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Chapter 18: The Ferry
The word burned into Li Xingyuan’s mind like a red-hot branding iron, causing his spirit to spasm. He could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, blood rushing to his brain and bringing waves of dizziness. This wasn’t fear—it was something deeper, more primal.
But he forced himself to calm down, taking a deep breath. The air carried a strange, sweet fragrance—a blend of sandalwood and butter tea.
Old Liu turned around. The face once carved by wind, frost, and gunpowder smoke now appeared serene, almost statuesque. He gazed at Li Xingyuan, his usual sharpness and vigilance replaced by an almost compassionate tranquility.
“Mr. Li,” Old Liu said softly, yet clearly enough for Li Xingyuan to hear. “Do not be afraid. There is no pain here, no death—only eternal peace.”
Lin Song approached as well, his face radiant with childlike joy. “Yes, Mr. Li,” he said cheerfully. “I don’t want to go home anymore. This is home. Look how wonderful it is!”
Li Xingyuan’s heart sank.
These were no longer his comrades. Their bodies remained, but their wills had been assimilated by this strange land.
Instinctively, Li Xingyuan took a step back, searching for something to anchor him—something like the steadfast gaze Old Liu used to provide. But now, he had nothing. He stood alone before them.
“Outsider,” Tenzin Dawa’s expression softened into one of boundless compassion, his eyes slightly lowered, his smile warm and beatific, like that of a Buddha. “What your friends have told you is not the whole truth of the universe. Humanity’s science may be as fragile as a sandcastle, but the universe itself is a gentle ocean—it does not always seek to take lives.”
He clasped his hands together, his demeanor solemn and majestic. “The true cosmos holds both endless darkness and terror, as well as ferries that carry beings to shores of compassion. Come with us, outsider, and you shall find liberation.”
Li Xingyuan stared intently at Tenzin Dawa, disbelief etched across his face.
Run? Fight? Forget about the Buddha-like figure or the Tibetans—even Lin Song alone would overpower him in a fight.
Slowly, Li Xingyuan lowered his hand, searching for something to counter with.
His fingers brushed against something hard in his pocket. As soon as he felt its familiar outline, his tense expression relaxed, replaced by calm resolve.
Without hesitation, he pulled out an entire box of Zhonghua cigarettes.
Looking at the pack, Li Xingyuan’s lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. He opened it, extracted a cigarette, and placed it between his lips.
“Excuse me, Buddha,” he said casually, “can I borrow a light?”
Tenzin Dawa seemed puzzled by Li Xingyuan’s actions. His Buddha-like serenity faltered slightly, revealing a flicker of human confusion.
The cigarette in Li Xingyuan’s mouth lit itself. He took a deep drag—and strangely, despite never having smoked before, he didn’t cough. Instead, he exhaled smoothly.
“I’ve never smoked,” Li Xingyuan said, sitting back down. “When I was young enough to try, I couldn’t afford cigarettes. By the time I could, I’d lost interest.”
He stared at the ember glowing at the tip of the cigarette, shook his head, and flicked it onto the golden-brick floor, crushing it underfoot. “But I must admit, I’ve always been curious about what it feels like. Turns out, it has no taste at all.”
Tenzin Dawa’s face remained impassive.
“I guess it’s because my mind doesn’t know what smoking should taste like,” Li Xingyuan mused aloud. “And you—whatever you are—you wouldn’t know either, right?”
He extended a hand toward Tenzin Dawa. “Don’t just stand there. Have a seat.”
Without protest, the Buddha-headed Tenzin Dawa sat back down. He said nothing, merely watching Li Xingyuan silently.
Tsering Chokyi, Old Liu, Lin Song, and other Tibetans—all froze in place, as if time had paused for them. They remained motionless, locked in their previous poses.
“Though I don’t smoke myself, I always carry a pack of soft-pack Zhonghua whenever I go out. It’s a professional habit,” Li Xingyuan said with a wry smile, using a stick to prod the campfire. “Some of my colleagues carry three different packs in separate pockets, offering different brands to different people. I find that too much trouble, so I stick with Zhonghua for everyone.”
“This trip has lasted too long. Even when rationing carefully, I only have two cigarettes left in the pack.” He pulled out the nearly empty carton. “You know, this is the most desperate I’ve ever felt in my life. Deep down, I think part of me still believed I had a full pack.”
Li Xingyuan tossed the carton into the fire and fixed his gaze on Tenzin Dawa. “Once I realized that, the cracks started showing. Your face—the Buddha’s face—I visited Huguo Temple once during college. That’s the only temple I’ve ever been to, and I got scammed out of two hundred yuan for incense money. I’ll never forget that face.”
“Shambhala is the Tibetan Buddhist paradise. So if such a place truly exists, and if a real Buddha resides here, shouldn’t he have a Tibetan face?”
“Sorry, I’m rambling,” Li Xingyuan said, shrugging apologetically. “I guess I’m just overexcited. You’re the first… uh, if you’ve seen my memories, you’ll understand—strange phenomenon I’ve encountered that I can actually communicate with.”
“If you have time, would you be willing to give me an interview? I might be the first journalist to interview a non-human intelligent being. This could win me several Pulitzer Prizes.”
The figure remained silent, simply sitting and watching Li Xingyuan.
“Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” Li Xingyuan said, not giving the other a chance to decline. Meeting the figure’s gaze head-on, he asked firmly: “What exactly are you? And what is the purpose of creating this illusion?”
Li Xingyuan didn’t know whether he’d receive an answer.
He also knew that if this entity could pull him into this hallucination, it could easily end his life. But still, he wanted to ask.
It wasn’t for any Pulitzer Prize or accolade—it was simply because Li Xingyuan needed to know.
After a moment of silence, when Li Xingyuan assumed he wouldn’t get an answer, the figure finally spoke.
“We are ferries.”
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