The gale-force winds finally began to taper into a steady, freezing drizzle over the central plateau, but the damage was already done.
Eighty meters above the submerged valley, Wu Haoran, Zhou Yaya, Yang Zixuan, and Gu Yanzhou were huddled together on the slick granite shelf. Wu Haoran's attempt to erect a makeshift tent using Zhou Yaya's thermal blanket had failed spectacularly—the makeshift frame of walking sticks had snapped, leaving the four of them half-buried beneath a sheet of wet, metallic foil.
"I'd like to formally announce," Wu Haoran's muffled voice echoed from beneath the collapsed foil, "that my left leg has completely lost feeling. If anyone finds it tomorrow, please mail it home."
"Move your elbow, Haoran, you're crushing my knee," Zhou Yaya groaned, trying to wriggle her arm free to hold up the sagging edge of the blanket.
