Chapter Forty-Eight: The Mantis Awakens—A Moment of Enlightenment

With a sharp crack, the tiny body of the firefly burst apart, scattering into seventeen or eighteen sparks. Each spark transformed into a firefly, endlessly dividing—one into ten, ten into a hundred, a hundred into a thousand. Countless fireflies vibrated their wings, fluttering around Guan Wen, their tails trailing blurred streaks of shimmering blue.

Guan Wen concentrated, holding his breath, straining to expand his vision so that every trajectory traced by the fireflies entered his gaze. To him, each path was a profound piece of writing, distilling the essence of Tibetan Buddhist sages’ arduous cultivation. With every passage he read, a skylight opened in the fortress of his soul, welcoming the downpour of wisdom from above.

Gradually, he felt his body lighten, as though he too had become a firefly, dancing and merging into the swarm.

Humans and demons cannot coexist in the same world. Since Pan Gu cleaved heaven and earth, the heavens, humanity, and ghosts have been clearly divided into three realms. The boundaries are strict: the heavens and humanity separated by clouds, humanity and the ghost realm by thick earth—never to be crossed. Long ago, a sage from the human realm, after sixty years of cultivation, sought to breach the barrier between humanity and the heavens, aspiring to become one of the celestial realm. He named this method “Cloud Somersault,” arrogantly styling himself “The Great Sage Equal to Heaven.” In the end, he was punished, crushed beneath the Five Elements Mountain for five hundred years… An utterly unfamiliar voice narrated leisurely.

Another voice spoke: Someone wished to plant sky-high trees to bridge the two realms, allowing people to ascend. Such attempts not only failed to turn mortals into immortals, but immediately incurred heavenly wrath, inflicting humanity with disease and pestilence, shortening lifespans, reducing crops, and leaving them unable to nourish those towering trees...

These impractical actions prove that crossing boundaries violates nature’s laws. When humans transgress, they suffer divine retribution; when demons do, it is likewise an act against heaven. We cultivators must understand this, establishing the resolve that humanity will overcome demons. Cultivators are the banner of human society; as long as the banner stands, hope remains… another voice declared.

This resolve must be passed down—it is the spark of human continuity. As long as the spark endures, human evolution will continue forever...

Demons can rampage for a time, but never eternally. For sages, the body may perish, but the soul is indestructible; transmitting our wisdom to successors makes them infinitely strong, turning them into giants of wisdom to oppose the demon realm...

The Thangka is the oldest form of Tibetan cultural inheritance, containing all history and wisdom. The ancient Han people recorded events through knotted ropes, dance, or script, but none surpasses the richness of the Thangka. As a Tibetan Buddhist cultivator, only by deeply studying the essence within Thangkas can one achieve spiritual ascension in broad daylight...

More voices competed to share their views. Guan Wen read intently, listening so keenly he barely remembered to breathe.

Among all these voices, a slow, heavy, ancient tone suddenly emerged, suppressing the clamor: The Skull Thangka represents the highest state of unity between Buddha and man—selfless, desireless. Only when a cultivator achieves total transparency, utterly pure, devoid of selfish thoughts or desires, can they approach the threshold of the Skull Thangka’s cultivation. If one cannot do this, but forces the practice, they will spiral into madness and death. Countless failures through history show that man must know himself and not act rashly, or else harm both self and others.

All voices vanished, leaving only that ancient tone, deep and resonant, echoing in Guan Wen’s mind.

He could not help but ask himself: Have I reached a state of selflessness and detachment?

Undoubtedly, Baoling had entered his heart. The spark of love between man and woman had been sown—impossible to abandon. This is humanity’s most primal desire; once ignited, it cannot be severed, tangled forever, lasting to death.

If you cannot relinquish desire, you cannot bear the burden of eliminating demons, the ancient voice thundered.

Guan Wen had no rebuttal, for it was true. Had he been enlightened by Master Tree before meeting Baoling, he would have been wholly dedicated and unburdened.

But I believe he is the best candidate, the only one. My own life is ending; if I cannot find a successor, the spark of demon-slaying will be extinguished, Master Tree said.

That is a meaningless sacrifice. If I were you, I’d rather let the spark die than entrust it to the wrong person, the ancient voice replied.

No, I want to make one last effort. His comprehension is greater than anyone’s, his heart broader than any. I have decided, said Master Tree.

The ancient voice laughed helplessly: You have decided... you have decided? The decision is yours, but all bear its failure. Why can’t you wait a little longer?

Master Tree gave a hoarse, bitter laugh: I have waited... Curled up in the shell of a firefly for two hundred years, if not for the ancient tree’s vitality supporting me, the shell would have weathered to dust long ago. This is all I could do—nothing more...

The ancient voice sighed: He truly is not suitable. His mind has been divided by the presence of a beloved woman. Half his energy is hers; he cannot dedicate himself wholly to demon-slaying. Your decision will only destroy him...

Suddenly, Master Tree let out a thunderous howl, making Guan Wen’s ears ring: Heaven, earth, clouds, mountains, waters, grasses, all gods and Buddhas bear witness—this is my final struggle—

With the howl, the tree hollow spun rapidly, like a whipping top. Guan Wen stood unmoving as countless strange visions flashed before him. He widened his eyes, striving to capture them, every sense at full stretch—not only sight, but smell, touch, taste, and hearing.

He saw proud kings enthroned, beautiful princesses riding golden-saddled yaks, ancient wizards with hair unbound, sweating craftsmen, and Tibetan monasteries rising from the earth...

He also saw demons riding black clouds, roaring past; surging black waters; rakshasas ravaging humanity; giant monsters destroying temples and homes with a gesture...

He saw skies of clear blue, seas tranquil, Tibetans singing and dancing, offering wine and worship to kings and princesses. In the final vision, vast black clouds swept from a distant horizon, unstoppable as a tidal wave.

Before the great crisis began, action was needed—full effort to intercept the resurrection of the Rakshasa Demoness, to nip the disaster in the bud… That was Master Tree’s voice, and also the voices of unseen, wise souls.

The visions spun faster and faster, forming countless radiant halos. Guan Wen grew dizzy, gritting his teeth to endure.

Suddenly, vertigo overwhelmed him; he could not stand, and collapsed forward to his knees.

Then, all the voices faded, and the fireflies flew off, vanishing without trace.

Guan Wen closed his eyes, reviewing all he had seen and heard, storing it in his mind. Like a spaceship infused with new power, he felt a mysterious strength throughout him, seeing Tibetan history with unprecedented clarity.

Elder, are you still there? he called tentatively, but received no answer.

Caidan Dajie entered the tree hollow, flicking on his flashlight and shining it at the side.

Master, what are you searching for? Guan Wen asked.

Caidan Dajie did not reply. The beam stopped, illuminating a patch of tree trunk riddled with tiny holes, about the size of two palms. He used a small knife to carefully peel away the bark, revealing a desiccated firefly. Its limbs, ravaged by time, had weathered to a ghastly grey-white, with only one foreclaw hooked into a crevice, the others broken. Without the bark’s protection, it would have turned to powder long ago.

This was Master Tree’s dwelling. No matter how revered his position in life, after death his soul was but a grain of sand, fitting into the shell of a tiny insect. Caidan Dajie’s expression was solemn, devoid of any smile. True cultivators respect one another; especially so with a predecessor several generations above, requiring utmost humility and reverence.

In truth, the firefly was just an empty shell, its oils long gone, resembling a ruined shrine.

Guan Wen sighed deeply. In Buddhism, the greater the wisdom, the humbler the bearing; Master Tree’s soul, bound by his demon-slaying mission, could not ascend, hiding in the most humble place, awaiting a destined visitor. Such near-hopeless sacrifice deserves utmost respect.

Death and transcendence come easily—just a blink of an eye. But two hundred years of waiting is bitter endurance. Worse, this vigil has no set end, no destination; it may conclude, or may end in regret and death, yielding nothing. Without unwavering dedication, who could endure such endless night?

Above the firefly, on an untouched patch of bark, a blue-grey mantis held its left forearm blade aloft, poised to strike. The mantis and firefly were separated by a mere foot. With one leap, the mantis could cleave the firefly’s back, split it in two, and feed. Yet, the mantis too had weathered, its once green body faded to blue-grey, only the left forearm intact; the other limbs, claws, belly, and wings were all damaged or broken.

This tableau of mantis poised to strike has persisted for many years—since I entered the monastery, it has always been so. In the long river of history, who knows why the mantis never struck, always waiting, until it too weathered. Whoever waits too long, inevitably loses; this truth holds in the worlds of humans, Buddhas, and insects alike. I know this is a hidden mystery, but how to interpret or resolve it? Caidan Dajie gripped his knife, sinking into endless contemplation.

The mantis and firefly are natural enemies. If that blade falls, Master Tree’s soul loses its refuge and vanishes without trace. What seems mundane to humans is a matter of life and death to Master Tree curled within the insect shell.

In my view, the blade will eventually fall. As the mantis weathers further, its claws will lose hold and it will fall, its blade cleaving the firefly’s back. Then, Master Tree’s soul will cease to exist, like countless predecessors in Tibetan Buddhist history—guarding, comprehending, and studying the Dharma to their last breath. Caidan Dajie was plunged into intense pain and regret.

In fact, a gentle pinch would suffice to remove the mantis or snap its blade, saving the firefly. But such intervention would alter the natural order of fate and death, turning one into a sinner who disrupts history. If history is changed, the Tibetan world of today would be upheaved. Only true sages can grasp these intricate consequences, and thus hesitate, unable to decide between action and inaction.

Guan Wen understood, and so shared Caidan Dajie’s pain. Were it himself, he would be equally torn.

The eastern sky grew pale, the night fog receding. Tashilhunpo Monastery was about to greet a new day.

All we can do is inherit Master Tree’s will, eliminate the great crisis, and resolve Tibet’s urgent peril—Guan Wen emerged from his meditation.

Guan Wen, what did you gain last night? Caidan Dajie asked.

Guan Wen pondered for several minutes before slowly answering: Master Tree’s soul taught me that demon-slaying is imperative. If the Rakshasa Demoness is allowed to revive, all living things will suffer. The method lies in the artistic cultivation of the Skull Thangka. But he said little more, as too many voices intervened—I could hardly hear him. Some opposed, saying I am unfit for the task, as my heart is already attached, unable to commit fully to the battle. When all voices faded, I still had no clear answer—

Caidan Dajie sighed: So that’s how it is?

Guan Wen gave a bitter smile: Yes. Perhaps I should have come here sooner to visit Master Tree, and then I wouldn’t have met Baoling, my heart would have remained closed, single-minded. But now, words are useless.

Caidan Dajie’s expression grew despondent, making Guan Wen uneasy. Some facts cannot be denied—he cannot erase Baoling from his mind, nor pretend nothing happened, deceiving himself or others.

Caidan Dajie stepped out, stretched, and exhaled deeply toward the east.

Tashilhunpo Monastery was awake; diligent monks recited scriptures and chanted morning prayers, their voices mingling with cheerful birdsong. It was just another ordinary day in the monastery’s year, but for Guan Wen, it was as if he had been reborn, his mind transformed.

Just as Guan Wen was about to leave, he suddenly noticed a subtle change in the weathered mantis: its body was retracting, the left blade slowly rising. He looked closely—the mantis’s grey wings were unfolding, its claws digging deeper into the bark.

It… is coming back to life? Guan Wen rubbed his eyes in astonishment, staring fixedly.

At that moment, the firefly’s shell also trembled, slowly moving half a step forward.