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Chapter 22: The Battle Song
Pasang Dorje stood atop the hood of a vehicle, his Tibetan knife drawn.
The flames of determination burned fiercely in this Tibetan man’s eyes, making him appear far more like a capable leader than Tenzin Dawa at this moment. Waving his knife, he barked commands in Tibetan to the panicked crowd: “Elders, women, and children—move to the center of the convoy! Pray to Buddha and the Bodhisattvas!”
“Warriors of King Gesar! Step forward with me!”
His eyes gleamed with fierce defiance, his face taut with tension, almost resembling a grin.
“Grip your knives and rifles tightly!” He swung his blade, nearly grazing the head of a nearby Tibetan. Casually, he began to sing in Tibetan—a tuneless, raw chant filled with fury and encouragement: “Whose hooves shattered the dawn’s tranquility? It was King Gesar, hero of Drongmo!”
The Tibetans gazed at Pasang Dorje, their panic slightly abating.
Pasang Dorje glared toward the source of the sound, ignoring the reactions of the others. "Dorje" itself meant "Vajra" in Tibetan—he was born a warrior, convinced that he carried the blood of King Gesar. Singing to himself, he continued: “His sword flashes like lightning across the heavens.”
In the distance, the creatures appeared. From afar, they resembled a pack of wolves, but Pasang Dorje had witnessed their devastation of herds before. This destruction was beyond any wolf’s capability. Though the lamas called them Zan gods, Pasang Dorje felt no fear. Adjusting his grip on the knife, he fixed his gaze ahead: “His armor gleams with the brilliance of the sun.”
The Zan gods began to approach. Their running gait was twisted, as if simulating four-legged animals while maintaining a primate-like posture. They moved incredibly fast, kicking up clouds of dust from the barren ground. The strange sounds were their roars—ferocious howls, as though they too sang their own battle hymn.
“Mount Nyenchen Tanglha bows to him,” Pasang Dorje muttered, narrowing his eyes. Raising his rifle, he took aim at one of the charging Zan gods. A skilled hunter, he had little doubt the bullet struck its mark—but it didn’t stop. The creature barely faltered, resuming its run as if nothing had happened.
“Tsk, demons,” Pasang Dorje lowered his rifle and resumed his song: “Lake Namtso sings for him!”
He noticed the three Han men approaching. Two of them weren’t surprising, but even Mr. Li—the frail scholar—had joined them.
“Hey!” Pasang Dorje greeted them, his eyes lingering particularly on Old Liu. With a glance, he could tell Old Liu was a seasoned warrior. After a brief hesitation, he turned to another herder beside him: “Give me your knife.”
The herder handed over his Tibetan blade. Pasang Dorje weighed it briefly before tossing it to Old Liu.
Old Liu caught the knife and offered a word of thanks, but Pasang Dorje paid no further attention. Instead, he continued singing: “The heads of demons roll beneath his feet.”
The Zan gods drew closer. Gasps escaped the lips of the Tibetans—and for good reason. These creatures’ mouths were like dogs’, their ears sharp like bats’. They ran hunched over, arms nearly dragging on the ground. Their skin was rubbery, deathly pale, stretched tight over protruding ribs and bones. Their fur was matted and filthy, exuding an almost visible stench.
Their cacophony grew louder, sounding like eerie cackling. Pasang Dorje spotted the Zan god he’d shot earlier. A gaping wound marred its body, yet it no longer bled. Its faintly glowing green eyes locked onto Pasang Dorje. Even Pasang Dorje’s Vajra-like courage wavered under its gaze.
Ashamed of his fear, Pasang Dorje glared back defiantly: “Release the mastiffs!”
Tibetan mastiffs were the herders’ allies, their weapon against predators when firearms failed. These massive dogs were fiercer than wild wolves, but even they whimpered nervously upon encountering the Zan gods.
“Victory’s banner flutters in his hands!” As Pasang Dorje’s voice rose in song, a volley of rifle fire erupted from the convoy, shrouding the area in smoke. For a split second, the Zan gods’ advance halted—dozens of pellets struck their bodies. One Zan god was hit repeatedly; despite its unnatural resilience, the damage proved too much. It staggered and collapsed to the ground.
But soon, Pasang Dorje and the other Tibetans understood why they had never found these monsters’ corpses at sites of attacks on livestock or people. As the fallen Zan god hit the ground, over a dozen others immediately stopped, eyeing their freshly slain comrade with greedy stares. They pounced, tearing into the corpse.
It was a profane feast. The Zan gods didn’t devour their prey like beasts—they consumed it in an exaggerated, grotesque, and sacrilegious manner, savoring every bite. The sight alone was enough to sap the will to fight from any rational being.
Denied the chance to partake in their companion’s flesh, the remaining Zan gods grew even more frenzied. Emitting yelps akin to canine cries, they charged toward the nearest source of fresh blood—the mastiffs released by the Tibetans.
The initial clash was brutal. The mastiffs’ sharp teeth struggled to pierce the Zan gods’ tough hides. Renowned for their ferocity, the dogs seemed pitiful in comparison. Locked in savage combat, the Zan gods ignored the mastiffs’ bites, instead tearing into their living prey and devouring them alive. They weren’t hunting—they were feeding.
“A-la-so! The hero’s name spreads far and wide!”
Pasang Dorje finished his war song, leapt off the vehicle, and charged toward the Zan gods.
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