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After breakfast, Li Xingyuan finally enjoyed a deep and restful sleep—a rarity in recent times.
The best kind of sleep is dreamless, where one closes their eyes and wakes up feeling as though no time has passed, all fatigue and unease miraculously lifted. When Li Xingyuan opened his eyes, he felt rejuvenated, as if reborn.
He awoke on a vehicle, a familiar setting for him by now. It wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but neither was it the worst.
When Li Xingyuan woke up, he found himself alone in the vehicle. His heart skipped a beat, fearing he might have entered another hallucination or that something terrible had happened to the others. But when he pushed open the door, he saw Lin Song, Old Liu, and the Tibetans gathered around a campfire, chatting animatedly. Relieved, his tension eased.
It was a tranquil night. The moon and stars hung lazily in the sky, each occupying its rightful place. A gentle breeze carried the silvery glow of moonlight, draping the distant fields with a thin veil of pale silver. The scene was so enchanting it made one pause to admire it.
Li Xingyuan remembered falling asleep in the morning. Had he really slept through an entire day?
Old Liu was the first to notice Li Xingyuan stepping out of the vehicle. His face lit up with surprise, and he hurried over in three quick strides, reaching out to steady Li Xingyuan.
“I’m fine,” Li Xingyuan smiled. “I feel great.”
“People who feel great don’t sleep for two days and three nights,” Old Liu replied, inspecting him carefully from head to toe. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Li Xingyuan said, equally astonished. “I slept for two days and three nights?”
How could that be possible? To him, it felt like he’d merely closed his eyes and reopened them.
“Yes, and we couldn’t wake you up no matter what we tried,” Old Liu nodded earnestly. He looked at Li Xingyuan with anticipation. “Come, come. We have something we’d like your opinion on.”
Li Xingyuan was surprised by Old Liu’s enthusiasm. He had never seen Old Liu act this way outside of a mission. Perhaps after spending three days among the Tibetans, even Old Liu had begun to relax.
Old Liu pulled Li Xingyuan toward the campfire. Despite sleeping for so long, Li Xingyuan still didn’t feel hungry or thirsty. He noticed Lin Song sitting with Tenzin Dawa, exchanging cups and laughing heartily. Both men appeared slightly tipsy.
Li Xingyuan took a seat by the fire. Nearby, Tsering Chokyi sat poking at the logs, her copper skin glowing redder under the flickering flames. Sparks rose into the darkness as she spoke in a tone of reverence: “Mr. Li, you’re awake? Tell Old Liu that these flames, this light—it’s all from the divine wind blown by Shambhala. It tells us we are blessed by the gods.”
So this was what Old Liu wanted Li Xingyuan’s opinion on? Li Xingyuan glanced at Old Liu, silently reproaching him: Why argue with a believer about faith?
But Old Liu looked back at Li Xingyuan, his expression serious, clearly wanting to hear his thoughts.
“No,” Li Xingyuan shook his head, patiently addressing Tsering Chokyi. “Burning is a violent oxidation reaction. Energy is released in the form of light and heat—it’s physics… chemistry.”
Cruel as it might seem to Tsering Chokyi, Li Xingyuan decided to side with Old Liu on this matter.
“Physics?” Tsering Chokyi tilted her head, seemingly unfamiliar with the term. “Can physics make mountains grow? Can it reverse the flow of rain from the sky? Can it explain why the Zan gods eat people?”
Li Xingyuan was at a loss for words. He couldn’t explain these phenomena with physics—neither could he, nor could Professor Chen Yancheng, even if he were here.
Though, if Chen Yancheng were present, he might patiently explain that this was a new kind of physics, a truer physics. Given time, he would surely find a way to theorize it.
“Mr. Li, it’s because your Buddha is gone,” Tenzin Dawa’s voice interjected. He joined the conversation, his laughter hearty and unrestrained. “But our Buddha remains. They are on Mount Kailash, soon to emerge.”
Li Xingyuan was taken aback. Before he fell asleep, Tenzin Dawa had claimed not to believe in such things. What had happened during those three days?
“Tenzin Dawa, didn’t you say you didn’t believe in this?”
He scanned the faces of the surrounding Tibetans but found they were obscured by shadows, their features indistinct. Yet he could sense their gazes fixed on him.
“Why shouldn’t I believe?” Tenzin Dawa countered. “Where is your science now? Can it save you? Our faith, at the very least, gives us a reason to keep living.”
A faint unease stirred in Li Xingyuan’s chest. The campfire seemed to burn hotter than before.
Something about the situation felt off. Li Xingyuan turned to Old Liu, only to find Old Liu looking back at him.
Finally, Old Liu spoke: “Faith and science are like race cars on two different lanes, both heading toward the same destination. If science falls behind, perhaps faith can guide us there.”
“Old Liu,” Li Xingyuan said, startled. He hadn’t expected Old Liu to utter such words.
No. Something wasn’t right.
At first, Li Xingyuan thought Old Liu was debating faith and science with Tsering Chokyi. But now it seemed Old Liu had actually sided with them.
Impossible.
Given his understanding of Old Liu, there was no way he would say something like that.
Li Xingyuan stood up, triggering a chain reaction. Almost everyone seated around the campfire rose in succession, including Old Liu.
Old Liu subtly positioned himself behind Li Xingyuan, as if guarding against his escape.
Li Xingyuan noticed this, his throat tightening with bitterness. Had Old Liu betrayed him too?
“Where are we?”
The surroundings had changed imperceptibly. Moments ago, they were in a moonlit wilderness. Now, they seemed to have arrived somewhere far stranger. The ground was covered in silk-like fabric, and coral-like ritual objects grew on massive trees. Birds resembling peacocks perched on the branches, their ruby-red eyes watching intently. The houses appeared to be made of gold, and their proportions suggested giants lived here—the doorways and windows impossibly large.
Tenzin Dawa gazed at Li Xingyuan, his face expressionless. His once copper skin now gleamed like precious metal, exuding an aura of nobility. In a voice resonant with Sanskrit tones, he declared: “Shambhala.”
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