Chapter Fifty-Five: The Rap Artist

Master. Guan Wen bowed deeply with utmost respect.

Master Sangche did not lift his head. He closed the tattered parchment book, remained silent for a while, then suddenly began to chant in Tibetan, his voice wavering and indistinct. All his teeth had fallen out, making his lips whistle and his words unclear.

Guan Wen listened quietly, striving to decipher the meaning of the chant. Roughly translated, it was as follows: The cycle of reincarnation on Mount Niseri turns again and again; those who come, come; those who leave, leave; the dead die, the living live, just like the dust on the prayer wheel is swept away and settles again. The vulture carries away the flesh and blood of heroes, leaving behind only their legend, which floats to Tashilhunpo Monastery, where the chanting of sutras summons his soul...

His singing was muddy and unpleasant to the ear, but as Guan Wen patiently listened, his mind became tranquil, gradually forgetting everything outside.

Master Sangche pointed casually at the felt rug on the floor, indicating for Guan Wen to sit down. Without lifting his eyelids, he continued to sing:

A hero cannot withstand the darkness behind him,
No matter how high he flies, he cannot escape the hidden arrow.
The hero’s blood dyed the cliffs of Mount Niseri,
His beloved became the spoils of his enemies.
History flows like reincarnation,
The songs of bards echo from ancient times to today,
Mourning the souls of the departed, one verse after another...

Guan Wen slowly sat, gazing quietly at Sangche. Master Sangche’s face was deeply wrinkled, his skin sallow and dark, likely from many years without sunlight. His eyes were open, but there was no trace of black pupils—only two patches of lifeless gray.

When the song ended, he reopened the parchment book. He was blind; though he kept the posture of reading, he could not see a single word.

Master. After a long silence, Guan Wen called again.

Master Sangche finally raised his head, gazing vaguely toward Guan Wen.

The teacher called me here. Is there any instruction? Guan Wen asked.

No one needs to summon you; those lost in the cycle of reincarnation will come here on their own, just as sheep chase grass and vultures chase deer. I do not know why you came, nor who you are. When the oil in that jar burns out, I will leave. Sangche muttered to himself.

Guan Wen pondered this, glancing at the large jar—indeed, the butter oil was nearly gone.

He wants to hear the hero’s story, Tsering Dajie said.

He must tell it himself; what others say does not count. You listen to yours, he listens to his. The bard’s song is sung only for the most worthy one. Sangche replied.

The bard is one of the ten unsolved mysteries of Tibet. Among all bards, those who can recite multiple epics often claim to be divinely inspired, saying their stories are gifts from the gods. They insist that as children, they dreamed mysterious dreams, received commands from gods or King Gesar, then suffered a severe illness, during which or after recovery, with the lamas’ prayers, unlocked the wisdom to recite Gesar’s epic. Since then, they could recite the tales. In Tibet, some children who have never been educated, after recovering from a grave illness, can spontaneously recite millions of words of epic poetry—this phenomenon remains unexplained.

Guan Wen bowed devoutly: Master, I am one lost in the cycle. Please guide me and resolve the doubts in my heart.

Master Sangche was silent for a time, then began to hum again. This time, his song was not ethereal philosophy, but a concrete story, woven together as follows—

Once, the prince of the Snow Mountain Kingdom was extraordinarily handsome, immensely strong, and exceptionally wise, bearing the task of slaying the demoness Rakshasa. To gain the power of a hero, he descended the snow mountain, arrived at Shigatse, and apprenticed himself to a high monk at Tashilhunpo Monastery, solemnly swearing to dedicate his life to eradicating demons. Wise men gathered to discuss plans, and the prince agreed to assist the monk in venturing into the bottomless black hole, sacrificing his life to confront the demoness. His beloved, unwilling to part, arranged to meet him one last time at the Cliff of Decapitation on Mount Niseri, but their meeting place became the enemy’s ambush. The prince was bound to an iron pillar, enduring a thousand cuts; his once good brother tore off his mask, instantly transforming into a ferocious demon. The prince died tragically, his beloved vanished into thin air, leaving only the prince’s remains and blood on the cliff. The news reached the Snow Mountain Kingdom, causing national mourning. Seven thousand warriors gathered at Mount Niseri to avenge the prince, but fell into the demons’ trap—all perished. The demons hid in Mount Niseri, awaiting the demoness’s resurrection. The cycle of history turned again and again; no word came from the hero’s descendants. When the well water of Mount Niseri turns red, the day of the demoness’s revival will arrive...

This story connects with Fenghe’s recognition of the Tibetan script and Baoling’s dream, being both a bard’s legendary tale and a true historical event.

Guan Wen remembered that before his first meeting with Master Tree, an incident of red well water did occur. If Sangche’s song is corroborated, perhaps the demoness is reviving even now.

That is the story of the hero’s downfall. Though many believe it mere legend, we know it truly happened on the Cliff of Decapitation. Guan Wen, the pursuit of truth and the eradication of evil is not just a slogan, but a real sacrifice. Are you ready? Tsering Dajie asked in a low voice.

Guan Wen clenched his fists and answered solemnly: I am ready.

Many have said the same, but all disappointed Master Tree, including Bing Qiuhan. I truly worry you will become the second him. Tsering Dajie lifted his head, gazing at the flickering flame of the butter lamp.

There was little oil left in the jar; the flame could extinguish at any moment.

Why? Is it because of Baoling? Guan Wen asked.

Tsering Dajie nodded: Yes.

Master Sangche’s chant rang out again:

A man comes from the east,
His brush carries the soul of the gods.
The sacred tree of Tibet calls to his heart,
On his shoulders lies the mission of the future.
Day after day, he diligently studies painting,
His mandala transforms into a vast world.
He is one step from success,
But he meets a beloved woman.
Her beauty makes him forget everything,
He puts down brush and colors, leaves the courtyard.
They meet on the high cliff,
Their thoughts become like a single snow lotus.
This is a mistake made by heaven,
They cannot control their desires,
Falling in love, unable to extricate themselves.
One dawn, the woman disappears,
The man from the east leaves the monastery.
The man from the east must return east,
Just as the sea’s water becomes a river,
And must return to the sea again...

What about the letter? Tsering Dajie extended his hand.

Guan Wen took out the letter delivered by the young monk and handed it to Tsering Dajie.

This is the final moment—Tsering Dajie whispered, drawing out the letter. Master Sangche’s song tells the story of Bing Qiuhan and Baolizhu. He wandered Tibet for years, witnessing countless joys and sorrows among devotees. Among thousands, he remembers only Bing Qiuhan and Baolizhu’s love. The child in the painting is today’s Basang. Basang is a good man; his original intention was simply to open the portal to the black hole, seeking the greatest breakthrough in his practice.

The blue dragon soars in the southwestern sky,
Its claws and fangs are bared,
But not to bring rain or blessings to the people.
It seeks to break through the peaks of Mount Niseri,
Release the demoness’s black light,
Wherever the black light shines,

People lose wisdom and soul.
I see the hero about to appear,
He will bring down the evil dragon,
His courage unmatched like King Gesar,
His wisdom surpasses three thousand mountain goddesses.
I see all Tibet chanting his name,
The demoness is shattered beneath his feet...

Master Sangche’s chant rose and fell, his palms beating against the side wall, creating a rhythmic sound.

That hero is you, is it not? Tsering Dajie gazed into Guan Wen’s eyes.

Guan Wen felt a little ashamed. He wished to take up the task of eradicating evil, yet found no new clues, feeling lost about the future.

A faint crackling sounded from the lamp wick—a sign that the oil was nearly spent.

Tsering Dajie brought the letter close to the lamp, and the paper, depicting an old and a young, a man and a woman, quickly burned.

Master Sangche, how did the story of Bing Qiuhan and Baolizhu begin and end? Please enlighten me, Guan Wen asked.

Master Sangche replied blankly: What?

Guan Wen repeated the question, Sangche shook his head: I only sing my story.

Guan Wen smiled wryly, understanding the subtext—he would only sing what he had seen, not speculate or reason deeper.

Thus, Guan Wen could only guess and deduce from Sangche’s song, never receive a ready answer.

Master, the black hole has existed for centuries. Without new clues, we can do nothing. Do you remember? Gao Xiang mentioned brute force, wanting to use explosives to blast open the underground portal. Perhaps, that is the last resort. Forgive my dullness; I still cannot grasp the mystery of the black hole. Guan Wen admitted his failure.

Last night, half-asleep, he had exhausted his mind with countless conjectures, all rejected.

That will not work. Tsering Dajie shook his head. Even ton after ton of explosives to flatten Mount Niseri would yield nothing, for predecessors have tried this plan, repeatedly, to no avail.

Indeed, anyone could think of it—Mount Niseri and Tashilhunpo Monastery have existed so long, treasure seekers have tried every method.

I—Guan Wen hesitated, his head splitting with pain. He had long known that to be a hero, one must bear more; heroes have no time for self-pity, always shedding blood, not tears, sacrificing themselves for the world. Should he keep a place in his heart for Baoling? If so, would he never reach the selfless realm of eradicating evil and upholding truth?

Let us go, the time has come. Master Sangche rose, closing the parchment scroll.

Guan Wen’s heart tightened: Master, where are you going?

Tsering Dajie’s expression became desolate: I am Master Tree’s last disciple, entrusted to guard the relic of the firefly. Now, the relic is shattered, the house collapsed, the great tree destroyed—my task is complete, I should leave Tashilhunpo Monastery. Master Sangche and I agreed ten years ago: when the great tree fell, I would wander the world with him, inheriting the bard’s tradition, crossing mountains and rivers, never stopping.

Guan Wen smiled bitterly: But Master, the matter of eradicating evil is unresolved—how can you leave, in good conscience with Master Tree’s teachings?

Tsering Dajie suddenly laughed: You are mistaken. What Master Tree asked of me, I have already fulfilled. In the doctrine of Tibetan Buddhism, a practitioner acts according to his wisdom—neither overreaching nor shrinking back. Just as Master Tree’s wisdom dictated retreat, closure, and secrecy, he unhesitatingly took up his burden, rather than competing with other wise men to enter the black hole.

Guan Wen pondered those words—neither overreaching nor shrinking back—and suddenly understood.

Let us go. Master Sangche reminded them again.