Chapter Five: Old Dao and Chizan

Qusongjian and Gesang did not return to the north house; instead, they stood in the middle of the courtyard, supporting each other. The light in the dining room was still on, and through the glass window, he could see Baoling’s profile, her chin propped on both hands as she waited.

“It’s nothing, you can go back to sleep,” Guan Wen said.

“But we’re truly afraid. Mr. Guan, if you won’t send her away, we’ll have to ask you both to leave. We’re old now, we just want to live the rest of our days in peace—nothing more. Please, you should go, both of you.” Qusongjian spoke.

Guan Wen knew the old man was extremely stubborn, to the point of pathology—he would not rest until he got what he wanted.

After a moment’s thought, he shook his head with a bitter smile. “I’ll go talk to Baoling. We’ll find a hotel nearby and think of another plan.”

Having spent so much time with the couple, he knew they were honest people—timid, unwilling to cause trouble. There was no need to make the innocent suffer.

Qusongjian and his wife stepped aside, and Guan Wen entered the house.

“What happened? You were gone so long,” Baoling asked. In the lamplight, the flush had faded from her cheeks.

Guan Wen stared at her face. No matter how he tried, he could not, like Le Baiwangjie, see her as the witch others claimed she was. Baoling was a true beauty—her appearance, her clothes, her demeanor—utterly unlike any witch.

“The water in the well turned red, as if the source was polluted. The locals are a bit panicked,” Guan Wen said.

“Environmental protection is truly crucial. Otherwise, this pure land of snow will soon become a nightmare for pilgrims,” Baoling replied.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Guan Wen asked abruptly, recalling the strange incident Le Baiwangjie had described.

Baoling smiled and shook her head without hesitation. “How could I be? Puppies are adorable.”

“It’s not puppies,” Guan Wen explained, pointing outside. “I mean fully grown, fierce dogs.”

Baoling nodded. “I’m a bit afraid, but with you here, won’t you protect me?”

Guan Wen sighed. “We may have to move out. Because… you’re not welcome here.”

Baoling was surprised. “What? I’m not welcome? Didn’t that Tibetan couple seem quite friendly?”

Guan Wen shook his head. “They said some unpleasant things—nonsense, really. Don’t ask too much.”

The light in Baoling’s eyes dimmed. She spoke quietly, “I’ve heard some things too, but please believe me—I’m innocent. I came here with no ill intent, only to chase a dream. But the dream eludes me, and now I’ve brought trouble to you as well.”

“You’ve heard rumors too?” Guan Wen asked.

Baoling nodded. “Yes. They say I carry misfortune, that I’ll bring disaster to Tashilhunpo Monastery. But it’s only the Tibetans outside the monastery who say so—the monks inside have never spoken such words.”

Guan Wen smiled wryly. “There’s no helping it. To the Tibetans, pilgrims from elsewhere almost always seem troubled—because they rarely try to understand outsiders. They care only for their inner faith. Only in this way can the land of snow preserve its simplicity and unique customs, don’t you think?”

This unique, insular character—so unyielding and unworldly—was, in fact, a necessary condition for Tibet’s purity. Since coming here, Guan Wen had truly felt this. It was for that reason he didn’t want to put Qusongjian and his wife in a difficult position.

Baoling thought for a moment, then stood up slowly, giving a wan smile. “I’ll go and pack my things—though there’s really nothing to pack, I never even opened my suitcase.”

They left the dining room together, just as two people appeared at the courtyard gate, walking side by side.

“Excuse me, brother, is this the home of Qusongjian?” asked a polite, broad-faced, middle-aged man.

Guan Wen nodded. The newcomers stepped into the courtyard, glancing at Baoling.

The middle-aged man let out a sigh of relief, nudging the bald young man at his side. They exchanged a look.

“The owner’s in the north house,” Guan Wen said, stepping in front of Baoling.

“No misunderstanding, brother. May I ask—is this Miss Baoling? We’re friends of Gao Xiang’s, sent by him to take care of Miss Baoling,” the man explained quickly.

The young man said nothing, but took a satellite phone from his messenger bag, dialed a number, and handed it to Baoling.

When the call connected and she heard the voice on the other end, Baoling’s delight was evident. “Gao Xiang?”

Guan Wen discreetly stepped aside, not wanting to overhear.

Baoling responded with several exclamations, thanked the caller warmly, and hung up.

“I’m Laodao, and this is Chizan. We’re both good friends of Gao Xiang. I’ve already arranged for someone to look into the key matter—you’ll have answers soon. Gao Xiang should arrive in about three days. Our job is to ensure your safety until then,” the man said, smiling.

Baoling thanked them with a smile. “Thank you. But my friend—Mr. Guan—and I were planning to look for another place to stay, since the owner here doesn’t want us.”

Laodao grinned at Chizan, who nodded and walked toward the north house.

“My friend here is a local, very skilled at communicating with his countrymen. If he’s on the job, nothing can’t be worked out. Please rest assured, Miss Baoling. May I ask, is Mr. Guan your friend? Gao Xiang didn’t mention him on the phone.”

Baoling nodded. “Yes, he’s my friend—a rather well-known painter.”

Laodao’s thick brows twitched. “I remember now—Mr. Guan’s full name is Guan Wen, isn’t it? The famous artist, known within and outside Tashilhunpo Monastery. Many tourists know your name—some even come especially to have their portraits done, isn’t that right?”

Guan Wen, his feelings mixed, was in no mood for small talk. He replied quietly, “You flatter me.”

Since Baoling was now in Gao Xiang’s care, he could withdraw, avoiding any misunderstandings.

In less than five minutes, Chizan returned with Qusongjian and his wife, and nodded at Laodao.

“Uncle, is it alright for my friend to continue staying here?” Laodao asked.

Qusongjian nodded repeatedly. “Of course, of course—she can stay as long as she likes.”

Laodao smiled. “We won’t trouble you for too long—a week at most. I noticed there aren’t any spare rooms, so just lay some bedding in the dining room for us. That’ll do fine.”

Guan Wen secretly admired Laodao’s sharp eye; in just five minutes, he had sized up the entire situation.

Qusongjian and his wife busied themselves, carrying out dog-skin rugs, quilts, and sheets from the north house, preparing bedding in the dining room.

All the while, Laodao’s gaze never left Guan Wen. Though he smiled, his eyes flashed coldly from time to time, sharp as knives—true to his name.

“Mr. Guan, could you help me sketch something tomorrow morning?” Baoling asked with a bitter smile, lightly tapping her temple with her index finger. Clearly, she wished to have Guan Wen use his gifted hand to bring her dreams to canvas.

“Of course,” he replied. He had always enjoyed helping others, and after so much had happened tonight, he was eager to offer Baoling whatever comfort and support he could.

“Thank you, thank you.” The bitter smile deepened on Baoling’s face, her long lashes casting small shadows on her cheekbones.

In that moment, Guan Wen’s heart was gently pierced, as if she were a frail plant, exposed to sun or frost, needing someone to come close and devote a lifetime’s love and protection to her.

So many things in this world cannot be rushed, like a tangle of knots—the harder you pull, the tighter they become. Not everyone can be an Alexander, drawing a sword to slice through confusion. “Miss Baoling, if your troubles run too deep to unravel on your own, you might seek help from the venerable monks of Tashilhunpo Monastery. They have cultivated for years and see the ailments of the mind clearly—perhaps they can help you.” As he spoke, Guan Wen found himself unconsciously taking a step toward Baoling.

Laodao suddenly leaned forward, stepping between them, facing Guan Wen coldly.

“It’s late, Mr. Guan. You should rest now. Chizan and I can handle things here—don’t worry,” Laodao said, his eyes flashing coldly, making it hard for Guan Wen to meet his gaze.

“That would be best,” Guan Wen replied.

“Then please,” Laodao pressed, leaving no room for argument.

Guan Wen nodded to Baoling, then entered his room and closed the door.

Laodao followed, shutting the door behind him and fixing his gaze on Guan Wen.

“Is there something else?” Guan Wen asked, struggling to keep his annoyance in check.

Laodao glanced around the room, lowering his voice. “Mr. Guan, Miss Baoling is Gao Xiang’s girlfriend. Gao Xiang is my friend. So, while Chizan and I are here, don’t try anything inappropriate, and don’t try to create some romantic encounter. I’m reasonable, but my friend Chizan is not. He solves problems in two ways: money in his left hand, a knife in his right. He acts without thinking of the consequences. So do me a favor and don’t make things difficult for me these next three days, alright?”

He rubbed his palms together, the calluses making a harsh rasping sound.

Guan Wen stared him in the face and gave a cold laugh. “Is that a threat?”

He deeply resented Laodao’s preemptive approach. He was a man of letters, not versed in martial arts, but he had a backbone and was unafraid of threats.

“What do you think?” Laodao retorted with a cold smile.

The tension between them thickened the air in the room. Guan Wen had never faced such a situation before, but he could tell that Laodao and Chizan were men of the underworld, not given to reason. If he tried to be tough, he would only suffer for it.

“Don’t worry, I’m just a painter,” Guan Wen replied, holding his temper.

Laodao slapped him on the shoulder and let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you, brother. I said it—Gao Xiang is my friend. I won’t let anyone make him a cuckold.”

Guan Wen snorted. “You do think a lot of your friends. Don’t worry—I won’t embarrass you.”

Laodao backed out of the room, grinning and nodding. “That’s good, that makes things much easier.”

After this encounter, Guan Wen felt as if a wad of dirty cotton were stuck in his chest, aching and oppressive.

He turned off the light and lay down, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. His mind churned with images: the murder in front of the Maitreya Hall, the dying Duoji Rinpoche, the dreadful blood surging in the well. And, of course, he remembered Baoling’s invitation—to rise early and calmly help her render the confusion in her heart.

Suddenly, a low, muffled horn sounded in his ears, lasting half a minute, repeating three times. Then came the shouts of countless men: “Charge! Kill! Charge! Kill!” Behind the cries, he heard the thunder of galloping horses, the clash of blades and spears. All these sounds merged into a mighty torrent, battering his eardrums.

During this tumult, he saw nothing—only heard the sounds, sweating in anxiety yet unable to open his eyes.

Abruptly, he awoke to find himself still lying in bed. Outside, sunlight filled the world.

What was that? A nightmare? It sounded like a brutal war. Why would I dream of such things? Was it really because of Baoling? His thoughts collided in confusion, until he laughed at himself. What nonsense. Baoling was nothing like what the Tibetans said.

He left his room and saw Chizan sitting on the steps outside Baoling’s door.

“Morning,” he greeted.

Chizan lifted his eyelids, nodded slightly in reply, but said not a word.