Chapter Twelve: Master Heavenly Eagle

In the dim tunnel, his voice echoed once more: That night, I let blood from my right arm, letting it drip into a large black earthenware bowl, and mixed it with cinnabar. The bowl rested on the fire, the blood boiling again and again, fusing perfectly with the glue. I removed a bone and slowly stirred them together. The cinnabar was ground by my own hand, added bit by bit, each time just a little, then stirred and stirred, never daring the slightest mistake, for if I pressed too hard, the pigment’s color would turn murky. Since the painting was of a person, the base color of the thangka had to contain human blood, and the glue was prepared in advance from human skin. You probably know, in thangka painting, the adhesive for painting is called skin glue, the one for mixing colors is called divine glue, and the one for mounting is mouth glue. For the latter two, leather is boiled into paste in an earthen pot, then used after it cools naturally. How wonderful that night was, the moonlight like silver spread over the mountains behind Tashilhunpo Monastery. Alone, with a small knife, I cut my own skin, let my own blood, took my own bone, and then, with these, I painted the woman I loved but who did not love me. To create such a thangka was my farewell to the days gone by, and my curse upon former friends…

Guan Wen listened, his hair standing on end, limbs stiff, stumbling with each step.

Tibet is praised as a paradise in the southwest, a pure land of Asia, but Guan Wen had always understood that beneath the beautiful, unspoiled landscape, some ancient, inherited folk crafts contained a cruelty unknown to outsiders. The skull thangka described by Caidan Dajie was akin to the human-skin drums that still existed—one side was exquisite beyond compare, the other utterly tragic, as if angels from heaven and devils from hell were fused together.

The thangkas on display outside were dazzling and breathtaking enough to steal one’s soul, but the story told by Caidan Dajie was fierce and unyielding, enough to frighten the soul out of anyone’s body.

“Are you afraid?” Caidan Dajie asked.

The tunnel gradually filled with the scent of incense and burning candles, the chanting and bell-ringing growing closer.

“I am, and yet I am not. A clear conscience fears nothing.” Guan Wen replied.

“You truly are remarkable.” Caidan Dajie laughed softly. “For over a year now, many people have spoken highly of you. At first, I didn’t believe it, but now I do.”

Guan Wen forced a bitter smile. “I don’t understand what you mean, Master.”

“You will, but not yet. Your coming to Tashilhunpo Monastery is fate’s design. Unseen, the gods of Tibet bind many people and events into knots upon knots. I believe you are the one destined to untie them.”

As they moved, Guan Wen could sense faintly that they were heading toward the Esoteric Institute. Sure enough, after a while, the chanting and bell-ringing sounded directly overhead.

They entered a round stone chamber, from which seven tunnels stretched in all directions besides the one they entered. The chamber was cylindrical, about eight meters in diameter and more than ten meters high, like a deep, narrow well. All the smoke and sound drifted in from the well’s mouth.

Guan Wen looked up; at the top of the shaft hung an upside-down lotus-shaped lamp, its blooming petals curving upwards at right angles, each bearing a flickering butter lamp flame.

“Don’t make a sound. Listen carefully.” Caidan Dajie whispered in Guan Wen’s ear.

Amid the chanting, someone suddenly spoke—a sharp, high-pitched male voice: “Have you all passed it around? With so many eminent monks and wise men in Tashilhunpo Monastery, not one can solve the riddle we brought, not one can reassemble this thangka? If that’s the case, I’ll take it back to Nepal. The monastery was left by your ancestors, but with your current intelligence, you’re unworthy of it. Moreover, the profound meaning within this thangka is beyond your comprehension. We traveled all the way from India, full of hope and enthusiasm, but you have no answers—how laughable! Tashilhunpo’s reputation is great, but it’s filled with fame-seekers and pretenders…”

The chanting ceased; only the mountain wind whistled through window cracks.

The thangka’s history was too ancient, shattered into thousands of pieces—like a jigsaw puzzle with thousands of fragments. Without the original image, anyone trying to restore it faces a task of utmost difficulty. I have gathered every monk in Tashilhunpo who has practiced for over five years; they are all here, seated in meditation. I believe there will soon be results. Master Garuda, have patience, have patience. An old, slow voice replied indifferently to the first speaker.

Guan Wen found the voice familiar, frowning in thought. Where had he heard it before?

Suddenly, Caidan Dajie extended a finger and traced several Chinese characters on Guan Wen’s back: Potala Palace, important figure.

Like a sudden revelation, Guan Wen remembered—the speaker was indeed the distinguished figure from the Potala Palace. During the last celebration in Lhasa, this man had appeared before the masses, his prestige and wisdom unrivaled.

Guan Wen nodded; Caidan Dajie wrote again: India, Uttar Pradesh, Garuda.

From what Guan Wen knew, Master Garuda’s identity was extremely complex—not only a renowned Indian Buddhist scholar, writer, and painter, but also a famous collector and antique dealer. This man was a prodigy, hailed by the people of India as a peerless genius.

“Very well, we’ve sat here for almost twenty-four hours already; waiting a bit longer is no trouble. But let me be clear: if no one in Tashilhunpo Monastery can piece together the thangka, then you must withdraw from the study and contention for the great treasure, and surrender this secret for those worthy and capable to comprehend. The sharp-voiced Master Garuda spoke again, his voice rising like the highest note of a stringed instrument, piercing Guan Wen’s eardrums and making his temples throb painfully.

He stepped back, leaning against the stone wall, raising his right hand to rub his left chest, trying to soothe the pain in his heart.

In ancient Chinese martial arts texts, there are tales of “killing with sound”—the demonic drum’s transmission. Guan Wen felt that Master Garuda’s voice was already lethal. If an elderly person with a heart condition heard it, they would surely collapse.

Caidan Dajie followed, pressing his left palm to the crown of Guan Wen’s head, massaging it counterclockwise. After just a few seconds, Guan Wen’s heartbeat returned to normal, the stabbing pain in his ears and temples vanished.

Thump, thump—he felt the rhythm of Caidan Dajie’s heartbeat.

Thangka... the ancient thangka fragments collected by Master Garuda? To reassemble the thangka is to unravel the secret of Tashilhunpo Monastery’s great treasure? I have been reclusive for so long—what has changed in the outside world? If someone truly has the ability to restore the thangka, the secret of the great treasure will be revealed. More importantly, do the ancient “Demon Suppressors” truly exist? The world may soon be upended. At this critical moment, what role must I play? Should I, Caidan Dajie, emerge from seclusion to become a true master of Tibetan Buddhism...

Guan Wen could sense the thoughts in Caidan Dajie’s mind, his own body like an utterly dry sponge, absorbing thread after thread of thought through Caidan Dajie’s palm—at times in words, at times as sounds, sometimes as vivid images, fragments of the other’s mind.

Sacrificing oneself to feed the tiger, cutting flesh to feed the eagle... So many masters have turned their lives into torches, illuminating the path of humanity. Perhaps more will follow, risking their lives for righteousness, laying down their lives for Tibetan Buddhism. But not I—I must find the source of the great treasure, that alone is most important. Once I risked life for righteousness, but now, awakened, I must not repeat my old mistakes. I must return, I must be myself...

Guan Wen glimpsed something selfish in Caidan Dajie’s mind. He turned to see a palm-sized cloud of blackness swirling between the other’s brows, and the light in his eyes was no longer the selfless, fearless brilliance it once was.

Gradually, a chill flowed from Caidan Dajie’s palm, seeping through Guan Wen’s skull, neck, chest, and finally settling in the center of his heart after wandering back and forth.

He reached out, and even through skin and flesh, he could feel the chill’s fierce presence.

What... is that? A sense of foreboding welled up in him. He twisted, trying to escape Caidan Dajie’s grasp.

Caidan Dajie immediately let go and stepped back, white steam rising from his head.

Hush—Caidan Dajie gestured for silence, then looked up, his expression suddenly grave.

“Oh? You have experts lurking underground as well?” Master Garuda’s voice carried down.

“No, they’re all outside,” answered the distinguished figure.

Master Garuda gave a cold laugh. “Lies! I’ve already heard his voice—bring him up at once. Listen to me: the thangka cannot be reassembled by eyesight and fingers alone—all hidden treasures reside in the minds of different treasure-keepers. Only the combined wisdom, hands, skills, and thoughts of these keepers can restore the thangka. Remember, that person is you—the great painter who can depict human thought...” Caidan Dajie whispered urgently in Guan Wen’s ear.

“But I...” Guan Wen was at a loss for what would happen next, his mind a jumble, the fragments of thought from Caidan Dajie dissipating instantly, unable to take shape.

Adapt on the fly, uncover the secret of the great treasure, take on the task of restoring the thangka—I will help you, go now—Caidan Dajie seized Guan Wen’s arm and, as a grinding sound overhead signaled the movement of something heavy, suddenly hurled him upward.

Guan Wen’s body shot up, nearly striking the lotus chandelier above, then fell at an angle, staggering a few steps before finally regaining his balance.

He found himself in a strange, grand hall, every window and door shrouded with thick black velvet, blocking out every ray of sunlight. Hundreds of candles and butter lamps burned within, arranged in rows that separated two groups of people.

He was standing on the right side, among a group whose section of the floor was lined with twelve worn meditation cushions, each occupied by an elderly monk. His eyes swept quickly across them and landed on the distinguished figure from the Potala Palace, seated at the innermost cushion.

“Well, you claimed you had no reinforcements hidden away, so who is he?” From the left side, a tall, gaunt man with a hooked nose and sloping shoulders called out. From his voice and appearance, Guan Wen judged him to be Master Garuda from Uttar Pradesh, India. Behind him, a row of cushions held a group of foreigners, all with distinct clothing and features.

Guan Wen remembered having seen them before, though at that time they all wore black cloaks with hoods covering their faces, making their features impossible to see.

He searched anxiously for the woman whose gaze had met his own, a vague, inexplicable anticipation stirring within him. But with the cushions staggered and those in back obscured by those in front, he could not see where she was.

The distinguished figure coughed lightly: “Master Garuda, no need for haste—let this young man explain himself.”

Master Garuda laughed loudly, waving his arms: “What does it matter if he explains or not? The main point is you must stop delaying—no matter how hard your people outside try, they’ll never grasp the meaning hidden in the thangka fragments. Don’t waste any more time. Hand over the great treasure, that’s what matters.”

The distinguished figure shook his head, removed his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and pointed at Guan Wen with one temple: “Young man, where are you from? Why have you come here?”

Guan Wen bit his lip and answered, voice trembling, “I wish to explain the matter of the thangka.”

At these words, the hall fell utterly silent.

After a moment of uncomfortable stillness, Master Garuda suddenly burst into raucous laughter: “What do you have to say? You? What could you possibly say? Hahahaha—” His laughter was so startling that every candle and butter lamp flame shot up half a foot, surging toward Guan Wen like a wave.

A wave of heat pressed against him, scorching Guan Wen’s face as if slashed by knives, his clothes and hair rustling in the blast.