Chapter Ten: The Mysterious Pulse of the Pregnant Woman

The hall had no doors, only a blue curtain hanging low to the ground, adorned with handwritten Tibetan script talismans.

"How are you?" an old voice called from behind the curtain.

Ding Jun and Fang Qing clasped their hands together in prayer and bowed deeply.

"Welcome," the voice replied.

Fang Qing whispered, "Master, it was Master Chisang Jiaco’s instruction that I bring Mr. Ding here. He has little exposure to Tibetan, but he is honored to be summoned by you and eager to hear your teachings."

The voice switched to Mandarin, calm and gentle: "Very well, you both may enter."

Fang Qing stepped forward, gently lifting the curtain, inviting Ding Jun inside first, then following.

Inside, thick woolen rugs in deep hues covered the floor. The walls were densely hung with ancient Buddhist thangkas, and four antique white copper butter lamps hung from the ceiling corners, all contributing to a heavy, oppressive atmosphere.

Ding Jun took three steady breaths without betraying emotion, calming himself to better adapt to the hall’s aura.

At the center hung two gauzy canopies from ceiling to floor. In the left, a circular canopy three meters in diameter enclosed an elderly Tibetan monk, bald with white eyebrows, frail with age. He held long strands of brown Tibetan Buddhist mala beads in each hand, facing the entrance and looking at Ding Jun and Fang Qing.

To the right, a square canopy of three meters per side sheltered a young woman dressed in Tibetan attire but with Han Chinese features. Her eyes were half-closed, and her abdomen was noticeably swollen—this was Siqin, Shihai’s wife.

“You’ve arrived. Welcome, welcome,” the old monk said.

“Master,” Fang Qing bowed again.

Seeing Siqin, Ding Jun immediately thought of Shihai and could not suppress the guilt welling within him. In the battle that day, he had obeyed Shihai’s orders to retreat, but in another sense, he deeply blamed himself for abandoning his comrade, not dying alongside Shihai on the battlefield.

“Young man, let the past go. Water flows to cleanse dust, but if you wade through and leave no trace, your burdens will only grow heavier. Come here, let me take a good look at you,” the old monk said.

Ding Jun stepped forward and, separated by the canopy, faced the old monk directly.

Pangcuo Jiebu had gained renown fifty years ago and was now at least in his nineties, so Ding Jun was not merely meeting a man a generation older but almost two generations apart.

Up close, Ding Jun felt two surging energies burning like molten steel in the old monk’s eyes, so intense they were almost unbearable to meet directly.

“I knew you would come. All mysteries are like the path of sandalwood incense burning and drifting toward eternity—some see it, some do not. The connections between events, cause and effect, beginning and end, end and beginning... all are so wondrous. Just as when I saw him twenty-five years ago, I vaguely knew that in twenty-five years, I would see you. Young man, look to your right. Beneath that four-armed protector deity thangka, there is something. Lift a corner of the carpet and you will see—”

Suddenly, Siqin gasped sharply, her whole body trembling, her half-closed eyes snapping wide open.

Before this, Ding Jun had only seen photos of Siqin. Seeing her in person, especially under such eerie circumstances, every movement of hers struck deeply into his heart.

He noticed her eyes—within the black irises were two shining vertical slits, like two perfectly round, solid black jewel stones.

“Oh...” Siqin gasped again, stiffly turning her neck to look at Ding Jun.

Before arriving at Tolin Monastery, Ding Jun had imagined countless scenarios of their meeting, but nothing prepared him for Siqin’s strange behavior.

Her lips moved silently twice; her shoulders twitched as if she wanted to rise. Her eyes remained fixed on Ding Jun, cat-like and unblinking, radiating an inexplicable sinister aura.

In truth, Siqin’s features were not unattractive, but from forehead to neck, an abnormal network of capillaries protruded unnervingly. Countless blood vessels no thicker than a millimeter sprawled across her face, weaving a grotesque web of blue, yellow, gray, purple, and red. Where the vessels crossed eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, they connected with those extending from her orifices, giving an overwhelming impression that all the blood vessels in her head had mutated.

Ding Jun clearly sensed that although her body was neither tall nor stout, an overwhelming dark force surged within, like violent waves ready to burst through the confines of the square canopy and engulf him.

In that instant, he could not classify her as human but could only say she was a demon, an overwhelmingly fierce and irresistible demonic presence.

How could this be? Ding Jun took a deep breath, focused his energy, and prepared to fight.

“Om mani padme hum!” Pangcuo Jiebu roared deeply. The six-syllable mantra of Tibetan Buddhism echoed throughout the hall, the accompanying wind causing the canopies to flutter wildly. He recited the mantra six times, each more powerful than the last, his breath striking the canopy in front like waves crashing against cliffs, slapping the square canopy with deafening claps.

Ding Jun knew this was the Lion’s Roar of the sacred Sanskrit sound, the essence of Tibetan Buddhist inner power, with the profound effect of awakening the spirit and offering a sudden, enlightening shock—able to guide those lost in confusion back to clarity.

“Oh...” Siqin gasped a third time; her stiffened waist relaxed, and the abnormality in her eyes gradually faded. She slumped, returning to a drowsy, listless state.

Pangcuo Jiebu exhaled slowly and pushed himself up with his hands.

Ding Jun noticed that the spot where he had been sitting was soaked with sweat, rising faint mist visible, indicating the immense physical toll of using the mantra to suppress the demonic aura emanating from Siqin’s body.

“It’s strange—I’ve never seen such a peculiar pregnant woman. When Shi Miaoshou brought her here, he admitted he was at a loss—both traditional Chinese and Western medicine powerless—and begged me to apply unique Tibetan and esoteric methods to save her. I have done my best to neutralize the crisis. Young man, you have seen it all; my strength has reached its limit... Enough. You go over to the wall and check what is beneath the carpet,” Pangcuo Jiebu said quietly.

Ding Jun strode to the wall, reached beneath the four-armed protector deity thangka, and lifted half an inch of the thick felt carpet.

Beneath lay a two-foot square octagonal blue brick. The brick closest to the wall was carved with three crescent moons, each about three inches long from end to end, their concave sides inward, forming a circular pattern. In the center was the Arabic numeral 16. The carvings were ancient, with dark green moss growing in the grooves.

He lifted more of the carpet, but the other blue bricks bore no inscriptions. He knelt down, gently stroking the crescent moons and numbers with his fingers, gritting his teeth to suppress any emotion from surfacing.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Fang Qing appeared beside him without his noticing.

“I’m fine.” Ding Jun closed his eyes and forcibly pushed back tears that had welled in his eyes. Slowly, he smoothed the carpet down, pressed it flat with his palm, and turned back to the canopy.

“I saw it,” he said.

Pangcuo Jiebu nodded. “Seeing it is enough. I have fulfilled the promise I made to someone.”

Ding Jun bowed deeply. “I am ignorant. Please, Master, advise me.”

Pangcuo Jiebu shook his head. “I cannot give you more guidance. That person left the mark there twenty-five years ago and told me that someday a young man named Ding would come here to see those words. That was all. In twenty-five years, I have never lifted that carpet; I do not know what is inscribed. How could I guide you?”

Ding Jun pondered, then slowly raised his right hand to touch his left shoulder, his expression bitter.

After a long pause, he finally uttered two words: “Thank you.”

“Master, may I ask how Siqin’s condition is?” Fang Qing did not forget the primary purpose of their visit.

“She is fine. Please tell Mr. Shi that the baby will be born safely.” Pangcuo Jiebu frowned deeply, his brow marked by a flat, half-inch diameter circular seal.

Fang Qing approached the square canopy hesitantly. “Master, may I try to take Siqin’s pulse?”

Pangcuo Jiebu answered, “You may, but only through the canopy. Do not touch her skin.”

Fang Qing nodded, squatted down, half-kneeling before Siqin, and stretched her right hand’s index and middle fingers through the canopy onto Siqin’s right wrist.

Ding Jun controlled his emotions, suppressing the turmoil stirred moments ago, turning to watch Siqin’s face.

Fang Qing took a full ten minutes to take the pulse. When she stood, her legs were numb and weak, and she staggered backward, caught by Ding Jun.

“What did you feel?” Pangcuo Jiebu asked.

“It’s indescribable... Any pregnant woman should have a dual pulse: one for herself, deep and steady; one for the child, light and lively. But Siqin’s pulse is utterly irrational—sometimes rapid and vibrating like fingers brushing a string, sometimes as deep and cold as a bucket of ice water drawn from an ancient well, chilling to the bone. I even sensed the sound of horse hooves returning on a winter night... an ambush, a deadly battle formation... seductive, myriad dances... thousands of poisonous insects clashing with giant pincers in a gruesome scene...”

Those bizarre images were utterly inappropriate to describe a pregnant woman’s pulse, yet Fang Qing wore a bitter smile, a testament to her sincere perception.

“You are very perceptive, expressing the most obscure pulse symptoms in plain analogy. Very good. Although you have studied esoteric Buddhism under Chisang Jiaco for a short time, your comprehension exceeds that of all the second-generation disciples at Tolin Monastery. Within half a year, Chisang Jiaco will no longer be your master,” Pangcuo Jiebu said.

Fang Qing remained unmoved by this praise, her thoughts still dominated by the strange pulse.

“Master, why is this happening?” she asked.

“To untie a knot, one must seek the person who tied it. All abnormalities arise from the child in her womb. When the baby is born, perhaps the answer will reveal itself. Go back and tell Shi Miaoshou not to worry. Everyone at Tolin Monastery is willing to accompany him through this calamity,” Pangcuo Jiebu replied.

Ding Jun and Fang Qing were equally perplexed, unsatisfied with the explanation.

“That will be all. You may return,” Pangcuo Jiebu said, settling back into his seat within the canopy. His thumbs pressed against the mala beads, eyes closed, lips moving in silent recitation as he counted the beads. Each string held 108 beads, symbolizing the 108 afflictions of Buddhism; each bead slipped through his fingers represented discarding one affliction.

According to Tibetan Buddhist scriptures, only by eradicating all worldly afflictions can a practitioner ascend to higher realms, gaining supreme wisdom, omnipotence, and omniscience without external aids—no tools, no words, no outside force. Judging by Pangcuo Jiebu’s state now, he had not yet reached that stage. Otherwise, he would roam freely across the world, unburdened by possessions, needing neither seclusion nor mala beads to enhance his cultivation.