Chapter Fourteen: Fragments of the Thangka

Eighty-four billion, one hundred seventy-four million, two hundred seventy-six thousand, six hundred forty-two steps. Guan Wen instinctively recited the number.

What? Master Tianji was stunned.

You're exhausted. For one person to piece together all of that is impossible. The steps required, converted to the distance covered by two feet in a straight line, are already far too many. More importantly, a person’s intellect is limited. Even if you rack your brains, what can you possibly achieve? Forget it, give up, said Guan Wen.

Master Tianji trembled, took a step back, and asked shakily, “Who…who are you? How can you see that number?”

Guan Wen smiled. “Of course I can see it. That’s the very reason I stand here today. But honestly, I admire your perseverance. An ordinary person, faced with such complexity, would abandon it without a second thought. They would never, like you, knowingly walk toward the tiger’s den. Yet, even so, it’s pointless. Even if you exhaust your life, the result will still be imperfect. What meaning is there in that? Of course, you’ve already escaped that mental trap, standing here as you are. It shows you’ve awakened—congratulations.”

Master Tianji trembled like a dry leaf in the wind, his right hand clutching his chest, his left pressed to the back of his head. His body, no longer upright and straight, bent ever more, as if he might collapse at any moment.

For Guan Wen, strange visions suddenly appearing in his mind was nothing new. Every time he successfully depicted someone’s dream, it was because an image first appeared in his mind, which then flowed onto the paper, creating miracles no one else could achieve.

Suddenly, Master Tianji shouted wildly, and two dark-faced, bald old monks sprang from the opposite meditation mat, rushing over and supporting him, one on each side.

In their urgency, the two old monks shouted at Guan Wen, using a very imperfect form of Nepali.

Guan Wen could not understand their words. The important figure behind him quickly explained: They’re asking, who are you, and why do you claim to be able to piece together ancient Thangka?

Guan Wen shook his head. “I never said that.”

Master Tianji also shouted, using the same language as the old monks.

The important figure explained: Master Tianji says, ‘You are Bing Qiuhan.’

The two old monks roared together, more frenzied than before.

The important figure continued: They’re asking, are you Bing Qiuhan?

Bing Qiuhan? Who is that? Guan Wen shook his head, for this was the first time he had heard the name.

The old monks kept shouting, and the important figure continued: They say the world’s greatest Thangka painter, Bing Qiuhan, is dead. You can’t be him—you’re so young, Bing Qiuhan should be at least sixty. They’re right; so many years without news, he must have died somewhere. By now, he should be sixty-five.

Several voices mingled, along with the important figure’s mutterings, and for a moment, Guan Wen could not make sense of what they wanted to convey.

A thunderous shout erupted from the opposing side, just one cry, yet its echo rolled through the great hall, repeating endlessly, the sound waves extinguishing all the candles in an instant, leaving only the flickering glow of butter lamps.

Om Mani Padme Hum—the important figure intoned the six-syllable mantra of Tibetan Buddhism in a deep voice, countering the lion’s roar technique from the other side.

Before the sound faded, someone on the opposing side rubbed their palms against the floor, producing a piercing, metallic clang, like two enormous cymbals struck together.

On the important figure’s side, someone pounded the ground with their fists, creating a thunderous, rhythmic thumping, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, disrupting the clanging cymbals.

Kill him! Master Tianji shook both arms, and the two dark-faced old monks leapt toward Guan Wen, their four arms outstretched, twenty fingers like the talons of vultures.

Om Mani Padme Hum—a monk seated beside the important figure slid along the floor in a low, crimson rush, like an arrow. He reached the space between Guan Wen and the old monks, unfurled himself upward like a fan, silently blocking Guan Wen. With a sweep, a retreat, he returned to his mat, as quietly as a dragonfly leaving and returning to a lotus leaf in summer, his movements elegant and swift, almost invisible to ordinary eyes.

The two old monks, whose charge had been like thunder, crashed to the ground. Before their screams could escape, blood sprayed from their four severed wrists like fountains.

Guan Wen felt a tremendous force drawing him back along the ground, stopping him behind the important figure.

“Don’t worry. Here, no one can harm you.” The important figure, facing Master Tianji, spoke without turning his head. “Bai Mohe, protect this young man.”

The monk who had just severed the enemy’s four hands nodded silently. He neither looked at Guan Wen nor at the adversaries, but gazed slightly upward, watching the hall’s roof.

Barrier, sound-kill, net-lock, diagram, hole-slice…someone in the opposing camp issued instructions in various languages, each brief and crisp.

The important figure drew a deep breath, his back curved like a bow, both arms stretched forward like twin arrows, poised but not released.

“Slash, slash, slash!” The commander’s second round of orders thundered.

“Om Mani—Padme—Hum!” The important figure recited the mantra in three parts, each utterance unleashing a violent whirlwind in the hall—first to the left, then to the right, finally down the center. After the third storm, all lights went out at once, plunging the hall into utter darkness.

Guan Wen’s ears were filled with shouts and curses in various tongues, the chanting of sutras, the clash of blades and weapons, the crash of overturned objects, even the hiss of snakes flicking their tongues. More than a dozen times, someone from the opposing side lunged at him, the icy chill from their sharp blades nearly piercing his body. Yet Bai Mohe beside him intervened again and again, and as sparks flew from clashing metal, the enemy’s deadly moves vanished without a trace.

Eventually, Bai Mohe failed to block an attack. A person, carrying a faint fragrance, slipped to Guan Wen’s side. Yet this person did not strike, but whispered five words in Mandarin in his ear: “Don’t bring fire upon yourself!”

It was a young woman’s voice—crystal clear and enchanting, even amidst the clanging swords in the night.

“Who are you?” Guan Wen turned quickly, her fragrant warmth at his lips and face. By instinct, he knew she was the one who had met his gaze before.

“I am—” Bai Mohe’s blade flashed, and the fragrant woman vanished, her remaining words lost.

This, too, was a nightmare—a nightmare of savage slaughter. He closed his eyes, refusing to look or think, treating all that happened in the hall as a dream. Suddenly, he wondered about Bao Ling. What kind of dream was hers? If he were to paint her dream, would her beauty there blossom for him?

Chaos raged, life hung by a thread, yet his thoughts drifted far. Thinking of Bao Ling, a smile broke involuntarily at his lips, as if she stood before him. Only by adjusting his own state could he comfort Bao Ling, rescuing her from anxiety and gloom. Suddenly, he felt weary of it all, longing to escape the battle and return to the family inn.

Bao Ling’s matters, however small, are great; all else, however great, are small.

The lights came on again. Inside the hall, four or five dozen monks appeared, tightly restraining Master Tianji’s followers, leaving them unable to move. But Master Tianji was no longer in the hall. Everything that could be destroyed lay in ruins; two wooden pillars nearby were studded with at least five throwing knives and ten short-feathered arrows, dozens of stone slabs on the floor were broken, fragments scattered everywhere, evidence of a fierce battle in the darkness.

The important figure walked through the debris to the group, his face devoid of smiles, only deep compassion. “Grandmaster of the Moon Palace of the ancient Guheshwari Temple on the Bagmati River in Nepal, you too listened to Tianji’s rumors, and coveted the supposed great treasure of Mount Niseri?”

Someone lowered their head, unable to meet the important figure’s gaze.

“Grandmaster of the Nine Snakes at the Mahamuni Buddha Temple in Myanmar, what about you? Why have you come here?” The important figure asked again, and another bowed in silence.

He approached the two dark-faced old monks whose wrists had been severed, and instructed the monks on either side: “Apply medicine and bandage the two Protectors of the Twin Deer Temple of Sikkim. They were merely misled by Master Tianji, momentarily losing their true hearts. Remember, whether in small temples or in the twelve great temples of India, Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim, and Myanmar, we are not mortal enemies, but friends who share and support each other. Disciples of the Buddha seek practice and cultivation, and must never let greed take root, or become addicted to plunder. We must always banish the word ‘greed’.”

Master Tianji’s followers looked at each other, their expressions quite awkward.

“Take them away and treat them well,” said the important figure.

“Hey! Don’t pretend to be a good man!” one of the dark-faced old monks cried. Due to blood loss, his face had turned waxy and yellow.

“Venerable Binglun, do you have anything to say?” asked the important figure.

The old monk raised his head and spoke at length in English. Everyone in the hall fell silent, listening intently. Master Tianji’s followers nodded repeatedly as they listened, clearly supporting Binglun’s views.

Guan Wen heard Binglun mention the great treasure, great wisdom, and the great hermit several times. His conclusion was roughly this: The great treasure belongs to all temples in Tibet, and should not be monopolized by Tashilhunpo Monastery. The great treasure is not the whole secret; it must be shared with the twelve temples of the five countries, along with the legendary great wisdom. Master Tianji has traveled through the Northern Region, collected all the Thangka fragments, and offered them for the five countries’ temples to study. Therefore, Tashilhunpo Monastery should reciprocate and share its secrets of the great treasure. The great hermit certainly exists, and Tashilhunpo Monastery must know where he cultivates. Why have they always concealed this, refusing to reveal a word? If Tashilhunpo Monastery keeps acting this way, the twelve temples of the five countries will not recognize its exalted status within Tibetan Buddhism.

Before Binglun finished, another dark-faced old monk interjected: “Obtaining the great treasure and the great secret is to benefit Tibet and the world. Since Tashilhunpo Monastery cannot do this, why not let others try? Isn’t that like hogging the latrine and not using it?”

The vulgar metaphor was extreme, but everyone’s attention was fixed on how the important figure would respond to this challenge; not a single person laughed.