探索者

A lone traveler wrapped in layers of frost-caked cloth climbs through a howling blizzard atop Mount Shimo-tuo. His breath fogs the cracked wooden goggles strapped to his face, lenses iced over by the storm. But through those ancient, snow-blurred lenses, something vast takes shape on the distant summit: a colossal white ape deity, still as stone, yet unmistakably alive. The god stands woven into the mountain itself—its fur tangled with roots, bone charms hanging like forgotten prayers, and snow cascading from its body in slow, deliberate sheddings. It appears part statue, part spirit—an ancient memory too large to move. The air thickens as time itself seems to hesitate. The traveler stares upward, unblinking, as the god’s head shifts ever so slightly. Its breath rolls through the storm in deep, low pulses. The wind no longer howls but murmurs—backward, like echoes unraveling. This is no mere beast. This is the spine of the world—the White Ape God who remembers time. Its gaze pierces through the storm and into the soul of the traveler, as though recognizing something long buried. The snow beneath his boots glows faintly with forgotten sigils. His heartbeat slows. He feels seen—not as a man, but as a broken piece of destiny. Above him, the peak crackles with a light that does not belong to the sky. The god does not speak, but the silence is full of voice. The mountain does not welcome—it watches.