That morning, when Wu Aizhen appeared in front of Brother Nyima’s restaurant wearing a white sun hat, white sportswear, and white sneakers, everyone else had already gathered. The “Mara-king” was still dressed in black casual wear, though the shade was slightly lighter than yesterday’s and featured subtle, faint pinstripes. While the style was nearly identical to the day before, the fabric was clearly different. Today, however, the “Mara-king” was wearing sunglasses. As Wu Aizhen approached, she felt a harsh, scrutinizing gaze directed at her from behind his lenses. Seeing Wu Aizhen’s outfit, Nyima chuckled and said, “One in all black, the other in all white—you two make quite the pair.”
Wu Aizhen joked along, “That’s right! That must be why we were meant to travel together.”
The “Mara-king” didn’t laugh; he simply opened the car door for Wu Aizhen with polite formality.
Nyima was driving a Grand Cherokee, and the interior was quite spacious. The “Mara-king” took the front passenger seat, while Wu Aizhen and his daughter sat in the back. Once inside, they all introduced themselves. Wu Aizhen finally learned the names of the father and daughter: Akikawa Yamaguchi and Keiko Yamaguchi.
The road was smooth at the start. As the car quickly sped out of the city, the fields opened up, no longer obstructed by buildings, offering a vast and sweeping view. Brother Nyima was in high spirits; he began reminiscing about his childhood in the Nyingchi region’s cultural troupe, where his singing had won awards and earned him the nickname “The Little Nightingale of Ü-Tsang.”
Upon hearing this, Keiko repeatedly pleaded with Brother Nyima to sing a song.
Without any feigned modesty, Brother Nyima let his voice soar while he drove. To be perfectly honest, Wu Aizhen had never heard such a beautiful Tibetan folk song. Though it was a cappella, his voice was so melodic and enchanting that it would not be an exaggeration to describe it as “lingering in the air for three days.”
Keiko listened as if entranted, tears streaming down her face; one could only wonder what thoughts this exquisite melody had stirred within her.
“Brother Nyima,” she said, “you really should go on one of those national talent shows on TV. With a voice like yours, you’d be a shoo-in for the grand prize!”
“The flowers and the applause are all in the past now. I actually won the junior championship for the Nyingchi region back then. In those days, many girls used to chase after me; that was how I met my late wife.”
“How old were you back then?” Keiko asked.
“Seventeen.”
“And when did you get married?”
“At nineteen.”
“That’s so young!” Keiko exclaimed.
“My wife was a dancer in the cultural troupe; she was also skilled with many instruments. She played the erhu exceptionally well.”
“Was your wife a Han Chinese girl?” Keiko inquired.
“No, she was Tibetan. Dr. Wu, she actually looked a bit like you.”
Keiko’s eyes widened, and she immediately turned her head to study Wu Aizhen’s face with great intensity. Caught off guard, Wu Aizhen felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over her.
“I don’t think Big Sister Aizhen looks like a Tibetan girl at all,” Keiko concluded after her careful inspection.
“Heh-heh,” Nyima chuckled. “Then I suppose it was my wife who looked a bit like a Han Chinese girl.”
“How long did your wife live?” Keiko asked.
“Twenty-three years. After we married, she struggled to conceive for a long time. She prayed to the Bodhisattvas and took traditional Tibetan medicine, and eventually, she became pregnant with my son. But during childbirth, she suffered a massive hemorrhage and couldn’t be saved.”
“That’s such a tragedy. The medical standards here must still be quite poor,” Keiko said, insisting on getting to the bottom of the matter. “Did you never remarry?”
“I never found anyone suitable,” Nyima replied. As he spoke, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, but the “Mara-king” stopped him, gesturing that the ladies in the back shouldn’t be subjected to the smoke. To everyone’s surprise, Nyima complied quite obediently; he simply took a sniff of the cigarette under his nose and set it down beside his seat.
“You’re right! A man as talented and charismatic as you, Brother Nyima—finding a woman who truly matches you would be no easy feat.”
Wu Aizhen glanced at Keiko, impressed by how she had just managed such fluent and idiomatic Chinese.
“It’s not even that. My standards aren’t actually that high,” Nyima replied. “As long as I feel a connection in my heart and she feels the same way about me, that’s enough.”
“And in over ten years, you haven’t found a single girl you liked?”
“I’ve dated a few, but they all fell through. There’s one girl now who works for the district government; she’s quite pretty. But she’s nine years younger than me, and we just can’t seem to get on the same page. Our thoughts and perspectives are just too different. It makes me feel like I’ve grown old.”
“You aren’t old! You don’t look old at all. I bet you’re around the same age as my father,” Keiko interjected quickly.
“I am forty-five this year.”
“Oh, so you’re a few years older than my dad. I think you both look very young,” Keiko said with a clever, endearing smile.
“And what about your son? Did you raise him all by yourself?” Wu Aizhen noticed that as Keiko asked this, she cast a quick, cautious glance at her father.
“My mother and I looked after him together. My mother lived to be a hundred and six before she passed away—a very long life. Brother, do you believe in fate?” Nyima suddenly addressed Akikawa Yamaguchi beside him. Probably unable to remember the man’s tongue-twisting name, he had simply opted for this brotherly address.
“I believe that one’s destiny remains in their own hands,” Akikawa Yamaguchi answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“I accept my fate,” Nyima said. “For instance, the significant people or events you encounter in your life are often things you cannot control or manipulate, yet they can alter the course of your entire life. My son’s ‘Eight Characters’ were in conflict with his mother’s; my wife passed away the moment he was born. I lost my father when I was very young, but my mother was an extraordinary woman, as was my wife. My son, too, is someone with a resilient, forceful destiny—his life is bound to be extraordinary. These three people have profoundly impacted my life, yet none of it was within my power to control.”
“It is true that we cannot control who or what we encounter in life,” Akikawa Yamaguchi said. “However, different people have different attitudes and make different choices when facing those people and events—and that is what changes the ultimate outcome of your life. In my view, a wise man chooses the optimal path; only a fool allows himself to be tossed about and manipulated by circumstance. Oh, I don’t mean to imply that you are a fool.”
“It’s quite alright, please speak your mind,” Nyima replied. “There is truth in what you say. But because humans have feelings and love, we are naturally influenced and swayed by them, almost despite ourselves. That can be very painful.”
“That is likely the common lot of the Ordinary Person,” Yamaguchi remarked. “There is no wrong way to choose when things happen. What matters most is having a firm, unshakable conviction and a personal code for living. If that remains unchanged, then no matter what you do, you will be at peace in your heart, free from worry or fear.”
“To have one’s own conviction and code of life, and to follow them with such unwavering resolve without being swayed by the tides of common sentiment—such people are rare indeed!” Wu Aizhen interjected.
“Are you familiar with the spirit of Bushido—the Way of the Warrior?” Akikawa Yamaguchi asked.
“I know a little about it,” Wu Aizhen replied.
“A Japanese samurai lives his entire life bound by an unyielding set of convictions and codes of survival. He will never allow himself to be swayed by his family, his wife, or his children. If there is a conflict between these personal ties and the spirit of Bushido, and he cannot bring himself to sever them, it is considered his greatest disgrace.”
“But surely even a samurai has moments of tenderness? Even the fiercest beast shows affection for its young.”
“That is merely human weakness,” Yamaguchi said. “A samurai regards Bushido as his very life. If he cannot live according to its laws and convictions, then he is already dead. Human weakness has no power to shake the fundamental laws of existence.”
“Then, what exactly do you consider to be the fundamental law of Bushido?”
“Devotion!”
“And what is the object of this devotion? Is it God, a specific individual, or some unseen, mysterious power?”
“In the past, the Japanese samurai were devoted to His Majesty the Emperor; in times of war, they were devoted to their commanding officers. In the game of life’s rules, one is devoted to their superiors or the interests of the collective—even to one’s own consistent code of survival and path of life and death.”
“Devotion is the very soul of the samurai; the object of that devotion is actually irrelevant,” Yamaguchi replied. “There is no absolute right or wrong in this world. As a student of philosophy and the Buddhist law of Cause and Effect, you should understand this: absolute ‘Devotion’ in itself can forge a kind of wisdom. It is a state of total loyalty and lack of doubt, which allows the mind to have no hindrances, facing death with perfect composure.”
“For a Japanese samurai, this ‘Devotion’ is infused into his life from childhood; he grows up alongside the ‘Gods.’ Even the sword he carries from a young age possesses a ‘Sword-Soul’—it is sacred, inviolable, and a part of the samurai’s own soul. When a samurai commits seppuku to uphold the honor of Bushido, that blade—the representative of his soul—enters his abdomen, the most sacred core of life. You are aware, I presume, that the Navel Chakra is the birthplace where the embryo first begins to develop. When the blade pierces it, the samurai’s soul merges with the Divine, becoming one. And that Divine presence grows out of the samurai’s own qualities—his endurance, his devotion, and many others. It begins to grow alongside him from the very first breath he takes. Therefore, a true samurai is a ‘God of War’.”
“Brother, there is some truth in what you say,” Nyima chimed in. “I may not understand Japanese Bushido, but I am inclined to agree that ‘Absolute Devotion’ can indeed forge a kind of wisdom. In the Tibetan Vajrayana tradition, absolute devotion to a Guru’s commands is also a path to receiving Blessings and attaining Realization. In the tantric chronicles, there is a story of a famous master who ordered his disciple to leap off a cliff. Without a moment’s hesitation, the disciple jumped and was shattered to pieces. The master immediately used his supernatural powers to bring him back to life, and because of his total ‘lack of doubt,’ the disciple attained great realization. There is another tale of a master who subjected his disciple to inhuman austerities and intentionally created countless hardships; the disciple completed them all without a single word of resentment or regret, thereby gaining immense power of blessing and spiritual attainment.”
“How can the ‘Devotion’ to a Guru in Buddhism even be compared to the devotion in Bushido?” Wu Aizhen challenged. “In the two examples you just gave, if I recall correctly, you are referring to Guru Tilopa and his great disciple Naropa, and Guru Marpa with his disciple Milarepa. First and foremost, these masters were already Realized Masters; they understood their disciples’ paths to enlightenment perfectly, and those disciples themselves were individuals of extraordinary Spiritual Capacity. Everything a Guru does is intended to shatter a disciple’s Clinging or to purify their Karmic Obstacles. Without that, a disciple could never attain realization through such ‘Devotion.’ The objects of a samurai’s ‘Devotion,’ however, are rarely representatives of ‘Perfect Wisdom.’ Therefore, a samurai’s absolute devotion can never lead to true wisdom. From what I understand, a true Japanese samurai must possess qualities like benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and sincerity. I believe that if a samurai, possessing these virtues, devoted himself to the path of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, a deity with the nature of a Bodhisattva would grow alongside him, creating a ‘God of War’ with a Bodhisattva’s character. But if a samurai with perfect qualities devotes himself to the ‘dark side’—to laws or orders of survival such as a war of aggression—what then? When a samurai obeys a commander’s order to slaughter the defenseless, imagine the cost: if he truly possesses those noble virtues, he must first kill himself. He must murder the Truth, Goodness, and Beauty within his own heart before he can raise a blood-drenched blade. He would have to become numb, perverted, or driven mad. Otherwise, how could he find the heart to harm fellow human beings with whom he has no grievance—people who, in past lives, may have been his very own mother, father, wife, or child? A superior with bloated personal desires can turn a virtuous samurai into an inhuman demon through ‘Devotion.’ This is the greatest tragedy of the warrior. He may die a magnificent, tragic, or aesthetically ‘beautiful’ death, but in the realm of humanity, his death is worthless. It cannot achieve the wisdom of having no hindrances, and he can never be a ‘God of War’—only a blind killing machine.” Wu Aizhen spoke these words with a slight surge of emotion, her tone losing its usual composure. Both Akikawa Yamaguchi and Nyima fell into a contemplative silence.
“Wow! That’s it! Your analysis is absolutely brilliant,” Keiko suddenly exclaimed. “I only knew that Japanese Bushido was founded by a Zen master. Since it originated from Buddhism, then universal love and Compassion should be its consistent spirit. How could that ever be reconciled with the slaughter carried out by a warrior? You’re right! A samurai ought to follow certain virtues, much like the Precepts in Buddhism. Such a warrior would surely be a person of deep feeling and integrity, possessing a Bodhisattva’s unwavering spirit of devotion within that very ‘feeling and integrity.’ He has heart, he has honor, but he does not live for himself—he lives for the glory and conviction of the samurai. And that glory and conviction should represent the most beautiful and noble side of humanity; only then is he worthy of being called a ‘God of War.’ Big Sister Aizhen, have you ever seen the cherry blossoms in Japan?” Keiko’s bright, intelligent eyes sparkled with a cheerful light.
“No, I haven’t,” Wu Aizhen replied.
“Japan’s cherry blossoms are breathtakingly beautiful; they are often used to symbolize the samurai,” Keiko said. “Once they bloom, they immediately begin to flutter down from the trees, swirling through the air in a magnificent spectacle. When I see them, I think of the samurai’s devotion and their heroic sacrifice. It’s as if those pink petals carpeting the ground are the very souls of the warriors.” As Wu Aizhen looked into Keiko’s eyes—pure as still water—she seemed to actually see those fluttering blossoms. They bloomed only to return, to cast themselves toward the earth in order to repay the soil’s kindness. In that fleeting moment, Wu Aizhen thought of the Bodhisattva.
“The cherry blossom represents conquest and blood,” Akikawa Yamaguchi interjected suddenly. “Sometimes, cruelty is a form of beauty in itself.”
“Only those on the Path of Mara would say such a thing,” Wu Aizhen replied, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “In the Realm of Humanity, true beauty forever rejects coldness and cruelty.”
“Wow! You guys speak as if you’re reciting poetry!” Keiko said naively, trying to smooth things over.
“Indeed! Being a good person is simply about suppressing evil and promoting virtue,” Brother Nyima added with a touch of simple wisdom.
Nyima first took them to visit a monastery of the Bon religion. On a stone terrace at the monastery’s entrance, a large, crudely carved wooden phallus stood prominently. Wu Aizhen knew little about the Bon tradition. Keiko, on the other hand, appeared utterly surprised, curious, and excited, circling the object to take photographs.
“Does this form of worship originate from ancient totemism?” Akikawa Yamaguchi asked.
“I once read a legend about phallic worship in Hinduism,” Wu Aizhen remarked casually. “It was said that a group of ascetics was practicing in the jungle. They were progressing well and believed themselves to have attained liberation; they were devoted followers of Brahma. However, Shiva felt that their hearts were still burdened by deep-seated Aversion. To guide and transform them, Shiva manifested as a handsome yogi to seduce their wives. Enraged, the ascetics fell into a fit of jealousy and hatred; they banded together, brutally beat the charming yogi, and castrated him. At that moment, the yogi vanished, and the entire universe began to tremble. Only then did the ascetics realize it had been Shiva himself, appearing in that form to enlighten them. From that day forward, they began to worship the phallus. I wonder if this allusion shares any connection with the phallic worship found here in the Bon religion.”
“Bon has always been this way,” Nyima added. “The worship of the male phallus is likely connected to themes of power or procreation.”
“That was a very intriguing story you told.” Akikawa Yamaguchi ignored Nyima’s interjection, appearing to be deeply lost in thought, still weighing the implications of Wu Aizhen’s tale.
Upon entering the main hall, they found several deities of the Bon religion enshrined there. Both Keiko and Nyima offered their bows of worship. Wu Aizhen, meanwhile, made a slow circuit of the hall, meticulously examining each statue one by one.
Akikawa Yamaguchi, however, remained at the entrance. Standing with his arms folded across his chest, he cast a cold, sweeping gaze over everything inside the hall.
After the tour of the Bon monastery concluded, Nyima urged everyone back into the vehicle, mentioning that they still had to visit a scenic area and the drive would be somewhat long.
By the time they reached the scenic area, it was already noon. After sharing a simple lunch in a small restaurant, they began their ascent. The path was not difficult, consisting of well-maintained stone steps. Brother Nyima had even gone out of his way to find a guide to explain the sites to Keiko. Keiko was a whirlwind of activity—rushing back and forth to take photos, asking questions, and jotting down notes. The scenic area was filled with strangely shaped peaks and unusual rock formations, each accompanied by its own legend, which the guide recounted in great detail as they walked.
Akikawa Yamaguchi walked unhurriedly at the very rear, his heart weighed down by a slight, inexplicable heaviness. For reasons he himself could not fathom, he had no heart for the scenery. On the surface, this trip to Tibet was meant to accompany his daughter and strengthen their bond. In reality, however, he had come seeking a place of solitude to reflect deeply on certain matters.
The Japanese “Sakura Party” (Cherry Blossom Society) was a political and social organization with a long history; by the time it reached him, it was already in its thirteenth generation. It was said that the founder was a samurai who strictly adhered to the spirit of Bushido, but by this current generation, it had evolved into a world-renowned Underworld Organization. Since childhood, he and his two older brothers—both his paternal half-siblings—had undergone rigorous training in the organization’s strict codes according to their father’s will. As his father’s illegitimate son, he felt a deep reverence and love for his father, but he harbored a profound distaste for his mother, whom he perceived as sinister, cruel, and fickle. His father, showing no prior symptoms of illness, had suddenly died of a heart attack in his private chambers. He had always suspected his mother’s involvement, believing she had orchestrated a grand conspiracy in his father’s death, though he had never found concrete evidence. He suspected his father had been assassinated, executed with a technique so subtle that it left no trace. In a long-standing will, his father had chosen him as the successor. His two brothers subsequently departed for the United States and France. Now, the Sakura Party’s web of influence spanned the globe; in Japan, his organization had permeated everything from the Imperial Family and members of Parliament to the common citizenry. His words and actions carried immense weight. Yet, because of this, he was subjected to constant surveillance and restrictions from all sides. Certain government officials utilized his organization to carry out their agendas, while simultaneously remaining perpetually on guard against him. Nevertheless, he knew that with his current strength, no one dared to touch even a single hair on his head.
Two matters had been weighing heavily on his mind lately. The first involved Keisa Yamaguchi, a subordinate who had followed him for fifteen years and was also his only true friend. Keisa had committed a fatal error during an arms trafficking deal—an error grave enough to demand seppuku. Yet, Akikawa was unwilling to let Keisa die this way. He found himself torn between the rigid codes of the organization and the bonds of personal loyalty. This very hesitation was already a violation of his lifelong principles. The second matter was Keiko’s insistence on going to Macau to see her mother. Keiko had never met her mother in all her years. At twenty-two, Akikawa had married Keiko’s mother, Masako Yamajima. Shortly after the wedding, however, he discovered a love letter written to Masako by another man. Although the letter predated their marriage, Masako had kept it hidden away, a fact that severely wounded his pride. He became consumed by the suspicion that they were still in contact. Since Masako was pregnant at the time, he waited until Keiko was barely a hundred days old before demanding a divorce. When he later heard that Masako had indeed returned to that man after their separation, his suspicions were confirmed. Rage and Aversion ignited a murderous intent within him. He could not tolerate the thought that after he had offered genuine affection and taken a woman as his wife, he had received only a heart of deception and betrayal in return—all while he had “foolsihly” fathered a child with her. At that time, having already succeeded his father as the leader of the Sakura Party, ordering the deaths of two people would have been as easy as crushing two ants. It was Keisa Yamaguchi who had dissuaded him then, arguing that if he intended to raise his daughter, he must not kill her mother—regardless of the reason—lest he face his daughter’s hatred in the future. Furthermore, Masako had caught wind of the danger and fled with the man to settle in Macau. Only then did he cease his pursuit.
When Keiko was a child, she had asked him about her mother on more than one occasion. Each time, he told her that her mother was dead. Those among his subordinates who knew the truth understood his taboos and would never dare speak of it to her. However, as Keiko grew older, she stopped asking her father; somehow, from an unknown source, she discovered that her mother was still alive. On this trip to China, Keiko had suddenly proposed going to Macau to see her. Yamaguchi suspected that it was his own mother who had told Keiko; only that woman would have the audacity to do such a thing. As these thoughts surfaced, a sliver of Aversion rose in his heart.
Keiko had pleaded with him, saying she only wished to see what her mother looked like, as she had never even seen a photograph of her to this day. She spoke of how she knew her father was omnipotent and how much she loved him, hoping he would grant this one wish as her nineteenth birthday approached. Yamaguchi found himself at a loss for how to refuse his daughter. Perhaps due to his advancing years, he had grown increasingly fond of her company. Fulfilling this wish for her was not a difficult task in itself; however, doing so would fundamentally violate the principles that had governed his actions for a lifetime.
Perhaps another reason was that, during this recent period, Keisa Yamaguchi’s blunder had not only offended a criminal syndicate in the United States but had also embroiled a Hong Kong triad leader with whom Akikawa had shared a long-standing alliance. This had forced him to expend every ounce of his energy to resolve the crisis. Now that the storm had finally subsided, the ordeal had left him with a lingering sense of weariness toward the underworld life. He was exhausted by the relentless chess game of cold-blooded cruelty that defined human interaction in his world. He felt a sudden, profound urge to release himself—not through the company of women, but by traveling with his daughter. This bond of blood-kinship, coupled with Keiko’s innocence and simplicity, acted as a balm, loosening the overwrought strings of his soul. To his own surprise, he felt a genuine impulse to do something meaningful for her.
“Papa, would you take a photo of Auntie Wu and me?” Keiko suddenly held the camera up to his face. He took the camera. Wu Aizhen and Keiko stood beside a pavilion—a simple structure lashed together with wooden poles. Beyond the pavilion lay the picturesque distant mountains, white clouds, and patches of grassland—the quintessential scenery of the Tibetan Plateau. For many years, he had rarely had the chance to hold a camera and take a photo for someone else. While framing the shot, he watched Wu Aizhen affectionately tidy Keiko’s windblown hair and collar before pulling the girl close by the shoulder. This small gesture suddenly struck a chord deep within him. Wu Aizhen was smiling; it was a smile of profound detachment and tranquility, radiating a wisdom that seemed entirely removed from worldly strife. Under the gaze of this woman in white, Akikawa Yamaguchi suddenly forgot about fame and fortune; he forgot the schemes and power plays; he forgot his own high-ranking status. He regressed—or perhaps progressed—back into an ordinary man. He was simply a man taking a photo for two women, doing what any ordinary man would do, and hoping for their approval. He had never experienced such a feeling before. As he handed the camera back to his daughter, a trace of surprise and a strange sense of reluctance flickered within him. Even Keiko glanced at her father in astonishment. Could it be that something truly profound was about to happen?
They had already reached a mountain summit. The guide was introducing the landscape, pointing out a rock that looked like a veiled maiden from afar, and another that resembled the Bodhisattva Guan Yin. Keiko and the others flocked toward the sights with great enthusiasm, while Nyima stood nearby, chatting with two local Tibetans. Akikawa Yamaguchi sat alone, quietly, atop a large bluestone.
Before he had decided to come to China, he had visited a well-known Feng Shui master in Japan. This master was proficient in the I Ching (Book of Changes), the Eight Trigrams, and the arts of Yin-Yang and Numerology. Akikawa often went to the master’s place to talk; he didn’t entirely believe in divination or fortune-telling, but rather sought a space to recalibrate his state of mind. Conversing with the master helped him relax, allowing his heart to settle in that unique atmosphere. At that time, the Feng Shui master had smiled and said to him, “Yamaguchi-kun, your face shows the ‘Peach Blossom’ radiance (signs of romance), and between your brows, there is a reflection of the sun and moon in alignment. On this trip to China, you may encounter a stroke of romantic fortune.” Hearing this, Akikawa had couldn’t help but burst into laughter, thinking the master was talking utter nonsense. He had asked, “Since when did a Feng Shui master turn into a physiognomist?” The master had only smiled mysteriously and replied, “Heaven’s secrets must not be revealed.”
Even now, whenever Akikawa Yamaguchi recalled the master’s prediction about a “stroke of romantic fortune,” he couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly. Since his divorce from Masako, romantic encounters had been a constant in his life. He vaguely remembered the significant number of women who had shared his bed, yet few left any lasting impression on his mind. Toward women, he harbored a persistent, inexplicable sense of hatred and contempt. He toyed with those who surrendered to his masculine charm, loathing their perceived lack of intellect and their superficiality. As for those drawn to his money and power, he viewed them as mere harlots; whenever the opportunity arose, he would strip away their pride and dignity until they were metaphorically naked. In his eyes, they were soulless husks of flesh, existing solely for his games and the gratification of his desires. He played however he wished, and no woman dared—nor were they worthy—to raise an objection. There had been a few women whom he initially considered intelligent and worthy of respect. However, he found that as soon as emotional issues surfaced, these women became dim-witted, clingy, and pathetically weak. He could not tolerate women who were overly infatuated. He would seduce them, then torment them, watching them wither away from pining without feeling a shred of pity. To him, such women were far too dependent on their emotions; at best, they were merely a collection of narcissists. They believed their own feelings were so paramount, so deserving of care—or they were simply naive children who hadn’t yet been “weaned.” He considered them lucky to have met him; perhaps his coldness and his games with their hearts would finally help them “grow a tooth” in the realm of emotion, granting them enough insight to avoid being deceived again in the future.
However, for a long while now, he had practiced abstinence. On one hand, he felt a profound disdain for engaging in intimacy with mediocre women. One day, it had suddenly dawned on him how truly noble and exalted he was; those women who acted like foxes, slid like snakes, or donned the guise of gentle sheep were simply unworthy of his touch. As for the pure and straightforward ones, they lacked the intellectual and spiritual weight to command his respect. It was often said that even heroes find it hard to resist the charms of a beautiful woman—but to him, such “heroes” were merely common mortals at best. Yet, had he truly transcended the mundane world? Not quite. It was simply that, in his eyes, a true beauty—one worthy of his stature—had yet to be found.
Since yesterday, however, he felt he had finally encountered a woman of true substance. From the moment he sat down in the restaurant the day before, a sense of restless agitation had washed over him; he felt as though something had disturbed his equilibrium. Relying on the icy composure forged through years in the underworld, he maintained an air of nonchalance as he casually ordered food for his daughter. Yet, his mind was vigilantly scanning the room. When his focus finally landed on that plain-looking Chinese woman sipping tea, he was secretly stunned! There was an effortless poise about her, a profound tranquility in her every movement—as if she were a solitary soul drinking tea in a mountain valley under a clear breeze and a bright moon. Her state of being, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, was not born of arrogance or disdain for others; rather, it was a focused “one-pointedness,” a level of cultivation where one looks straight ahead yet perceives everything with absolute clarity. He had often heard of enlightened masters dwelling in the Himalayas, but this woman appeared so ordinary. Then, he suddenly caught the sound of her sigh. It was incredibly faint, yet he was certain he heard it—a sound echoing from the depths of her heart. Immediately, his heart relaxed, and the sharp edge of his vigilance softened. She is but a woman who still sighs, he thought, what is there to fear? And yet, he remained haunted by the question: exactly what was it about this woman that had managed to breach his formidable composure?
“Papa, don’t you like it here? It’s such a beautiful place!” (Japanese: “Tousan, koko ga suki ja nai ka? Konna ni utsukushii tokoro na no ni.”)
“I like it,” (Japanese: “Suki desu yo.”) he replied.
Yamaguchi looked up to see Keiko, camera in hand, skipping toward him with a playful bounce. Behind her followed Wu Aizhen and Nyima, who were deep in conversation about something.
“Brother, it’s time to head back. It looks like rain,” Nyima said, glancing at the sky. Though it was still relatively clear, a few dark clouds were gathering in the west. As they made their way down the mountain, the rain began to fall—a light drizzle at first, before they even reached the parking lot. But once they were all settled inside the vehicle, the very thing Wu Aizhen had feared came to pass: the engine wouldn’t turn over. The car had broken down. Nyima grew visibly frustrated. Outside, the rain suddenly transformed into a torrential downpour, as if a hole had been ripped in the heavens. Water surged down like a bursting dam. Beyond the windows, the world turned into a vast expanse of white, where the earth and sky merged into a veil of mist and water. Nyima patted the steering wheel helplessly, giving Akikawa Yamaguchi an apologetic smile. “This is how it is. There’s nothing to be done—the rain here always comes on this fiercely. We can only wait for it to stop. I thought I had fixed the car yesterday.”
“It’s no problem. Let’s just wait a bit until this heavy rain passes,” Akikawa Yamaguchi said, consoling Nyima.
Keiko pressed her face almost flat against the car window. “Wow! This rain is incredible. When Brother Nyima said it was going to rain, I didn’t quite believe him. It’s a good thing we headed down early; otherwise, we would’ve been soaked to the bone.”
“Not necessarily. There are several places to seek shelter along the mountain path,” Wu Aizhen said earnestly to Keiko, her tone like that of someone speaking to a young child. Akikawa Yamaguchi shifted his body slightly, leaning back gently against the seat.
Ten minutes later, the rain abruptly tapered off. The scenery outside the windows began to regain its clarity, though large, sparse droplets continued to pelt the glass with rhythmic thwacks. Unable to wait any longer, Brother Nyima dashed out and popped the hood to inspect the engine. He returned shortly, his shoulders slumped in dejection. Opening the door, he addressed the passengers: “A part is broken and needs replacing. I called my friends at the repair shop; they said the mechanic won’t be able to get here until tomorrow morning. I’ll have to stay here overnight. If you want to head back, you’ll have to wait and see if any acquaintances pass by and can give you a lift to Nyingchi. There are no taxis here.”
“Are there no repair shops nearby?” Keiko asked, her voice tinged with disappointment. “Do you think you’re in Osaka?” Nyima replied, his tone somewhat curt. Keiko pursed her lips and fell silent. Akikawa Yamaguchi remained wrapped in a steadfast silence.
Just then, the guide from earlier came jogging over, holding an umbrella above his head. “Miss, Sir, are you staying here tonight? The guesthouse over there is very cheap—only thirty yuan a night, and there’s hot water for a shower.” The guide, a very sharp and clever Tibetan boy around twenty years old, went by the name of Tashi.
Keiko’s spirits lifted the moment she saw Tashi. Nyima glanced at Akikawa Yamaguchi inside the car and said, “Brother, how about we head over to the guesthouse first, get a room, and take a rest? If a vehicle passes by, we can leave. If not, we might just have to spend the night here.” Akikawa Yamaguchi nodded his agreement.
Upon entering the guesthouse, they discovered that the conditions were rather poor. Though the beds in the rooms were reasonably clean, the entire establishment was permeated with a pungent, gamey odor of mutton.
“Are there any better hotels nearby?” Akikawa Yamaguchi asked Tashi, even as he was already preparing to check in. By the look of it, he knew full well that his question would yield no favorable results. “No, this is the only one. It’s already very good,” Tashi replied with absolute certainty.
Akikawa Yamaguchi booked two single rooms, one for himself and one for Nyima. Keiko suggested that she stay with Wu Aizhen, explaining that it would be the perfect opportunity to ask her “Sister Aizhen” some questions, and adding that the place made her feel insecure and a bit too frightened to sleep alone. Wu Aizhen, of course, did not refuse. Yamaguchi smiled at Wu Aizhen and said, “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
Upon entering the guest room, Keiko dropped her backpack and left with Tashi, eager to check out a Buddha statue he had recommended at the guesthouse’s tourist shop. Wu Aizhen chose to stay behind. She lay down on the bed, but the pungent, gamey odor of mutton in the room made her deeply uncomfortable. Getting up, she cracked the window open a bit to let in some fresh air.
For over a decade, Wu Aizhen had maintained a primarily vegetarian diet. In Buddhadharma, abstaining from meat is said to nurture a practitioner’s compassion; furthermore, when meat-eaters practice meditation, their energy channels (qimai) become weighed down by turbid energy, making purification difficult. However, this principle applies strictly to the cultivation of supramundane meditation (Lokuttara Samadhi). Her master had taught her that there is also mundane meditation (Lokiya Samadhi), which primarily fosters the concentration of a “non-discriminating mind” and the compassion of “non-self.” At this stage of realization, diet exerts little influence on one’s heart and inner energy. After she began practicing Vajrayana, she chose to follow conditions adaptation—eating meat when meat was served and vegetables when vegetables were available—though her personal preference still leaned heavily toward vegetarian food. During this trip to Tibet, since she was practicing a secret method passed down by her master, she would occasionally, intentionally consume some beef or chicken. This was to replenish the energy rapidly depleted during the opening of her chakras when her consciousness was not yet sufficiently spacious and ethereal. Yet, the gamey odor of mutton remained unendurable to her. It appeared that her discriminating mind was still quite heavy.
Keiko returned, beaming with joy. In her arms, she cradled two Buddha statues and a pair of Tibetan silver bracelets that were reasonably well-crafted. The bracelets were inlaid with imitation agate and turquoise.
“Auntie Aizhen, this is for you,” Keiko said, holding one of the bracelets up before Wu Aizhen.
“Thank you, it’s quite beautiful,” Wu Aizhen replied, taking the bracelet. She didn’t have the heart to tell Keiko the truth. On the street stalls of Lhasa, a bracelet like this would cost twenty yuan at most. Keiko had undoubtedly been ripped off by that shop.
“Keiko, how much was each bracelet? I’ve heard that shops in tourist hotspots like this specialize in ripping off outsiders,” Wu Aizhen said tactfully.
“Heh, I’m an absolute master at bargaining,” Keiko bragged, using jargon she had picked up from who-knows-where. “You know what? He asked for eight hundred yuan for this bracelet, but I only gave him two hundred!”
Wu Aizhen was left at a loss for words. “You truly are a master at bargaining,” she replied, slipping the bracelet gently into her personal bag as she spoke.
“Auntie Aizhen, look,” Keiko said, arranging the two statues on the tabletop. They were two small, copper Buddha statues, each about three inches high. “This one is the ‘Deity and Consort in Union’ (Yab-Yum). It represents the most flawless love in the world—the most sacred and perfect union of spirit and flesh,” Keiko introduced, pointing to one of the statues. Wu Aizhen burst out laughing and asked, “Who told you that?” “Tashi did. He only said it represented love, but I figured that if it’s the love between a divine Father and Mother Buddha, then it must be the most sacred and perfect union imaginable. Is my interpretation correct?”
Wu Aizhen smiled, remaining noncommittal. After a brief pause, she said, “In the practice and realization of Tibetan Buddhism, this statue represents the wisdom and spiritual attainment of the ‘Non-duality of Emptiness and Bliss’.”
“Is this ‘Non-duality of Emptiness and Bliss’ achieved through human sexuality?” Keiko pursued curiously.
“It can manifest through any action, and that certainly includes sex,” Wu Aizhen explained. “However, this ‘Emptiness-Bliss’ occurs exclusively between a Yidam—a Vajra master—and a Dakini. It does not exist within the mundane passions and lust of ordinary mortals.”
Keiko paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on the statue. She softly muttered the names Vajra and Dakini to herself. Then she said, “Tashi called them the divine Father and Mother Buddha.”
“That is also an acceptable way to put it,” Wu Aizhen replied.
“No matter what, it is still an act of intimacy, regardless of who it occurs between,” Keiko insisted, her eyes locked stubbornly on Wu Aizhen. “I believe the intimacy between the divine Father and Mother Buddha must be profoundly sacred. It isn’t something we ordinary mortals can fathom with our worldly desires. Since it is a sacred act of intimacy, it must naturally be born from a sacred love.” It was clear that Keiko was absolutely determined to link this deity statue—which inherently symbolized the Bodhisattva’s wisdom and spiritual attainment—with human, romantic love. Because it touched upon the esoteric mysteries of Vajrayana, Wu Aizhen found it impossible to explain things to her too deeply at that moment. She simply smiled and kept her silence.
“I want to give this Buddha statue to my father. He is so lonely, and I wish for him to have a perfect love,” Keiko said, cradling the small icon in her hands and examining it closely.
“What kind of work does your father do?” Wu Aizhen inquired.
“A lot of girls are infatuated with my father,” Keiko replied, avoiding the question entirely—perhaps intentionally dodging Wu Aizhen’s probe. “But many women are terrified of him. One of my teachers, Auntie Mayumi, was utterly infatuated with Papa. She used to buy me gifts all the time just to fish for information about him, saying that if Papa never remarried, she would remain single her whole life. Yet, she didn’t even have the courage to go on a date with him. In truth, Papa is a very good person. I just don’t understand why they are all so afraid of him—even my grandmother is afraid of him.”
“This Buddha statue is ‘Daheitian’ (Mahakala),” Keiko said, setting down the first icon and pointing toward the other one, which bore a wrathful expression.
“In Japan, Daheitian is associated with wealth and good fortune. But this particular statue is sculpted quite differently from the ones we have back home. I’m sure my grandmother would love it; I remember seeing her enshrine a statue of Daheitian once.”
“Keiko, both you and your father speak such excellent Mandarin. Where did you learn it?” Wu Aizhen asked.
“Nanny Minghui, the woman who raised me, was my father’s nanny when he was a child,” Keiko explained. “She’s originally from Shanghai, China. Her Chinese is exceptional, and she’s a devout Christian. Both Papa and I learned our Chinese from her. She never married, devoting her entire life to raising Papa first, and then me. This other bracelet is actually a gift for her.” Keiko gave her wrist a little shake, rattling the bracelet she wore. “But Papa’s Chinese is still better than mine. My English is better than his, though, and I can even speak the Shanghai dialect.”
“Ngo zy Zaung-he-nyin (I’m a Shanghainese),” Keiko said in flawlessly accented Shanghainese, bursting out the phrase and causing Wu Aizhen, who was lying on the bed, to break into a hearty laugh.
“Keiko, what about your mother?” Wu Aizhen asked. She was not typically one to pry into other people’s private family matters, but Akikawa Yamaguchi had left her with an incredibly peculiar impression. That black hole capable of annihilating everything constantly loomed over her mind. Before learning his true name and identity, she preferred to refer to that force of his as the “Demon King.”
“Papa said she died, but I know she’s still alive,” Keiko said outright, her voice brimming with certainty. It seemed as though she was answering Wu Aizhen’s question, yet it also felt as if she were repeating it to herself, reinforcing her own conviction.
“Oh,” Wu Aizhen murmured, pursuing the matter no further. The endless grievances and entanglements of the human heart were perhaps best left unquestioned; after all, they were never things that could be easily untangled in a sentence or two.
Keiko went out with the Yab-Yum Buddha statue. A short while later, she returned, bubbling with joy, and said to Wu Aizhen, “Papa really likes it! He even asked me what ‘the Non-duality of Emptiness and Bliss’ means. I told him I didn’t know, that you were the one who told me, and that he should ask you himself. It looks like my wish is about to come true!”
Wu Aizhen replied, “It is wonderful that your father likes it. It represents your love for him; it is a token of your devotion. What the statue itself symbolizes is no longer that important.”
“Auntie Aizhen, I feel like the way you speak is always so unique; you always manage to speak right to my heart. I truly like you so much. Can we stay in touch and be good friends forever? You won’t forget about me, will you?”
“I won’t. You are so lovely, how could I ever forget you?”
“Wow! That’s wonderful!” Infused with sudden excitement, Keiko lunged forward to embrace Wu Aizhen, who was still lying on the bed, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. Wu Aizhen felt slightly uncomfortable with this Western style of emotional expression. Nonetheless, she simply patted Keiko’s back with maternal tenderness, much like a mother soothing her own playful daughter.
Keiko lay down on her own bed, her bond with Wu Aizhen clearly growing closer by the minute. She opened the floodgates of conversation, chatting freely with Wu Aizhen about anything and everything—religion, love, family, morality, and beauty. Yet, she remained completely tight-lipped about her father’s profession. She brought up how her father refused to let her see her mother, and at this point, she grew sorrowful. “Papa always refuses to admit she’s alive, but the truth cannot be hidden. I don’t understand why he has to do this. I only want to know a bit about her, to just see what she looks like. This wouldn’t affect my love for Papa in the slightest; it wouldn’t change anything at all. “I grew up under Nanny’s care since I was a child. Nanny was a woman of few words, and her face was always ice-cold. She taught me English and Chinese, but aside from that, she rarely interacted with me. I was a bit afraid of her. And then there’s Grandmother; her relationship with Papa is strained. When she was in a good mood, she was very affectionate toward me, but when she was in a bad mood, she would scold me harshly—her emotions were incredibly volatile. When I was little, I could never quite figure out whether she actually loved me or not, but I loved them all anyway. Papa can be very fierce with others, and on the surface, he is very strict with me too, but he has never once yelled at me. I’m not afraid of him; sometimes, I can read the look in his eyes…” Keiko rambled on, seemingly talking to herself.
At first, Wu Aizhen engaged in a sincere exchange with Keiko, but as time went on, she found herself listening in a daze. Her head grew increasingly heavy, and she felt as though she were coming down with a cold. She pushed herself up, pulled out some cold medication from her bag, and swallowed a few tablets. Seeing her take the medicine, Keiko instantly sat up, watching her with deep concern and asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Just then, Brother Nima called everyone to dinner in the guesthouse dining room. Roasted legs of mutton, roasted lamb chops, and massive platters of grilled meat were brought to the table, while Wu Aizhen and Keiko sipped butter tea. Lacking much of an appetite, Wu Aizhen ate only a little. Akikawa Yamaguchi and Nima ordered highland barley wine, both praising the authenticity of the grilled meats. There were few guests in the dining room, and the owner of the guesthouse had just returned. Being an acquaintance of Nima’s, he, along with the tour guide, Tashi, joined the dinner gathering. It was then that everyone learned the owner’s name was Jemying, and he was Tashi’s older brother. Within moments, Keiko was chatting excitedly with Jemying, her mind brimming with endless curiosity and questions about Tibet.
During the meal, Wu Aizhen felt a sudden tightness in her chest, prompting her to take several deep breaths in spite of herself.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Akikawa Yamaguchi asked, adopting a seemingly casual tone.
“Papa, Auntie Aizhen has a cold,” Keiko chimed in.
“Have you taken any medication? You must look after your health. Could it be a lack of oxygen? I have a small bottle of oxygen in my bag.”
“My chest does feel a bit tight,” Wu Aizhen said with a slight smile. “However, I’ve already taken some medicine, so it’s nothing serious.”
Having broken his composure with the alcohol, Akikawa Yamaguchi’s face was slightly flushed. He looked far less stern and distant, displaying instead a rare touch of gentleness. When he looked at someone, his gaze drifted a little, as if shrouded in a layer of mist under the dim light, appearing deeply affectionate.
For a split second, Wu Aizhen’s heart was actually jolted by his eyes. She caught herself thinking that the man before her was incredibly striking, possessing a quiet warmth that harbored boundless strength. Yet, the moment he began slicing the meat with his knife, the sheer, hyper-focused intensity of his posture exuded an unmistakable aura of cruelty and lethal menace. Wu Aizhen couldn’t help but break into a cold sweat, thoroughly startled by her own fleeting moment of infatuation.
After dinner, both Wu Aizhen and Akikawa Yamaguchi prepared to return to their rooms to rest. Keiko, however, wanted to stay behind a while longer to chat with the Tibetan men. Nima patted his chest and assured Akikawa Yamaguchi, “Brother, rest assured. It’s still early. Let her have her fun; I’ll escort Miss Keiko back myself in a little while.”
Akikawa Yamaguchi found himself in no position to object. The rooms were all located on the second floor. As they passed his doorway, he stopped in his tracks and said to Wu Aizhen, “Come into my room to use the oxygen. Coming down with a cold while deprived of oxygen makes recovery very difficult.” Wu Aizhen agreed.
Yamaguchi’s room was a single, featuring not only a double bed but also a set of semi-worn sofas and a tea table.
Wu Aizhen seated herself on the sofa while Yamaguchi placed his backpack on the bed and searched for the oxygen canister. It was a portable, tourist-grade cylinder, holding roughly enough for a thirty-minute session. He thoughtfully set up the oxygen tubes for her. Upon inhaling the oxygen, Wu Aizhen felt the tightness in her chest visibly ease.
“I feel much better, thank you,” Wu Aizhen said gratefully.
“No need to be polite. Lean back against the sofa and rest a bit. Leave once you’ve finished the oxygen; I’m in no hurry to sleep.”
As he spoke, Akikawa Yamaguchi shut the open window. “It’s raining again.” The rain pattered loudly against the windowpane, and Wu Aizhen felt a sudden nip in the air.
Yamaguchi sat down on the sofa directly opposite Wu Aizhen. Folding his arms across his chest, he fixed his gaze upon her, staring at the oxygen-inhaling Wu Aizhen with unmitigated intensity.
Just then, Nima’s singing drifted up from downstairs; it seemed he was putting on a performance once again. Akikawa Yamaguchi closed his eyes, appearing to listen to the ballad as it mingled with the sound of the rain. The room’s lighting was somewhat dim, casting its glow onto the dust-laden, mottled walls. The Tibetan night was quiet—extraordinarily so.
Suddenly, a familiar piece of music reached Wu Aizhen’s ears—it was the Tibetan version of the Great Compassion Mantra (Mahakaruna Dharani), sounding very much like Tashi’s voice. Tears instantly welled up in Wu Aizhen’s eyes. “Little Shramanera,” she called out silently in the depths of her heart.
Akikawa Yamaguchi suddenly snapped his eyes open. Seeing Wu Aizhen’s face covered in tears, a flicker of astonishment crossed his features.
“What is it?” His voice was thick and gentle, yet his body remained absolutely motionless, leaned back against the sofa.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Sometimes, remembering certain people or events from the past brings a touch of sorrow,” Wu Aizhen said, wiping her tears away.
“Is it longing?”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Longing… that is a peculiar feeling,” Yamaguchi murmured. “I have often wanted to long for something, but I never have.”
“Then do you not even have memories?”
“Memories?” Yamaguchi paused, falling into a quiet reflection as if searching for something. “A man’s memories contain far too much desolation, hatred, and fear.”
“Those are your memories; they do not represent all men. A man’s memories should also hold gentleness and love.”
Yamaguchi froze. He fixed his gaze intently on Wu Aizhen, a complex expression washing over his face. His eyes burned with an intense, searing heat, suddenly charged with a raw, predatory desire.
Wu Aizhen harbored the intention to take her leave, but Akikawa Yamaguchi leaned forward slightly, placing a hand briefly on her arm to restrain her. “Miss Wu, I am sorry,” he said. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. Please finish the oxygen, and would you stay to converse with me a while longer? You are a woman of immense wisdom, and I admire you deeply. Though I have been drinking, my mind is entirely clear.”
Wu Aizhen seated herself back in her original place.
“Keiko yearns deeply to see her mother,” Wu Aizhen said, shifting the topic. Her instincts as a psychological counselor prompted her to cut straight to the chase. She reasoned that when conversing with a man like Akikawa Yamaguchi, it was best to speak one’s mind directly; perhaps, in doing so, she could do Keiko a favor.
“Did Keiko discuss something with you?” Akikawa Yamaguchi asked with remarkable composure. His face was entirely brightened by a smile, and his voice did not quiver in the slightest. Wu Aizhen was actually caught somewhat off guard; she had anticipated this to be a highly sensitive topic, expecting Yamaguchi to be triggered or at least show some form of reaction. However, she had overlooked the expression in his eyes. As he spoke, his gaze grew dark, and from the very depths of his eyes, a venomous malice began to seep through.
“Keiko told me that you informed her that her mother had passed away, yet she heard from others that her mother is actually still alive. Why hide the truth from her? Could you tell me the reason?”
Driven by her professional habits as a counselor, Wu Aizhen erroneously assessed this as a mere emotional tragedy; she simply wanted to help Keiko untangle this bitter deadlock between her parents.
“Did Keiko ask you to come and question me?”
“No.”
“Then you are far too curious. You ought not to recklessly pry into the emotional life of a strange family. Such conduct is hardly a demonstration of wisdom.”
“I only wish to help Keiko. She is so lovely, and I hope a girl as sweet as her can experience a mother’s love,” Wu Aizhen countered, standing her ground. “Moreover, she merely desires to catch a glimpse of the mother who gave her birth. A request like that is one that even a heart of stone would grant.”
“She is dead! She was a whore! Even if she were alive, she is not worthy of being visited by anyone carrying the bloodline of our Yamaguchi clan!” Yamaguchi retorted, his tone turning fiercely venomous, sending a bone-chilling shiver running straight through Wu Aizhen.
“Very well, Miss Wu. We should both get some rest,” Akikawa Yamaguchi said, issuing his dismissal. The oxygen happened to run out at that exact moment. Wu Aizhen said nothing more; she politely bid Yamaguchi goodnight and took her leave.
Upon returning to her room, Wu Aizhen felt an overwhelming drowsiness wash over her, likely an effect of the cold medication she had taken. She hurriedly washed up and went straight to sleep. She had no idea what time Keiko finally returned, but in her hazy, semi-conscious state, she heard Keiko calling her name. Opening her eyes, she saw Keiko standing by her bedside. “Auntie, are you suffering terribly? I heard you groaning.” As Keiko spoke, she placed her hand onto Wu Aizhen’s forehead, only to snap it back instantly, her face turning pale with sheer alarm.
“Auntie Wu, you’re running a high fever!” Keiko cried out. She dashed into the bathroom immediately, returning with a cold, damp towel to lay across Wu Aizhen’s forehead.
Wu Aizhen could hear her own labored wheezing. Her chest felt as though an immense boulder were pressing down on it, leaving her suffocating and gasping for air. A violent, splitting headache racked her skull, making it difficult even to open her eyes.
“I’m going to tell Papa,” Keiko said as she rushed out. Wu Aizhen no longer possessed the strength to stop her.
Akikawa Yamaguchi entered the room. He tested Wu Aizhen’s forehead with his hand, noted her heavy, ragged breathing and her deeply flushed face, and murmured softly, “This doesn’t seem to be a simple cold.”
“Papa, please help Auntie Wu,” the kind-hearted Keiko pleaded, on the verge of tears.
Yamaguchi appeared to fall into brief reflection before walking out. In a short moments, he returned with Nima following close behind.
Nima stepped up to Wu Aizhen’s bedside and assured her, “Hang in there, it’s going to be alright. Just endure it a little longer—a vehicle will be arriving shortly to take you to the hospital.”
Nima stood up once more and turned to Akikawa Yamaguchi, marveling, “You’ve got some incredible connections, brother. And those friends of yours are something else—coming all this way in the dead of night just to help you pick someone up.”
Akikawa Yamaguchi offered a faint smile, his eyes fixed on Wu Aizhen with a trace of anxiety. She appeared to be grievously ill. With no one in the mood for lighthearted banter, everyone could only sit in silence and wait. Keiko continued to help lower Wu Aizhen’s temperature with the cold towel. “What time is it?” Wu Aizhen asked weakly. “Midnight,” Keiko replied. She had already helped Wu Aizhen into her clothes.
The moment Akikawa Yamaguchi caught the sound of the vehicle pulling up, he surged to his feet, strode over to the bedside, and scooped Wu Aizhen up into his arms in one swift motion; not a soul expressed the slightest astonishment at his action. Throughout the agonizing wait for the cars, everyone’s heart had been heavy with worry. Keiko and Nima picked up the luggage they had already packed. Outside the guesthouse, two black Hummers sat idling in the dark. Yamaguchi carefully placed Wu Aizhen inside one of the vehicles, then turned back to Nima and said, “You stay behind. Return tomorrow once you’ve fixed your vehicle. If I need any assistance, I will reach out to you.”
“Brother Nima, please don’t worry. Papa and I will take good care of Auntie Wu,” Keiko assured him.
As Nima watched the two vehicles speed away, vanishing into the pitch-black night, riddle after riddle began to surge within his mind.
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