Chapter Sixteen: The Deep Well in the Ancient Courtyard

The two of them walked along the dim corridor to the left, turned right at the end, and descended a spotless concrete staircase. After four turns, they entered another silent and chilly passageway.

This corridor was built to the same dimensions as the one above ground, but here, the walls, ceiling, and floor were covered in wild, chaotic streaks of color. At first glance, the lines seemed to have no order or meaning, but as Guan Wen focused, looking from near to far, he gradually understood: what was depicted here was a killing formation, composed of an array of weapons, surging forward with unstoppable force toward the end of the corridor.

Excellent—truly excellent. Having deciphered the scene, he couldn’t help but clap his hands in admiration.

The artist had used abstract lines to represent the weapons, both as an artistic pursuit and as a way to suggest the weapons’ incredible speed; their forms were blurred, only the murderous intent and the chill of their blades could be sensed. This was a hundred times more masterful than those craftsmen who simply painted charging armies.

You can understand it? That’s excellent—it proves I found the right person. The important man breathed a sigh of relief.

Where does this path lead? I’ve truly never heard the story of the Demon Subduers—would you tell it to me? Guan Wen asked in return. Standing at the entrance, he touched the lines, some coarse, some fine, as if feeling the swords in the hands of warriors. The thought that someone could paint intangible, invisible things from the air with mere intention filled him with longing.

Ahead lies the field of life and death where the last battle of the Demon Subduers was fought. The important man led Guan Wen onward, continuing, “People only see the brilliance of the Potala Palace, the purity and sanctity of Lhasa and the entire snowy plateau. But who would imagine how many heroes lie buried beneath these mountains to defend all this?”

Guan Wen nodded. “Behind every prosperity and strength, there are nameless heroes who give selflessly. This is true of all times and cities.”

Do you recall how the histories and Buddhist texts describe Princess Wencheng’s story of subduing demons? the important man asked.

Guan Wen nodded again. “Of course. That story has become Lhasa’s city emblem; from venerable monks to children barely four or five, everyone can recite it.”

The important man sighed deeply. “Yet the story is false—or at least incomplete. The historians gave all the credit to Princess Wencheng, which is unfair. It’s just like how, in the rise and fall of dynasties, all credit for overthrowing a regime and restoring peace goes to the emperor, while the real work is done by the heroes who charge into battle and shed their blood. The historians wield mighty pens, and write as they please—or as the emperor commands.”

Unawares, they had reached the end of the corridor, where the weapon lines underwent a dramatic transformation, shifting from parallel waves like a river’s current to forward-spiraling, counterclockwise spirals. The complexity of these lines dazzled Guan Wen, leaving him dizzy and dazed.

He closed his eyes, tracing the lines on the left wall with his hands as he walked, trying to sense the reversal of the air currents, the surge of murderous intent.

“What do you sense?” the important man asked.

Guan Wen couldn’t answer; after seven or eight steps, he suddenly blurted out, “It’s a waterfall—a Hukou Waterfall!”

In his perception, all the murderous energy converged here, the formation’s mouth tightening, force gathering at high speed, plunging straight down into a circular deep well—a scene reminiscent of the majestic Yellow River Hukou Waterfall.

The important man clapped in praise. “Excellent! That’s exactly right. Open your eyes—we are about to enter that place.”

But Guan Wen kept his eyes closed, stepping forward again—only to find nothing beneath his foot, pitching forward. Fortunately, the important man caught his left arm just in time and hauled him back.

Startled, Guan Wen broke out in a cold sweat and snapped his eyes open, seeing that the corridor ended abruptly at an irregular well mouth about five meters across. Had the important man not acted quickly, he would have plunged into the bottomless darkness below.

He wasted no time, immediately examining the lines representing murderous intent; they now extended along the well walls, crossing and weaving their way into the shadows.

“What is that place?” he asked, peering down.

“That… that is, in common parlance, the legendary place where Princess Wencheng subdued demons. But in truth, she never came here—the true accomplishment belonged to the three thousand Demon Subduers from Waggang Stronghold. Guan Wen, are you afraid?”

Guan Wen shook his head. “No.”

The important man pointed down into the well. “Then, do you dare to follow me to the very bottom? Many things can only be understood by experiencing them firsthand. However, this has nothing to do with treasure—it’s tedious, even dangerous. You should think carefully before deciding.”

Guan Wen closed his eyes. All the lines he had seen now surged and danced in his mind, like a dozen mighty dragons.

“It’s as if I’ve dreamed of this before… Dragons soaring the heavens, the Eight Wastelands encircling, a battle of the ages fought in darkness. Blood and death engulfed by shadow, only revealed in flashes of lightning—I’ve really dreamed of strange things, as if connected to this dragon-like killing formation. But I don’t know what lies below.”

“Have you decided?” the important man asked.

Guan Wen took a deep breath and opened his eyes slowly. “Yes. Let’s go.”

The important man stepped forward, pressing a hidden button. With a soft click, countless lights inside the well switched on in succession, spiraling downward in a ribbon all the way to the depths. In fact, all the lights were wired to this single switch; only those at the deepest level, being so far away, appeared to light up with a slight delay of dozens of milliseconds.

It was truly deep—dizzyingly so. Guan Wen peered downward, feeling vertigo again.

The important man led the way; they trod a narrow trail cut into the stone wall, just wide enough for one adult. On the right, a simple iron railing provided some protection. On the left, the stone wall was still covered in the wild lines, all racing headlong toward the well’s bottom.

The well widened as they descended; after seven or eight meters, its diameter expanded to over ten meters. Looking up, Guan Wen saw the mouth had shrunk to a dim slit; looking down, there was still no end in sight.

After circling the shaft for more than ten turns, an alcove appeared at the next bend. The important man stopped before it, bracing his left hand on the wall and gazing inside.

There was no light in the alcove; only the stone wall’s illumination slanted in.

Guan Wen saw clearly—the cave was only five paces deep, empty of any furniture, with nothing but a tattered straw mat on the floor.

Suddenly, a voice spoke from within, uttering a phrase in Tibetan. The voice was hoarse, the tone aged and mournful.

The important man replied in the same tongue, then moved on.

As Guan Wen passed, he caught a glimpse of a wizened old monk, emaciated, cross-legged on the straw mat, staring ahead with pale, vacant eyes.

Guan Wen nodded in greeting, unsure what to say.

“He cannot see—he relies on his hearing,” the important man explained.

Guan Wen acknowledged, but as he was about to move on, the old monk suddenly lunged forward, grasping his wrist with uncanny accuracy.

“Hello?” Guan Wen steadied his emotions, greeting the monk in simple Tibetan, but his wrist felt as if caught in a vise, the pain piercing to the bone.

“Where are you from?” the old monk asked, his fingers tightening like steel claws.

The important man turned back, explaining in Tibetan, “He’s a painter; I’m taking him to see the Mandala Seal.”

The old monk slowly released him, withdrawing to a corner of the cave, resuming his half-reclining, half-sitting posture.

“Let’s go. They are the guardians here, dedicating their whole lives to this demon-sealing duty. As I said, there are too many nameless heroes like them in Tibet—giving everything, never seeking anything in return.” The important man quickened his pace.

“What did you speak of at first? I only caught simple words like ‘no’ and ‘news,’” Guan Wen asked.

The important man gave a wry smile. “Be patient; when we’re below, I’ll explain everything. Only in this setting will you believe.”

They passed thirty-five more identical alcoves, each with an emaciated old monk standing guard, though unlike the first, none hindered their passage. As they spiraled downward, the well’s diameter grew ever larger. The path they traveled was like the plank roads of ancient Shu, hewn entirely from the mountainside, with chisel marks still visible underfoot and beside them.

After descending over sixty circuits, they finally reached level ground at the bottom of the path. Ahead lay a circular plaza about fifty paces in diameter, its floor and walls covered in expressive lines.

On the small plaza stood a dozen or so mani cairns, some two meters high, built from hundreds of stones; others just half a meter, made of a handful of rocks.

Mani cairns and stones are a traditional Tibetan folk art, carved with auspicious symbols—six-syllable mantras, all-seeing eyes, images of deities—meant to ward off evil and bring blessings. Large numbers of mani stones are assembled into cairns or walls, found in the mountains, at crossroads, lakesides, and riverbanks throughout the region.

When he first came to Tibet, Guan Wen had studied these mani stones and was familiar with their motifs. As he approached the nearest cairn, he saw that every stone was painted with dragon forms.

“These too were all left by the three thousand Demon Subduers. Their art had surpassed the original meaning of mani stones and become part of their demon-subduing methods. See that mani wall ahead—” The important man pointed, leading Guan Wen past two tall cairns, until a red mani wall, one meter high and wide, appeared before them.

The wall was built from mani stones of all sizes; the stones were not naturally red, but had been drenched in crimson paint, giving the wall a startling, almost bloody appearance.

The wall formed a circle; looking past it, Guan Wen saw the colorful mandala it enclosed.