjustment perfectly in harmony with the rhythm of nature.

That rhythm is not in time, but in the stone, in the mountains and rivers, in the winds of millions of years.

The constant wind, sand and rain have not eroded this natural wonder.

The harsh mountain winds of Mount Tai, the drilling dust, the biting cold and scorching heat—

These strengths, enough to etch the marks of time on anyone's face, are like the most patient craftsman, using the years as sandpaper to polish her, making her even more resilient and profound.

If Shi Linglong were to stand up and stand there, she would be an ancient divine weapon hidden in a simple stone sheath—its brilliance concealed, its sharpness hidden.

At this moment, as she crouched down, focusing intently on the core sample—

That sharp edge is hidden in the deep pool, replaced by the unparalleled grace that naturally flows from the essence of heaven and earth.