Chapter Eighty-One: The Crimson Flame Venerable and the Buddha of the Burning Lamp

They had entered this place at around one in the afternoon, just after the sun had passed its zenith. From the small window in the southern wall of the quiet chamber, a rectangular patch of white sunlight fell, landing directly in front of the Crimson Flame Master’s bed. The floor was paved with planks of pine, each one cut from natural wood, left unpainted and unadorned. The patch of sunlight illuminated precisely a piece of wood, two feet long and one foot wide.

Guan Wen’s attention was caught by this plank because, since their arrival, an hour had passed and yet the light had not shifted in the slightest; it remained fixed in that same spot.

“Do not fear losing the most precious things in your life. Look at the rivers—flowing from the snowy peaks, how much do they gain and lose along the way? In their embrace once lay countless shards of ice, pebbles, grass roots, and darting fish, all drifting and sinking, rising and falling. Yet in the end, nothing remains but a handful of clear water. Their existence finds immortality in motion, spreading to every corner of the natural world. If eternity is possible, why cling to what is gained or lost in a single moment or place? Do not be afraid—what is destined will come, and will not shrink away because of your fear. Only by breaking through the barriers of darkness, letting go of obsession, and attaining the realm of immortality, can one be free of regret.” The Crimson Flame Master spoke slowly.

“This is the only time in my life I cannot let go, the only time my heart clings to longing. How cruel the heavens are to me, denying me even a single chance?” Gu Qingcheng’s tears fell, dropping onto the tip of her boot.

Those entangled in love are always unable to see clearly, unable to comprehend. Even a brief parting seems to them a small death. All the more so, when, should she open that box, Gu Qingcheng would face the unknown twists of fate.

The Crimson Flame Master nodded and smiled. “Beauty fades, youth is fleeting—what if you were given another chance? What if you could love for a hundred more years? In the great river of time, to love for ten years or a hundred is but a fleeting glimpse. Foolish child, if you do not return to the age of your purest self, to right the wrongs committed, how can you restore what was disturbed then and reclaim your peace and happiness now?”

His hand stroked Gu Qingcheng’s hair; the skin of his bent fingers was cracked and aged, each fissure a nameless mark left by time. Among all the great monasteries of Tibet, few monks possessed such wisdom, authority, and influence as he. Apart from the distinguished figure who had brought Guan Wen here, there was no third.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked.

Gu Qingcheng shook her head in confusion. “I still don’t understand. But I hear other strange sounds, as if I am standing in a vast corridor, with a clamor echoing from the far end. Master, why is this happening?”

“If there is a passageway, then walk through it. Face your confusion directly, without fear.” The Crimson Flame Master encouraged her with a smile.

“But I cannot see the path. How can I walk it?” Gu Qingcheng was even more perplexed.

The Crimson Flame Master reached beneath his pillow and drew out an old pair of scissors wrapped with colorful threads. He gestured for Gu Qingcheng to turn around; with a swift motion, he cut through her long hair.

“Cut away the roots of your troubles, and what worries remain? Foolish child, go, go…” The Crimson Flame Master burst into laughter.

Gu Qingcheng’s expression froze, her eyes half-open, half-closed, her whole body rigid and unmoving.

Guan Wen could only see Gu Qingcheng’s outward form, unable to fathom her thoughts. Seeing her in this strange state, he grew anxious. “Master, is she all right?”

“She has entered the reverse flow of history, and you exist in that history as well. My wisdom alone can contemplate only so much, see only so much of fate’s design. Now, all we can do is wait—wait for her to awaken, wait for the wheel of misfortune to pass us by.” The Crimson Flame Master gazed at the scissors in his hand. The gray blades were already rusted, and their handcrafted, ancient style proved they were at least a hundred years old.

Guan Wen stepped forward and picked up Gu Qingcheng’s severed hair.

In Buddhism, shaving the head is a sign of taking vows and entering monastic life, manifesting the image of a pure monk or nun. Thus, hair is called the “threads of vexation.” Once these threads are cut, the roots of trouble are dug out; from then on, the heart is unburdened, wholly devoted to cultivation, and can directly reach the state of emptiness.

“Is this… right or wrong?” Guan Wen held the glossy black hair, a quiet sorrow rising in his heart.

Such is life: to remember constantly is one kind of sorrow, and to forget each other is another. That is why the last ruler of Southern Tang, Li Yu, wrote such heart-wrenching lines—“It cannot be severed, nor disentangled; it is the sorrow of parting, a taste like no other in the heart.”

Right is wrong, and wrong is right. The Crimson Flame Master replied softly.

“What?” Guan Wen had heard clearly, but felt the eight words the Crimson Flame Master uttered held endless, unfathomable meaning. He could not help but look up, gazing into the Master’s dim, lusterless eyes, and asked instinctively, “What?”

“What?” the Crimson Flame Master replied in turn.

Guan Wen pressed on, “Master, why does the patch of sunlight not move? If it is unmoving, does that mean the sun outside is also still?”

The Crimson Flame Master shook his head. “I do not know. You ask me, but I am only a mirror—what is asked is what is seen, what is seen is what is gained. The answer lies within your heart.”

Guan Wen glanced back at the old wooden door, pitted and riddled by insects, but did not have the courage to walk over and open it to see what lay outside.

The only reason for the unmoving sun must be that time itself has frozen.

The highest practitioners of Tibetan Buddhism can attain mind-reading, clairvoyance, clairaudience, and other extraordinary, superhuman states. Beyond that lies the unknowable realm: control over breath, over diet, over life and death, and over time itself. The first three, even Indian yogis can achieve—some are buried underground for weeks without food or drink, yet emerge alive and vibrant.

But the state of controlling time exists only in legend; none in the world have witnessed it.

Guan Wen smiled wryly. “So it’s you, Master, who is the true sage of the snowy plateau.”

He could say no more in praise, for to one who has glimpsed the unknowable, others’ praise or criticism is already irrelevant.

“I am not,” the Crimson Flame Master shook his head. “I told you before, I am a lamp—burning myself to illuminate others.”

He tugged down his collar, revealing his left shoulder, where a flame-shaped birthmark, palm-sized and crimson, was visible.

To control time is the ultimate state for a practitioner, but many know of the skill without understanding its purpose—when, and for what, should it be used? The Crimson Flame Master sighed deeply as he adjusted his collar, gazing at Guan Wen with gravity, like those ancient warriors who spent their lives mastering the art of dragon-slaying, only to realize, in the end, that such earth-shaking skill had no place to be used. “Guan Wen, if she does not appear, the art of ‘controlling time’ is useless. Another example: without night, what need is there for a burning lamp?”

Guan Wen involuntarily took a step back, suddenly enlightened.

The meaning behind the Crimson Flame Master’s words, put simply, was to gather all those connected to an event, for everyone to give their best, to unite and form a powerful force to accomplish a single goal. This assembly is like a perfectly functioning football team, with goalkeepers, defenders, midfielders, forwards—each faithfully fulfilling their role, seeking neither glory nor gain, not overstepping their boundaries, not coveting fame or profit, and together winning the match.

“Master, I understand.” Guan Wen pressed his palms together, then corrected himself, “I understand what I am meant to understand. To sow without asking about the harvest—that is what we should do now.”

The Crimson Flame Master did not rejoice at Guan Wen’s realization, but instead sank into deeper thought. “Guan Wen, to remember past events is to learn for the future—do you truly understand? Or is it that everyone sees only what they understand, and not what they do not…”

Guan Wen continued, “What you mean, Master, is—how can anyone know what they do or do not understand? What things do we think we understand, but in truth do not? How can we make others understand what we mean?”

For thousands of years, philosophers have debated these theories, each intricate and binding, locking human thought in chains. That is why Confucius advocated, “Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous,” urging us to break out of theoretical circles and seek answers in practice.

The Crimson Flame Master snapped his fingers and smiled. “As I said, I am a lamp, only shining for others.”

The patch of sunlight remained unmoved. Guan Wen checked his watch—it had stopped.

In the theory of controlling time, it is said that those within lose not a single second of life, but instead enter a multi-dimensional state, experiencing, in less than a microsecond, a span that could be as short as a second or as long as ten thousand years.

“How long will she remain in that state?” Guan Wen asked, then realized that in this place, time was meaningless. No matter how far Gu Qingcheng went, or for how long, she would eventually return to reality, without any loss of real time.

“What matters is not the length of time, but whether she attains enlightenment. Look—you are still holding onto that hair. Does it mean anything to you? It was once Gu Qingcheng’s thread of vexation, but now it has become your own burden and obsession, has it not?”

The Crimson Flame Master gently blew, and the hair in Guan Wen’s hand burst into flames, turning instantly to ash.

“But… this was her… last memento…” Watching the ashes drift to the floor, Guan Wen could not help but feel sorrowful.

“The scissors are for you.” With a wave of his hand, the old scissors fell into Guan Wen’s palm.

“What use is this to me?” Guan Wen could only smile bitterly. He had lost Gu Qingcheng’s severed hair and was already troubled about how to explain when she returned to herself, his heart a tumult of emotion.

“Why do you ask me? That cut—it was you, in the world of mortals, who severed it for her. Have you forgotten?” the Crimson Flame Master asked in return.

“Me? It was me…”

In that instant, Guan Wen felt the Crimson Flame Master receding rapidly, while the patch of sunlight on the floor grew without limit, as though the sun were piercing thick clouds to illuminate the world—not a mere patch of light, but the natural radiance that shone upon all things.

From distant horizons came a thunderous chanting, as though from some unknown person, place, time, or world—a voice like a great bell and drum: “I possess a bright pearl, long locked away by the dust of the world. Today, all dust is cleared, and its light shines forth, illuminating a thousand mountains and rivers.”

This was the famous verse of the Chan Master Chailing Yu from China’s Song Dynasty, and in this moment, it echoed the very thoughts of Guan Wen’s heart. He felt that the patch of sunlight was a tunnel leading to an unknown time and space, and the flame-shaped birthmark on the Crimson Flame Master’s shoulder truly had the power to illuminate all ages, to penetrate the smallest details.

Thus, his mind and vision were infinitely expanded, soaring across mountains and rivers, spanning the river of history.