Chapter Eighteen: Descendants of the Three Thousand Demon Subjugators of the Great Tang

The distinguished figure paced thoughtfully around the mandala, circling it more than thirty times, until suddenly he threw his head back and let out a series of cries that echoed like the roars of dragons and tigers. In an instant, figures emerged from every hollow, leaping over railings whether they were high or low, and landed on the plaza below like meteors streaking toward earth.

First in Han Chinese, then in Tibetan, Hui, Mongolian, and finally in English, the distinguished figure repeated the following message: The witch is no longer sealed beneath the mandala. The combined efforts of the ancient Tibetan king, the Tang dynasty princess, and the Nepalese princess to suppress the demon have failed. The local demon-suppressing circle has lost its purpose. Cease all actions and await the next plan.

The monks, dressed in tattered robes and bearing somber faces, listened silently. None of them reacted with panic, as ordinary people might upon hearing such dire news.

Guan Wen understood well; these were the true sages among all the peoples, their minds elevated far beyond the common folk.

“What proof do you have?” someone asked. It was the gaunt old monk from the first hollow.

The distinguished figure shook his head and pointed to Guan Wen. “There is no proof, but the two of us can sense it.”

The old monk stepped forward, staring intently at Guan Wen’s face, his deep-set, grayish eyes ceaselessly shifting. The distinguished figure had said before that the man was blind, acting solely by sound.

“You are mistaken. Beneath the mandala lies the soul barrier of three thousand demon suppressors; the witch cannot escape.” His voice was rough. This time he did not speak in Tibetan, but in Han Chinese.

This was easy to understand; true sages are versed in all things, and any language comes naturally to them. Even deeper forms of communication—mind-reading, silent understanding—were well within their reach. Otherwise, how could they deserve the name of sage?

“Master Cheng—” the distinguished figure began, but was abruptly cut off by a wave of the old monk’s hand.

“I have always heard the witch’s piercing cries, all these years,” the old monk said. “You say she’s gone—then who is it that cries out? I told you, the soul barrier woven by the demon suppressors is like an endless spiderweb. No matter how she changes or runs, she cannot break through. The power of three thousand demon suppressors is unimaginable. Even now, I still sense that web.” Master Cheng gave the distinguished figure no deference, simply listening and speaking with a wooden expression.

The others stood apart, some listening, some meditating, some lost in thought, but none spoke.

“She truly is gone,” Guan Wen said.

Master Cheng shook his head slowly. “Young man, you are too hasty in your conclusion. The mani walls, the mandala, and the barrier together bear the responsibility of suppressing the demon. Every step we take here affects the world’s safety. You do not live for yourself alone. You must live for the countless innocents who thrive on this pure plateau. No one has the right to take their lives—not you, not I, not the witch.”

Guan Wen sighed, knowing it would be difficult to persuade such a stubborn old monk. Aside from today’s events, up until this moment he had always been just a painter residing outside Tashilhunpo Monastery, permitted to come and go by the monastery’s authorities. He was a minor figure, especially among these sages—without standing, without authority.

The distinguished figure gave a bitter smile. “Guan Wen, what happened today—I did the same decades ago. It’s no use.”

Guan Wen had stepped forward earlier, now standing precisely at the center of the circle. The ground was solid, yet he felt a void beneath his feet, as if suspended high above on a tightrope.

He slowly surveyed the expressionless monks, his gaze finally settling on the distinguished figure. “But someone must dare to shoulder the world’s censure, to do what others will not, to bear what others cannot. That is what makes one great—a true hero.”

The distinguished figure smiled bitterly again. “Guan Wen, this is a gamble of life and death, because even now, I cannot say if my original judgment was right or wrong. Do you understand? Once the soul barrier of the three thousand demon suppressors is opened, the consequences are unpredictable.”

Guan Wen took a deep breath. “If I were you, I would follow my heart—do what you believe is right. But I am not you; I am merely an outsider, a minor figure, willing but powerless.”

The distinguished figure frowned, sometimes raising his head to sigh, sometimes lowering it in thought, until at last, striking his palm with decision, he declared, “Master Cheng, I stake my life—the witch truly is gone. Let us vote here and now. If the majority agrees, we open the mandala seal and send someone below to investigate.”

At this, Master Cheng’s face instantly changed.

Without waiting for protest, the distinguished figure cried out, “I swear, if this decision is wrong, I will take my own life here, using blood from my heart to mend any breach that may appear in the soul barrier.”

Master Cheng stamped his foot. “You… you dare make such a decision? This is… this is…”

Suddenly, an old monk on the right spoke. “I know I will not live past this autumn, but in my sect, disciples have dwindled, and no one can take my place. Our demon-suppressing circle is bound to have a flaw, if not this year, then next. Eventually, it will collapse. Then, the mani walls, the mandala, the soul barrier—all will be gone. Better short pain than long; open the mandala now, see what lies beneath. At worst, we will perish with the witch, rather than die slowly in this dark pit.”

Three or four others echoed his sentiment, raising their hands in agreement: “We consent to unsealing the mandala.”

Quickly, the monks divided into three groups: one sided with the distinguished figure and Guan Wen, one with Master Cheng, and the third withdrew beyond the mani walls, declaring themselves neutral observers.

The numbers were nearly equal; including Guan Wen, the distinguished figure’s side had one more than Master Cheng’s. In other words, Guan Wen became the straw that tipped the scale, and because of him, the decision to open the mandala would be carried out.

“Master Cheng, as I have said, open the mandala.” The distinguished figure pulled Guan Wen back, retreating beyond the mani walls.

The others withdrew as well, leaving only Master Cheng standing by the mandala.

“Remember the Tibetan words I exchanged with Master Cheng when we descended?” the distinguished figure whispered. “He, too, is uncertain if the witch remains. Aside from her screams, he received no other useful information. But we know, in a narrow passage, a sound wave can travel infinitely far—hence the old saying, ‘the echo in an empty valley carries for ten thousand miles.’”

The distinguished figure’s brow furrowed into a knot, his right hand formed into a crane’s-bill and tapped his temple repeatedly—a stimulating technique to keep his mind clear and untangle the web of dilemmas before him.

Guan Wen nodded. It seemed certain the witch was still alive.

If, back then, Princess Wencheng, Songtsen Gampo, and Princess Bhrikuti had truly destroyed the witch, there would have been no need to build the demon-suppressing monastery; history would have recorded the demon’s eradication, not simply her suppression.

Realizing this, a chill pierced Guan Wen to his very core.

Abruptly, Master Cheng turned and pointed at the distinguished figure. “If anything happens to me, you will take up the demon-suppressing mission. As demon suppressors, we live not for our own glory or survival, but for the peace and happiness of humanity. As a descendant of the three thousand demon suppressors of the Wagang stronghold, I was born to uphold the path of righteousness and suppress evil. My death is as insignificant as the death of a mote of dust in the universe, but you must remember: each of us should die in the act of suppressing demons, never otherwise.”

Though he was so old, skin clinging to bone, seemingly too frail to hold up his head, when he spoke with such righteousness, the aura he exuded filled Guan Wen with sincere admiration.

“I will remember,” the distinguished figure bowed deeply.

Master Cheng circled the mandala, then suddenly bent down, pressing both palms to the face of a Buddha statue. His body flipped upside-down in a handstand. With a powerful twist of his waist and legs, the entire mandala spun silently. After three rotations, Master Cheng gave a shout, flipped in midair, and dragged up the circular floor bearing the mandala, tossing it aside with a crash.

Where the center had been, there now yawned a dark hole three paces across, with a stone stair two feet wide slanting down at forty-five degrees.

“I will go down. Wait here,” said Master Cheng.

The distinguished figure leaped to the mani wall. “Master Cheng, let me go. You must stay to oversee the demon-suppressing circle.”

Master Cheng shook his head. “No. We, the demon suppressors, are all old now; this is our final home. Since I entered, I never intended to leave. But you—you still have much to do, so many matters to arrange. The disciples of Tibetan Buddhism trust you, support you. You must lead them to a brighter future. Each person is a candle; each candle serves its purpose. You must live on, for truth and for justice.”

He pushed the distinguished figure aside and shuffled toward the opening.

Guan Wen, unable to quell the surge of passion in his chest, strode forward to follow.

“Young man, do you not know that to enter the earth’s veins is to die?” Master Cheng asked sharply.

Guan Wen smiled. “If a great sage like you can face death so calmly, what harm in a minor figure like me risking death? My life matters little in this world.”

The wrinkles on Master Cheng’s face trembled as he fixed Guan Wen with a searching gaze.

“You can see, can’t you?” Guan Wen asked with a smile.

“Of course I can, but I refuse to let my mind be misled by what I see. So, I keep my eyes closed, discerning the world by sound alone.” Master Cheng’s eyes shifted, the gray fading, replaced by a pair of shining black pupils.

From this, Guan Wen was enlightened; he realized suddenly that he could paint not by sight, but by thought and perception, just as Master Cheng practiced. Without seeing, the mind is undisturbed, able to draw truer, deeper feedback from the world than common understanding allows.

He glanced back at the ground around the mandala, where elaborate scripts and symbols crowded and overlapped, so dense and intricate they nearly induced dizziness and delirium. For ordinary people, there would be too much to see, and they would become trapped in translating and analyzing, forgetting to perceive what lay behind the words.

Through touch, he read the hearts of the three thousand demon suppressors. Upon arriving in Tibet, they had observed and studied the witch, realizing they could not kill her. Thus, they used special means to first seal her beneath the Potala Palace, then built a temple to pin her down, ensuring she could never harm the world again. It was a temporary measure, but under Tibet’s complex circumstances at the time, it was the best they could do.

“Come, young man,” Master Cheng said grandly, “let me show you the soul barrier of the three thousand demon suppressors of the Tang dynasty.”