Chapter Ten: Master Tsedan Dajie

Guan Wen looked around, his eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness beneath the sunlight. He now discovered that on either side of the tree hollow there were six rectangular niches, neatly lined up, twelve in total. The surface of each niche was sealed with a glass panel, about a meter long, half a meter wide, and half a meter deep.

"Master, please stop speaking in riddles. Time is precious," he said loudly.

Caidan Dajie chuckled softly. "Young man, do not be impatient. What people call time is merely a self-deceiving tool of measurement. Here, time has lost its importance. A day in the mountains is a thousand years in the world. If, in one's lifetime, one cannot accomplish something truly significant, what difference is there between being alive and not being alive?"

Guan Wen shook his head. "Master, I have come to seek guidance, not to be played with."

He took two steps forward and fixed his gaze on Caidan Dajie's face.

Suddenly, he realized that when the voice sounded, Caidan Dajie's lips had not moved, and his expression was utterly wooden.

"You are clever—while others ponder one question, you can think of ten. What others cannot express with their pen, you can so easily depict in your art. This is good, very good..." The voice continued.

Guan Wen recoiled in alarm. "Master, where are you? Show yourself and speak!"

Caidan Dajie, opposite him, not only remained silent but seemed to have ceased breathing altogether, not a hint of life in his entire being.

Guan Wen retreated too quickly and bumped his back against a tree niche, pain radiating from his shoulder blade. Turning to look, he saw that inside the niche lay a corpse. Judging by the niche’s size, it could only hold the body of a child under five, but what he saw was the corpse of an old man with a scraggly beard. Even more bizarre, the corpse appeared utterly flat, like a photograph in a frame; including its clothing, its thickness could not have exceeded an inch.

"What is this?" he couldn't help but whisper, every hair on his body standing on end, feeling as though he had fallen into a never-ending nightmare.

"Indeed, what is it? Can you tell?" the voice asked.

Gritting his teeth, Guan Wen fought to suppress his violent trembling. "It’s a miniature corpse... How could this be? Are you really the Tree Master? And what has become of Caidan Dajie?"

The voice sighed. "I have told you, I am. Do not be afraid; I mean you no harm."

Guan Wen took another step back, ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

"Caidan Dajie, tell him what is truly happening," the voice said.

Only then did Caidan Dajie break out of his rigid state, moving his limbs. The process was like a film resuming from pause.

Sweat beaded on Guan Wen’s brow, but he managed to hold himself together, waiting for Caidan Dajie to explain.

"Do not be afraid," Caidan Dajie said.

"Master, at a moment like this, what else can I do? Perhaps I should never have come." Guan Wen forced a bitter smile. He had never imagined things would come to this—half an hour ago, he had been with Baoling, quietly discussing those strange dreams. But now, he was ensnared in a nightmare come to life, face to face with ten miniature, flattened corpses.

Caidan Dajie sighed, walked to the niche, and stood silent in thought for more than ten seconds before he finally spoke, his voice heavy and strained. "You can see for yourself—they are all dead. Their bodies ended up like this because each of them fasted, abstaining from food for months, some for a year, until their minds had matured and their bodies were utterly depleted. In that state, they could give up their thoughts selflessly."

Guan Wen could not comprehend and simply gave a pained smile, looking at Caidan Dajie.

Judging by their facial features, these corpses were all Tibetan. The eyes of each were deeply sunken, every part of their bodies reduced to skin and bones. Their bones themselves had collapsed and withered, rendering the bodies so thin.

"They are the hidden treasure masters who record history, and they are also the selfless donors. It is because of their spirit of sacrifice—feeding eagles with their flesh, tigers with their bodies—that this ancient tree has managed to survive. Throughout the long history of Tibetan Buddhism, some have played tragic roles, exchanging their deaths for the lives of many, using their determined departure from this world to bring hope for the survival and continuation of humanity. In a sense, the life of a treasure master is lived for others. As long as the secrets stored in their minds remain unrevealed, they can never truly live for themselves. Consider those heroes who gave their flesh and lives—did they ever see themselves as mere mortals? Their existence was to dedicate themselves to the greater good, to abandon the self for the benefit of all, to give up personal gain for the sake of the people..."

The more Caidan Dajie spoke, the more bewildered Guan Wen became.

He quickly tried to organize his thoughts, but all he could piece together was a vague conclusion: Was Caidan Dajie a treasure master? Were the dead in the niches also treasure masters? They had given their bodies for some reason—but to whom? Besides Caidan Dajie, another person was in the tree hollow. If that person was the legendary Tree Master, where was he? Why would he not appear...

"I am also a treasure master." Caidan Dajie lifted his drooping monk’s robe, exposing a terrifying scar on his right shoulder, like the stump of a tree.

Guan Wen gasped. "Master, how did you lose your arm?"

Caidan Dajie looked down at his twisted muscles and cracked skin, ignoring the question, as if lost in ancient memories.

The bell from the tantric monastery began to ring out urgently once more.

The sound roused Caidan Dajie. He dropped his robe and, after a brief struggle with his lips, said slowly, "I cut it off myself."

Guan Wen was speechless, unable to fathom what courage it would take for a person to amputate their own arm.

"The bell sounds so urgent. Is the sky truly about to fall?" Caidan Dajie muttered to himself.

"May I pay my respects to the Tree Master?" Guan Wen asked softly.

Caidan Dajie shook his head. "Not yet. It is not time."

Guan Wen frowned and pressed further. "Then when will it be the right time? There is a great question in my heart, which I wish to ask him in person."

Caidan Dajie shook his head again. "When the time is right, you will know."

Guan Wen was taken aback, then suddenly looked up and called out in a long voice, "Tree Master, please answer me—of all things under heaven and earth, which is more important, water or wood?"

No one replied; only the sounds of the tantric monastery’s bells, chanting, and percussion echoed from afar.

"Water is the gentlest and most yielding, dwelling in the depths, supporting all things. Without water, how could wood survive? I ask not for myself, but on behalf of another. Please answer me—which is more important, water or wood?" Guan Wen asked again, but the Tree Master who had spoken earlier remained utterly silent, as if he had already departed.

The courtyard was empty and still. Guan Wen’s voice echoed for a while, then gradually faded away, stirring no response.

"Which is more important? In my view, the question itself is meaningless," Caidan Dajie’s lips moved.

"Is it you speaking, or the Tree Master?" Guan Wen stared at his mouth.

"It is me," Caidan Dajie replied, turning and walking toward the courtyard, leaving the hollow’s shadow and stepping into the sunlight.

There were about fifteen paces between Guan Wen and Caidan Dajie, but for an instant, it felt as though the two were separated by the three realms of life and death. As Caidan Dajie moved farther away, Guan Wen felt himself sinking deeper into despair.

"Master, wait for me," he called.

Bathed in sunlight, Caidan Dajie spread his left arm, lifted his face to the sky, pursed his lips, and blew a sharp, lingering whistle. Then, spinning his monk’s robe, he twirled and laughed as he danced, "I am freed, I am freed, at last I am freed..."

Guan Wen felt his heart sink further with every step, a crushing weight settling on his shoulders, making it harder and harder to move.

He took a step forward, but the air itself seemed to resist him, invisible forces tangling before and behind.

Suddenly, a deep, mournful chanting sounded in his ears, heavy and resonant—the scriptures still recounting the tale of King Shibi sacrificing himself to save the dove, and Prince Sattva feeding himself to the tiger. The voices were not those of a single person, but a chorus of a dozen, all coming from the tiny niches that held the miniature corpses.

He turned to look, and the faces in the niches began to come alive and grow in size, their lips, teeth, and tongues moving.

With a shout, Guan Wen struggled forward, breaking through the invisible barrier to reach Caidan Dajie’s side.

Caidan Dajie stopped dancing and strode forward to push open a door and enter.

Guan Wen followed him inside and saw that the walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in all manner of hand-painted artwork. As an artist himself, he needed only a few seconds to realize these were masterpieces, each stroke a profound interrogation of the soul.

"Wonderful, wonderful, truly marvelous!" he could not help but exclaim, approaching a painting of chanting under the moon. But then he realized he was standing on another, a sprawling depiction of traversing hell. Not far off was yet another, an intricate and deeply symbolic scene of an eagle and a serpent locked in battle atop a snowy mountain.

His eyes were utterly overwhelmed; one foot dangled in midair, and he felt lost amid the splendor of these treasures, his heart crying out, "How could so many masterpieces exist here? What they painted, I could never achieve in a lifetime. What meaning do my own works have? What meaning does my life have?"

He had always known that humanity’s pursuit of art was endless—there would always be mountains beyond mountains, skies beyond skies. However talented one might be, there would always be limits, a day when one could do no more. He had once believed that, by working day and night, he would achieve something, stand out among thousands, become a master of his generation. At the very least, before entering this room, he still held onto a bit of pride, for his work truly could reflect the stories of others’ souls. Now, he knew he had been wrong, like a frog at the bottom of a well, seeing only a tiny circle of sky.

All these paintings used the traditional pigments and techniques of Tibetan thangka art, but the canvases were the walls, the floor, the beams—broad swathes of vibrant color applied directly to rough earth, stone, and wood, unleashing a different and breathtaking power.