Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Hidden Memories in Baoling’s Mind

Master Sky Eagle did not answer immediately. Instead, he parted the crowd and walked toward the drawings that Guan Wen had traced on the ground with his dagger.

From another corner of the courtyard, someone suddenly cried out, “I see it! I understand!” It was Bao Ling’s voice. Guan Wen’s heart lurched, and he turned involuntarily in her direction.

Bao Ling stood beside Gao Xiang. She seemed to want to rush over, but Gao Xiang had encircled her with his left arm. She struggled several times but could not break free.

“Guan Wen, I saw something in her dance—” Bao Ling called out, but Gao Xiang immediately covered her mouth.

Everyone followed Master Sky Eagle toward the drawings, but Guan Wen stood still for several seconds before resolutely heading toward Bao Ling. He knew well he would face the cold glares of Gao Xiang, Old Dao, and the others, but he still made this choice.

“Hey, this doesn’t concern you.” Old Dao leaped forward, blocking Guan Wen’s way.

“Let her speak,” Guan Wen said loudly, his gaze passing over Old Dao’s shoulder to fix on Gao Xiang.

“That’s our own business. Go away!” Old Dao barked out harshly.

“Nothing here belongs to any one person. Please step aside. I must go over.” Guan Wen’s voice was firm.

“Get lost! Move! Now!” Old Dao grabbed Guan Wen by the collar, yanked him forward, hooked his leg, and with the deftness of a Xi herdsman’s wrestling move, flung Guan Wen aside.

As Guan Wen was about to hit the ground, he heard Bao Ling’s alarmed cry: “Don’t touch him! He doesn’t know martial arts—”

Does she care about me? Is there a place for me in her heart? He could not help but wonder, a bittersweet feeling stirring within him, tinged with a hint of delight. By worldly standards, he was no match for Gao Xiang—in physique, reputation, status, or connections—but what did that matter? As long as he held a place in Bao Ling’s heart, it was enough.

In the end, Guan Wen did not fall, for someone appeared from the side, bending swiftly to catch and steady him.

It was Bai Mohe, the mysterious master—still as a maiden at rest, quick as a startled hare in motion.

“Get out of the way, don’t provoke us!” Old Dao was startled but maintained his fierce tone.

“Let Bao Ling go and let her speak,” Guan Wen insisted, unfazed by Old Dao’s violence, his eyes fixed on Bao Ling.

“Brother, do me a favor—don’t cause trouble here.” Gao Xiang, pulling Bao Ling forward and pushing Old Dao aside, spoke with double meaning.

On the surface, the words were for Old Dao, but Gao Xiang’s cold, warning stare made it clear the message was for Guan Wen.

“Let her speak,” Guan Wen repeated.

“Let her say what? Who do you think you are—” Old Dao sneered, but before he could finish, Bai Mohe lunged, locking both hands around Old Dao’s neck, silencing him completely.

Bai Mohe moved so quickly, so ghostlike, that no one else had time to react.

“Don’t be rude to him.” After three or four seconds, Bai Mohe released his grip and stepped back, his voice low and bleak.

Old Dao coughed violently, clutching his throat and doubling over in pain.

Gao Xiang’s expression changed, a twisted sneer appearing at the corner of his mouth. “So, you’ve got a bodyguard with you, brother?”

Ignoring him, Guan Wen turned to Bao Ling. “Just now, you said you understood something. Can you tell me now?”

Bao Ling cleared her throat and spoke softly, “I feel that woman’s dance always follows a circular path.”

She broke free from Gao Xiang’s grip and walked up to Guan Wen. Her eyes, dark as grapes soaked in icy water, were fringed with long, trembling lashes.

“What does that mean?” Guan Wen gazed into her eyes.

“When choreographing a dance, every performer must sketch the footwork path on draft paper in advance. Other movements—hands, body—must follow the prescribed route, not move at random. Spectators see only the dancer’s elegant form, never realizing that every step forward or back follows a pattern. This law of dance has been passed down since the Han dynasty, almost scientific in its precision, unchanged for thousands of years. I watched her route carefully—it’s clearly a floor plan—”

“Really? During her dance, I saw glimpses of scenes deep underground. If we connect them to the route, perhaps we can uncover the secrets!” Guan Wen felt even more enlightened by Bao Ling’s words.

“But I still feel as if we’re missing something,” Bao Ling frowned, glancing toward Master Sky Eagle, who claimed enlightenment—perhaps he, too, had seen something in the dance?

“Master Sky Eagle is Nepal’s foremost sage, unmatched in insight. Don’t worry, Bao Ling, I’ll contact him. Together, we’ll study this and surely reach a satisfactory conclusion,” Gao Xiang interjected.

Bao Ling looked back at him. “That would be best. But for now, I’d like a word with Mr. Guan, if you don’t mind?”

Gao Xiang laughed, “Of course, of course, I don’t mind at all. Please, go ahead.” Yet as he spoke, his gaze toward Guan Wen was as sharp as twin daggers, glittering with jealousy and resentment.

“May we go to your studio? I’d like to see those drawings,” Bao Ling said.

The two skirted the crowd on the square and walked along the corridor by the wall to the studio.

“I keep feeling as if someone is watching from the shadows. It’s a chilling sensation,” Bao Ling said anxiously, raising her collar.

“But Master Sky Eagle has revealed himself. If there’s a watcher, it must be him—who else could it be?” Guan Wen replied, puzzled.

“It’s not him… Master Sky Eagle is proud, not murderous. Do you remember the thief who died in front of the Maitreya Hall at Tashilhunpo Monastery? Ever since then, I’ve felt watched—as if a great vulture hovers over a flock of sheep, with death ready to swoop down at any moment. That’s why I want to tell you these things, so I can be at ease, unburdened, and free of pressure.”

They entered the studio and softly closed the door, shutting out the commotion.

The drawings still lay stacked on the desk. Bao Ling hurried over, flipping through them one by one.

“These are all ‘memory caches’ from Feng He’s mind. Under the combined influence of the Crimson Flame Master, the Relic, and the Mani Stone, those images surfaced in the void and appeared before my eyes. I then captured them on paper, as if I were a camera or a photocopier,” Guan Wen explained.

He used the vague phrase “surfaced in the void,” because he could not be sure whether those visions appeared before his eyes or within his heart. In any case, he received and quickly recorded them, nothing more.

“Your skill is extraordinary—truly admirable. I’d heard of great artists who could ‘paint whatever they imagine,’ but now I see it with my own eyes,” Bao Ling praised, her gaze finally resting on the painting of the solitary peak.

Guan Wen’s heart quickened, for Feng He had said the woman suffering humiliation in that painting was Bao Ling herself.

“What is depicted here?” Bao Ling asked.

Guan Wen continued, “In Feng He’s memory, that man was hacked to pieces, his flesh fed to eagles.”

Bao Ling murmured in acknowledgment, her finger moving across the painting to rest on the woman.

“Here… a tragedy is about to unfold… but, but the final outcome…” She raised her arms, clutching her head, and, ignoring Guan Wen’s astonished look, sank into deep thought.

“Have you remembered something? Do you know that woman?” Guan Wen asked gently.

“I don’t know… Since birth, my mind has been haunted by a jumble of images… I need a darkroom—only in absolute darkness can those things become clear. Help me find a darkroom, help me paint those things—please…” Suddenly, Bao Ling closed her eyes, trembling all over like a lost lamb.

Sensing her intense fear, Guan Wen immediately went over and gently embraced her shoulders.

Her trembling passed into him. He slowly drew her into his arms, inhaling the faint scent from her hair.

“Don’t be afraid—those are just phantom images; they can’t hurt you,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t be afraid. I’m always here… I’ll protect you…”

He lowered his head until his nose brushed her cool hair. At that moment, Bao Ling suddenly looked up. By chance—an accident of fate, as quick as lightning—their lips met.

“I think I should—” Bao Ling was speaking as she tilted her head back; but as their lips touched, her words broke off.

Her lips were as sweet and fresh as the morning mist of spring, lingering only a tenth of a second, covering only the area of a fingertip—yet Guan Wen was intoxicated, as though he had drunk an entire jar of eighteen-year-old nuerhong wine. From head to toe, from lips to hair to fingertips, he was utterly overwhelmed.

A voice roared in his mind: She is perfect! She is perfect! I am in love with her…

Startled, Bao Ling stepped back, bumping into the desk.

Guan Wen stood, arms still raised as if embracing, his vision swimming with golden stars.

“To touch a hand among a field of flowers leaves my sleeve scented for three years,” two lines of poetry suddenly drifted through his mind.

Bao Ling’s eyes remained closed, but her face was filled with obvious confusion.

“I’m sorry,” said Guan Wen, regaining his senses and apologizing immediately.

“Don’t speak… don’t speak… Just give me a darkroom…” Bao Ling murmured.

Guan Wen instantly locked the door, then turned off the lights.

The studio darkened, but light from the fires outside slipped through the door crack, splitting the darkness inside with an orange line.

“I can still sense the light,” Bao Ling said.

A floor-length black velvet curtain hung by the door. Guan Wen pulled it across, blocking the crack. Finally, the studio was pitch black.

“Listen carefully. I’ve told these things many times, yet some parts grow fuzzier. Maybe the next time I try, I won’t remember them at all. Listen, help me paint them—I want to know, in those dreams, who am I, really?” Bao Ling’s voice was soft and distant.

Though he knew Bao Ling could not see, Guan Wen nodded vigorously.

He sensed vaguely that Bao Ling was leaning against the desk, hands braced behind her, head bowed deeply like a bird overcome with weariness. Her posture made his heart ache, yet he could do nothing more; between them still stood someone named Gao Xiang.

That momentary brush of lips was not truly a kiss, yet it sent his heart soaring like a lonely cloud in the highest heavens, and swimming free like a fish in the deepest abyss. With that touch, his soul—like parched earth under sweet rain—suddenly awakened, and all the memories of hundreds, thousands of lifetimes surged back.

In those memories, too, there seemed to be a woman like Bao Ling—by his side, in his embrace.

“Are you ready? I’m going to begin,” Bao Ling said.

In the darkness, her voice carried a nasal heaviness, which only made her words sound more ancient, as if they had endured a thousand ages.

“Yes,” replied Guan Wen.

And then began Bao Ling’s narration—

It began in boundless, unfathomable darkness. An ancient voice spoke slowly: “The floodwaters were vast. Gun stole the Emperor’s self-renewing soil to dam the flood, acting without imperial command. The Emperor ordered Zhu Rong to execute Gun at Feather Mound. Gun gave birth to Yu, and the Emperor charged Yu to harness the earth and bring order to the nine provinces…”