Chapter Thirty-Four: Basang's Betrayal

In the darkest hour before dawn, Guan Wen bid farewell to the great figure. This journey to Lhasa had shown him much, taught him much, and revealed much to him. Yet every event seemed fragmented, disjointed, impossible to untangle or see to its conclusion, let alone find a solution.

Likewise, the expression on the great figure’s face was deeply somber.

Sometimes I truly feel exhausted, he said, the burden on my shoulders growing heavier, and yet I see no way out. If I were someone else, perhaps I could close my eyes and wait for death, leave this matter for the next generation of disciples. In truth, so many things in this world are passed from hand to hand, only to dissolve into nothingness. Guan Wen, I believe you are different. You carry within your mind the key to this puzzle—don’t let me down. If you have any sudden insight, call me. The great figure clasped Guan Wen’s hand, repeating his entreaty.

All Guan Wen could offer in return was a bitter smile.

The death of Feng He and the disappearance of Master Tian Jiu were proof enough: behind all these strange occurrences, a web of conspiracy was quietly unfurling.

Lhasa—a solemn, pure, sacred place—was guarded by countless just men like the great figure, fighting in succession to protect its sanctity. This moved Guan Wen deeply. He felt ashamed for his constant preoccupation with Baoling, for such selfish thoughts, standing before men of great virtue, wisdom, and compassion. In comparison, he felt himself selfish and insignificant.

Farewell, master. He bowed deeply to the great figure.

Take care. The great figure returned the gesture with a smile. However deep the night, dawn will come.

An hour later, Basang drove a pickup truck with Guan Wen on the road to Rikaze.

Basang had come along with the vehicles escorting the sages from the five nations and twelve temples. His rank did not permit him to accompany them; instead, he waited outside the compound of the Crimson Flame Venerable until he met up with Guan Wen.

It seems the great figure holds you in high esteem, Basang remarked, eyes on the road, a faint smile on his lips.

Does he? I don’t feel it. Whether it’s Tashilhunpo Monastery or Lhasa, for me, it’s just a fleeting stop in my life. Once I leave Tibet, all this will vanish like smoke. Guan Wen was clear-eyed. He knew he was not of Tibetan Buddhism and could never stay at Tashilhunpo Monastery for life. Even with the great figure’s favor, he would come empty-handed and leave empty-handed.

You don’t want to stay? Not for the Great Treasure, not for the secret of Mount Niseri? Basang asked.

Guan Wen shook his head. He had never even glimpsed the shadow of the Great Treasure; he dared not hope for too much.

Every legend about the Great Treasure and the hidden treasures in the Rikaze region sounded enticing. I bet that among the travelers from the east and south, some are here for the Great Treasure. I’m certain it exists—so many years, yet no one has unlocked its gate. Guan Wen, you’re a clever man; I wish I could talk more with you. There’s much in common between Buddhist scriptures and the art of painting. Both require the path of ‘breaking through obsession to dispel illusion.’ You’re obsessed with painting, I’m obsessed with cultivation. Like two sages, we walk different roads, but ultimately arrive at the same summit of self-cultivation… Basang spoke in a tone unfamiliar to Guan Wen, different from his manner at Tashilhunpo Monastery.

Thank you for your appreciation. Guan Wen hunched his shoulders, yawning sleepily.

He needed a nap now, not more philosophy.

Did you really see the ‘memory trove’ in Feng He’s mind? Basang changed the topic.

Guan Wen shook his head. I’m not sure.

Basang turned, his smile fading. Not sure? What do you mean?

Guan Wen thought for a moment before replying, Basang, tell me: what are the similarities and differences between the ‘memory trove’ described in Tibetan Buddhism and the ‘past life memories’ in Han Buddhism?

Basang pondered, then smiled silently.

Before and after entering Tibet, Guan Wen had studied a vast amount of literature on this question. In his view, if both the memory trove and past life memories were real, then there was no difference between them—each was a symbol of the deepest layer of human consciousness. These symbols might come from physical engravings or cellular stimulation, but could be transformed into sound, video, or images, expressed by the carrier to others.

The similarity: memories of real events that occurred in the past, but not directly participated in by the person.

The difference: the memory trove was highly pointed, connected to significant events; past life memories were scattered and disordered, usually related only to personal actions.

Baoling and Feng He were concrete manifestations of past life memories and the memory trove.

What I’m asking is, what did Feng He really have in his mind? Basang sighed softly. More has happened these past days than in a year at the monastery. Now that you're leaving, you’ll miss the spectacular conclusion, won’t you? Basang pressed on.

Guan Wen sensed something hidden in his words and fell silent, listening.

Outside, wilderness, slopes, rocky hills, and road signs flashed by; occasionally, wind horse flags on homes and mani stones at doorways swept through his vision.

Dawn in Rikaze was approaching. Guan Wen rolled down the window, letting the cold wind sweep away much of his fatigue.

This night had been too long, but thankfully, even the longest night has its end. He stretched, shifted to a comfortable position, and recalled the great figure’s parting words—however deep the night, dawn will come.

Have you noticed? From Lhasa to Rikaze, we’ve been heading west, away from where the sun rises. The faster we go, the farther we leave the sun behind. In other words, we’re racing toward the darkness, fleeing the light, Basang said.

Basang, you’re acting strange today. What’s going on? Guan Wen turned to ask, noticing Basang’s jaw muscles bulging, his usual warm and cheerful expression replaced by cold indifference, even a hint of ferocity.

Guan Wen, tell me Feng He’s secret. Basang said calmly.

Guan Wen frowned. Why? Isn’t your request a bit much?

Basang’s rank at Tashilhunpo Monastery was not high. The secret of Feng He belonged to the Crimson Flame Venerable and great figures of that level; Basang’s demand was clearly overstepping his bounds.

I may not know exactly what you know, but judging from the respect shown by the Venerable and the great figure, I can tell you’ve already learned the secret of Mount Niseri. Come on, tell me—Basang suddenly braked, the pickup screeching to a halt on the desolate night highway.

It was truly quiet all around. Guan Wen could hear Basang’s rapid breathing.

You’re being unreasonable, Guan Wen said coldly.

Am I? Basang patted the steering wheel, a sneer on his face. Guan Wen, you have no choice.

Guan Wen reached for the door, intending to jump out, but as soon as it opened, Basang grabbed him from behind, choking him. Then, a handkerchief with a strange scent was pressed to his face. He struggled briefly, then lost consciousness.

When he awoke, Guan Wen felt his limbs swollen and numb, unable to move at all.

Basang—he remembered what had happened in the car and called out, realizing he was tied to a pillar. His throat, chest, waist, and knees were tightly bound with gray-brown leather straps. His wrists and ankles were wrapped with other leather cords, already biting into his flesh.

A dark-skinned, gaunt middle-aged man approached, arms crossed, staring at Guan Wen.

Who are you? Where’s Basang? What does he want? Guan Wen shouted angrily.

My surname is Tang, Tang Guang, the man replied coldly.

Where’s Basang? What’s he planning? Guan Wen sensed danger, feeling himself slipping into a larger trap.

Don’t worry. Once you reveal the secret in your mind, he’ll come to rescue you. Tang Guang’s brows arched, his black-blue eyes flickering with a serpent-like gleam. In his left hand, he held a black rectangular wooden box, half a foot tall, about a foot wide, with a seal of the Tang character burned into the lid.

I have nothing to say, Guan Wen shouted.

He struggled to look around and realized he was in a vast cellar. The ceiling was about three meters high, the length and width each more than twenty paces. On either side, a dozen wooden pillars stood, stained with blood; in some places, the stains had darkened to a glossy black.

You will speak. Everyone who comes here starts out like you—fearless, tight-lipped. But in the end, they all talk. Some confess after I reason with them; others after a little pressure; a few hold out, but eventually, they all break...

With a flourish, Tang Guang snapped his wrist, and the box unfolded into a tray two feet wide. Inside, a gray-brown leather pad was set, piercing with forty or fifty iron tools of various sizes and shapes.

Guan Wen recognized knives, scissors, needles, hooks, hammers, chisels; others were twisted and tangled like a puzzle ring, some had barbed tips and spiked sides like miniature maces, yet others curved like serpents, the top ending in a fist-sized toad’s head.

See? These tools are a hundred times more effective than any polygraph, electric chair, or tiger bench. Even the toughest heroes turn into cowards here. I often wonder, is there truly anyone fearless of pain or death? But those matters don’t concern you—you’re just a painter, not a man of the martial world, certainly not a hero. I bet, once you try any tool from the treasure box, you’ll confess everything, even your mother’s secret affairs—Tang Guang pointed at the tape recorder on the table. You talk, I record. Cooperate, and you’ll be fine. We’re both artists; let’s not resort to violence, let’s settle this peacefully, shall we?

Guan Wen was at a loss. He did not fear death, but he could not bear to die so obscurely in a Tibetan cellar, tortured by this sinister Tang Guang.

Call Basang. If I’m to talk, I’ll only talk to him. Guan Wen said with a bitter smile.

No, no, no, you’ve already missed your chance. Now you must speak into the recorder, and I’ll pass it on. If it satisfies the boss, I’ll kill you quickly; if you lie and fail to please him, then I’m afraid you’ll suffer, heh heh heh… Tang Guang laughed eerily, like a night owl stalking prey.