Chapter Twenty-Four: The Hidden Treasure Keeper, Wind Crane

Feng He, you’ve done well. Continue, please, said the Crimson Flame Master softly.

They were making another decision—each hesitating, uncertain as to whether it should be done, or who among them should carry it out. At last, a leader stood up, one whose left eyebrow bore a hidden black mole; with each word he spoke, the mole seemed to pulse, like a hammer tapping, always beating. He nominated another for the task—his twin brother, whose features mirrored his own. He wished for his brother to enter the cavern and complete the physical seal. His act moved all the leaders deeply; they knelt before the two brothers, prostrating themselves in reverent worship…

The woman’s voice drifted, ethereal as the cry of a crane in the wind.

Feng He’s narration paused here, her face clouded with confusion.

After a moment’s hesitation, she added, I know what task that person bore: he waited until the monks transporting the jewels had sealed the treasure cave. Then, quietly drawing his blade, he slew them all, erasing every clue connected to the cave. Thus, when war erupted, even if the enemy learned of its existence, they could never find its entrance from anyone’s lips.

A chill ran through Guan Wen’s heart. Such suicide secrecy had appeared throughout history, often in the imperial palaces during dynastic upheavals—its cruelty and blind loyalty surpassing the limits of human endurance, tolerable only to those eunuchs and concubines long accustomed to mental oppression.

If Feng He spoke truly, and this occurred within a Tibetan monastery, it was a severe dissection of the leaders’ shadowed thoughts.

Such things have happened many times in history—nothing remarkable, the Crimson Flame Master said.

But… but… Feng He suddenly trembled, crossing her arms over her chest. Her shadow fell at Guan Wen’s feet, shivering as if it too were a leaf caught in a storm.

What frightens you? asked the Crimson Flame Master.

I don’t know… When I heard them discuss it, I suddenly felt it was related to me, and so I was afraid. Feng He’s expression was bewildered and fearful, like a small beast trapped in a cage.

Come here, the Crimson Flame Master beckoned.

Feng He walked forward, stepping over the Mani stones, swaying with each unsteady step.

You haven’t said whether you recognize that place—the monastery, the treasure site, the killer, the victims… You must remember something, right? The Crimson Flame Master gently took her hand, coaxing.

Feng He shook her head, confusion deepening on her face: The meeting lasted all night. Much of my memory was lost to fear, and the dim light in the hall means I can’t recall their faces anymore.

Where were you then? the Crimson Flame Master pressed.

Feng He shook her head again: I don’t know… That’s what troubles me most. I don’t know where I was, yet I could hear them, see them… I wasn’t one of the wise ones, but I somehow knew what happened in the hall…

The Crimson Flame Master sighed: Don’t rush. Remembering so much is already remarkable. We have time; let’s take it slow.

Feng He slowly closed her eyes, though her lids kept trembling.

All cultivation proceeds step by step. I believe you’ll recover your memory and become a true seeker of hidden treasures. The Crimson Flame Master released her hand and picked up a Mani stone at his feet, studying its intricate patterns.

Now Guan Wen realized that the Mani stones here differed from those usually seen—only a few were engraved with the Six-Syllable Mantra, prayers, or swastika symbols; the rest were covered in irregular lines, without pattern or decipherable meaning.

After a time, Feng He spoke again: The war has begun.

The Crimson Flame Master fell silent, waiting with Guan Wen in quiet anticipation.

It was much like a therapist sitting with a patient suffering from severe amnesia—neither rushing nor dragging, but awaiting the awakening of self-awareness. Outsiders could do nothing but fret.

In truth, Guan Wen had encountered countless such moments while helping others paint their dreams. To assist, the dreamer must describe their visions honestly, translating images into words and expressions. Now, if Feng He held her tongue, who could ever know what transpired in that great war?

I’m tired. After ten more minutes, Feng He opened her eyes, her face slick with cold sweat, her expression utterly exhausted.

When you’re tired, sleep; when you’re hungry, eat. Cultivators should follow their basic human nature. Go ahead, said the Crimson Flame Master.

Feng He bowed deeply to him, then walked straight out, never once glancing at Guan Wen.

What did you see? asked the Crimson Flame Master.

Guan Wen hesitated, then answered cautiously: I believe the person in her “storehouse of consciousness” must have suffered a tragedy—his memory shattered, his words confused. Since the war broke out, perhaps he was its victim, perished in the chaos.

Continue, prompted the Crimson Flame Master.

If time allows, we should record everything she’s said, rearrange it, and study it deeply, seeking a long, coherent account—only then can we truly solve the problem, Guan Wen replied.

The Crimson Flame Master spread his arms, as if to embrace the Mani stones: You see? These are all her thoughts—before I found and rescued her, she had already painted so many Mani stones, expressing her mind through those lines. In her village, she was famous as a “strange one.” All the villagers saw her as possessed by evil spirits, avoiding her house even in passing. But who can decipher such wordless scripture?

Suddenly, Guan Wen understood: the Crimson Flame Master sat amid the Mani stones not merely to rest, but to meditate and seek understanding—a form of retreat far beyond ordinary comprehension.

He recalled the corridor before entering the Demon Suppression Circle, and the fierce lines drawn on the stone walls—perhaps related to this.

I’m tired too, the Crimson Flame Master waved. You may leave.

Guan Wen thought for a moment, then asked one final question: Master, what are you doing?

These five words are the most common in daily Chinese conversation—simple, ordinary, yet concealing infinite mystery.

The Crimson Flame Master, whose eyes were about to close, suddenly opened them wide, gazing at Guan Wen and repeating slowly, word by word: What… am… I… doing… here?

Guan Wen continued: Everyone has plans and dreams, guiding their future—some for days, weeks, months; others for years, decades, even a lifetime. I wish to ask: what is your purpose here in cultivation? Outside, time slips by silently, events unfolding and ending before you notice, yet you remain secluded, untouched by the world.

I am waiting. I’ve always been waiting, murmured the Crimson Flame Master.

Guan Wen sighed deeply: I recall a Western philosopher who said, “Whoever lingers in waiting inevitably loses.” Master, do you not feel you’ve waited too long?

Suddenly, the Crimson Flame Master grasped his messy hair with one hand, pointed at Guan Wen with the other, and shouted: Go on, keep going!

Precisely because you wait, you’ve missed so much, Guan Wen replied.

I cannot find the path, so I wait, the Crimson Flame Master protested. If one pursues the wrong road, advancing a thousand miles a day, one only strays further from the true way.

If the path is lost, one should seek it—never wait. I recall the holy monk Xuanzang of the Tang dynasty, who journeyed thousands of miles westward, enduring eighty-one tribulations to reach Nalanda in India, finally obtaining the true scriptures and achieving enlightenment. What spirit is that? Guan Wen asked again.

The Crimson Flame Master lifted his gaze, staring at Guan Wen for a long time. His lips trembled, and he whispered, Who are you? Who are you truly?

Guan Wen stepped forward, standing firmly atop the Mani stone heap.

All along, I am myself. I am only myself, he answered softly.

Suddenly, he sensed the dead lines drawn on the Mani stones come alive, weaving a flowing ribbon that spun around him and the Crimson Flame Master, stirring vortices of air.

Don’t ask—look at those fleeting shadows! he cried.

The ribbon transformed into countless fragments of light and shadow, as if hundreds of reels of film played at once—hundreds of figures moving and speaking simultaneously, dizziness overwhelming him, his eardrums aching.

Slow down, slow down—let me see them clearly! he shouted uncontrollably.

The Crimson Flame Master leaped to Guan Wen’s side, bent and lifted him onto his back.

Light and shadow swirled, enveloping them both. In such a moment, one could reach out and grasp those fragments.

Guan Wen held his breath, his eyes darting uncontrollably, unable to take it all in.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. For this, my scattered thoughts fill this room, making me familiar with every inch. This is a three-dimensional labyrinth—only a true wise one can unravel its mysteries. You are the one I awaited, the relic—go! The Crimson Flame Master spread his arms, and from his wide sleeves flew hundreds of gray relic beads, some as small as pigeon eggs, others as large as goose eggs, all irregular gray ovals.

The relic beads did not fall or strike the walls, but floated slowly in midair, forming a three-dimensional framework that enclosed them. In an instant, all the Mani stones marked with lines rose in the whirlwind, drifting upward into the framework, finally forming a Mani stone tower that blocked the light, sealing Guan Wen and the Crimson Flame Master within.

Darkness fell before Guan Wen’s eyes; the room vanished from sight, but the ribbon’s contents sharpened a hundredfold. This change was easy to understand—like a cinema dimming its lights before the film, so the audience sees the screen more clearly.

He witnessed a brutal, bloody war. On one side, Qing cavalry with braided hair, well-armed, attacking in waves; on the other, irregularly dressed, disorderly bands of foot soldiers. The Qing troops were fewer, the rebels more. After several rounds of slaughter, the rebels used the mountainous terrain to encircle the cavalry and launch an effective counterattack—the battle stalemated. Soon, the cavalrymen fell to long spears, their horses’ legs severed, collapsing with wretched cries. Suddenly, a man in silver armor sped down a side hill, wielding two crescent-bladed swords, cutting through the rebels’ rear. His martial skill was extraordinary; wherever he charged, heads flew into the air amid sprays of blood. Under his swift slaughter, the rebels were routed, casualties mounting, the survivors fleeing down the slopes.

For reasons unknown, Guan Wen felt the silver-armored man’s movements were achingly familiar, as if he’d seen him countless times—every gesture intimately known.

He understood clearly: this was a real battle, not some staged scene with extras. The color of the blood mist as heads were cleaved could never be matched by any prop master.