Chapter Fifty-Six: The Final Swan Song

Tsandan Daje slowly rose to his feet. A corner of the door curtain curled up, and a gust of wind swept in, making the flame of the oil lamp quiver violently.

"Master—" Suddenly, Tsandan Daje bowed low before the lamp, prostrating himself with his forehead to the ground, knocking his head repeatedly.

The gust of wind did not fade, but circled around the lamp’s flame, invisible and intangible, yet Guan Wen could feel its presence through the relentless swaying of the flame.

"Master, what do you wish to tell me? Is it my punishment for failing to protect the relic?" Tsandan Daje asked anxiously.

No one responded. The flame flickered up and down, as if in silent communion with the wind. Abruptly, with a sharp crack, the flame burst into a flower as wide as a teacup mouth; countless tiny sparks flew from the wick, scattering across the floor.

In that instant, it was as if a multicolored firework bloomed in Guan Wen’s heart, blossoming against the infinite backdrop of night, drifting and dispersing, forming the silhouette of the great tree that once stood behind the Tashilhunpo Monastery. Then, more fireworks blossomed one after another, each illumination brightening the dark night, and at the heart of each burst, an aged face appeared. Each firework had a different hue, each face was unique.

Seventy flashes, seventy sages, Master Tree... Elder Duojie Gyatso... Guan Wen suddenly understood: the wind was the collective souls of all the wise ones, bestowing enlightenment upon their successors.

"Master, I understand," Tsandan Daje whispered, his voice trembling.

The wind vanished, the flame steadied, and peace returned.

Tsandan Daje rose, his gaunt face resolute and noble.

Master Sangche immediately asked, "What do you intend to do?" Though completely blind, he seemed to sense the change in Tsandan Daje’s expression.

"Master Tree told me, the ultimate goal of a practitioner is to devote oneself wholly to whatever one does in this life, without regret or complaint. I was thinking, if I were to leave now, I would never be able to let go of Tashilhunpo Monastery. Much like the king and two princesses, who before their deaths could not rest easy about the demoness left on the Town Subjugation Painting. I have read the hundreds of ancient Tibetan texts left by Master Tree; the latter half of the king and princesses’ lives was spent in contemplation, seeking a final solution to the demoness. They are true practitioners; compared to them, the river of Tibetan Buddhist history has seen no greater wisdom. Master, I heard there is a method by which a divinely gifted ballad artist can prophesy the outcome of an event ahead of time—" Tsandan Daje waved his remaining left arm, all his joints crackling like beans popping.

Master Sangche was silent for a while before his voice rasped painfully, "Do not do anything foolish."

Tsandan Daje lowered his head, gazing into the nearly empty oil jar, as if questioning Master Sangche or perhaps speaking to himself. "Practicing is inherently a foolish act; to do it one more time, what harm is there?"

Another burst from the lamp flower, the flame shrinking, soon to extinguish.

"You know the ballad artist’s skill is a gift from the gods, so you must also know that even if you sacrifice something, it may not bring you divine enlightenment. There is no necessary connection between the two; you may sacrifice in vain, gaining nothing." Master Sangche’s Adam’s apple trembled fiercely, his voice sounding like it came from a battered old bellows. His face, usually expressionless and indifferent, now tensed with spasms in his cheeks, showing deep anxiety.

"I must try," Tsandan Daje twisted his left arm, slipped off his monk’s robe, and revealed his upper body.

On his right shoulder’s stump was a grotesque, twisted scar—a permanent reminder left from his pursuit of the ultimate skill of the Skull Thangka. Long ago, he, like other artists summoned by Master Tree, had been obsessed with the mysterious world of Skull Thangka, unable to extricate himself. In the end, with Guan Wen’s arrival, he found his way back, breaking free from the cycle of merely chasing artistic mastery, returning to the righteous path of combating evil.

"You see, this is the price of error. In one’s life, you can err only once; you cannot make the same mistake twice. Once lost, twice lost. Before, my immersion in the world of Skull Thangka was a mistake; now, leaving Tashilhunpo Monastery so easily is another mistake. So, I have decided; I will not change again," he said.

Guan Wen realized the tragedy about to unfold and quickly intervened, "Master, actually we can take a longer view, gather more wisdom, and research methods to break the black hole."

Tsandan Daje smiled solemnly, "Guan Wen, do you remember the tiny insect shell where Master Tree resided? Truth is, whether sage or commoner, none wish their soul to dwell in an insect shell, enduring the torment of days and years. Everyone knows: when a person dies, the lamp goes out, flesh and bones return to earth—death brings swift entry into the six realms, rebirth as a new person, enjoying a new life. It is a natural transformation, painless and easy. So why did he endure such suffering alone? From him, I saw the true wisdom of a practitioner. He set the finest example for me. At this moment—right now—Master Sangche calls me to leave; perhaps if my mind had not just shifted, I would have gotten up and gone, missing the grand enlightenment and transcendence of a practitioner..."

Guan Wen fell silent, for he sensed the lofty spiritual realm of the great sages in Tsandan Daje’s words. No words could express his admiration, respect, or awe.

The door curtain rolled aside, and Gu Qingcheng darted in, right hand in her pocket, her expression extremely tense.

Tsandan Daje raised his left arm for silence. Basang immediately fell quiet, letting go and pressing hands tightly over her mouth.

"Is everything alright?" Gu Qingcheng wiped the cold sweat from her cheeks and whispered in Guan Wen’s ear.

"I’m fine," Guan Wen shook his head. No one had ever cared for him so deeply, and he was moved by Gu Qingcheng’s anxious concern.

"It’s good you’re alright," Gu Qingcheng exhaled, relaxing her grip on the gun in her pocket. Though the room was full, she cared only for Guan Wen’s safety, ignoring all others. The nature of her feelings was clear without words.

Master Sangche, silent for a long time, slowly lifted his head, tears clouding his eye sockets, but a smile on his face. "Perhaps this is the moment I have awaited. From birth to old age, whether fifty or sixty years, or more, without a sudden awakening of the soul, we are no different from insects that live and die each day. Enlightenment is immortality; only immortality can ensure the selfless, fearless spirit of Tibetan Buddhism is passed down forever. If you do not awaken, following me for five, ten, twenty years, you would only inherit the tattered mantle of a ballad artist, eventually dying unnoticed somewhere in Tibet. What you do is good, very good, very good..."

Tsandan Daje walked to the oil jar, slowly sat cross-legged, resting his left arm on the rim, his expression cold and stern. "Shall we begin then?" he asked.

Master Sangche shook his head, reached into a shabby cloth bag and pulled out a filthy leather wine pouch, trembling as he pulled the wooden stopper. A strong aroma of liquor filled the room.

"Fine wine," Tsandan Daje praised.

"This pouch was brewed from millennium ice in a cave on Everest’s north face, mixed with blood lotus from the mountain’s far side. It took three years, with three vats distilled repeatedly, yielding only this much. I have kept it safe, reserved for true sages and warriors. Please—" Master Sangche handed the palm-sized wine pouch to Tsandan Daje.

"Actually, I am ashamed," Tsandan Daje took the pouch and turned to Guan Wen. "Do you remember what Master Tree said—‘which is easier: to die bravely or to endure for a century?’ You and I, are we not facing such a choice?"

Guan Wen of course remembered; before leading seventy sages into the black hole, Master Tree's elder brother Duojie Gyatso had spoken those words.

"Death is easy; life, and overcoming all obstacles to defeat evil, is hardest. Guan Wen, I am old now; this time I must choose the easy path, for that is all I can fully bear. Forgive me." Tsandan Daje did not drink, but as he spoke, handed the wine pouch to Guan Wen.

"Master, I will not fail your trust; my life’s strength will be devoted to the cause of defeating evil." Guan Wen did not refuse, taking the pouch with both hands and drinking the first mouthful. The intense, mellow, natural liquor was unlike anything he had tasted. Its unique fragrance and burning liquid surged through his organs, swirling and coursing, and just one sip left him thoroughly intoxicated.

"Fine... wine, fine... wine..." The intoxication rose, his mind became confused, and the people and surroundings spun around him.

Tsandan Daje drank second, then returned the pouch to Master Sangche.

"Let us begin," Tsandan Daje murmured, drawing his wrist lightly along the jar’s rim. Instantly, skin split and blood poured forth, dripping into the jar. His blood mixed with the butter, travelled through the wick, and reached the lamp, making the flame blaze anew.

Master Sangche took a deep draught, coughed violently, then began to chant:

"In Tibet, two colors always exist,
The good prefer pure white,
They are descendants of the snowy mountains,
They graze white sheep on green pastures.
The demoness resides in the dark,
Her followers wear black armor.
The battle of black and white never ends,
Unless one side is utterly destroyed.
I see red agate embedded on the mountain,
Beneath the agate, clear springs flow,
The spring brings laughter to the Tibetans,
And the gates to the battlefield open wide.
No one has seen the two-headed monster,
Man and woman sharing one body,
One cries, one shouts,
Demon soldiers fill the hillside."

"The demoness has many cunning tricks,
She never falls for traps,
Bait hangs from the treetop,
The demoness is lured away from her lair.
The mandala is beautiful as a painting,
The demoness laughs with delight,
Boom, the cannon roars,
Ashes and smoke end it all..."

Another fit of coughing, Master Sangche clutched his chest, unable to continue singing.

Guan Wen could understand the words, but not their meaning.

"What is the two-headed monster? What is the bait?" Gu Qingcheng, attuned to Guan Wen, asked first.

Master Sangche stopped coughing, his white eyes turned toward Gu Qingcheng, shaking his head in confusion. "I said, I only sing; I know nothing else. I sing only for those meant to hear, and when he hears, he will understand."

Guan Wen strove to memorize every word of the chant, even if he did not understand now, he would seek answers in the future.

"Continue..." Tsandan Daje said.

The wick had turned dark red, and the air was filled not only with butter and blood, but also the strange fragrance of burning blood.

"The heroes’ victory came too fast,
The demoness will strike back again.
I see King Songtsen Gampo appear in the clouds,
Raising high the Demon-Slaying Blade.
The demoness is slippery,
She dodges left and right, fleeing swiftly.
Everyone knows the hero defeats evil,
But who knows a hero needs good allies?
Princess Wencheng stands in the east,
Princess Chizun stands in the south,
The king’s blade guards the west,
Only the north remains for the demoness..."