Let me tell you another strange story.

Chen Xuehan didn’t know much about Tibet. After serving in the military, he came to Tibet, spending over a year in Naqu and three years in Motuo, but he was merely there, existing. The difficulties of Tibet back then were beyond imagination, but once one adapted, they often found reasons to stay.

Chen Xuehan was no different. His understanding of Tibet was limited to what he had seen, and his reason for being there was simply that he had grown accustomed to it. In his eyes, listing everything about Tibet in words was a form of missing the point. He didn’t need to understand Tibet, because it wasn’t a concept for him; what he liked was the place itself, not its name. He was indifferent to visitors who spoke of reverence for Tibet’s mysterious culture. Why come here? The reason lay in the fresh, thin air, the vast snowy mountains, and the serene, almost heavenly, snow-covered wilderness—not in those extravagant legends.

In the earlier years, he earned a little butter and mutton by occasionally helping locals with short-term work and acting as a porter. After arriving in Motuo, he opened a rundown restaurant. In those days, not many people came to Tibet seeking the meaning of life; most of his customers were military families visiting relatives and border personnel stationed locally.

Motuo is snowbound for eight months of the year, with the treacherous and snowy Muxiongla Mountain. During the months when the mountains are covered in heavy snow, there were very few customers. He lived alone in the back hall of the restaurant, and that kind of tranquility fascinated him. Moreover, very few people disturbed his peace.

He didn’t know where this desire to escape the world came from; perhaps it was because he had dreamed as a child of standing on top of a snowy mountain, experiencing an extraordinary calm, which led him on this pursuit.

However, not every year could he enjoy such tranquility. That winter was an exception.

That winter seemed particularly long. Chen Xuehan couldn’t even remember what month it was; he only recalled that it had snowed continuously for three days. When he got up to shovel snow that morning, he saw a lama standing in front of his restaurant.

This was a lama from Jila Temple, apparently named Zaji, who had shared a drink with Chen Xuehan in the past. Jila Temple was a lama temple on the snowy mountain. When he was a porter, Chen Xuehan often went there and was familiar with the lamas in the temple. It took half a day to get from Jila Temple to his restaurant. At that time, the sky was just beginning to brighten, and the snow had not yet stopped. Zaji was covered in ice flowers, clearly having descended the mountain during the night. Even a lama familiar with the mountain roads would find it extremely dangerous to come down at night in heavy snow, and Chen Xuehan suspected something must have happened that forced him to come down urgently.

The lama seemed to have exhausted all his strength, standing there unresponsive. Chen Xuehan asked him in somewhat awkward Tibetan what was wrong.

The lama didn’t answer him; he simply said, “Please give me something to eat, anything will do. I have to keep going.”

Chen Xuehan asked him, “Where are you going?” The lama replied, “I’m going to Mapu Temple.” Mapu Temple is a large temple outside Motuo. Chen Xuehan was very surprised because crossing the Muxiongla Mountain at this time of year was extremely dangerous. Even with a compelling reason, one should wait for the snow to stop and find someone to go with, otherwise it was easy to encounter small avalanches, not to mention that many mountain paths were already impossible to see clearly.

Chen Xuehan let the lama into the house, prepared a few barley cakes for him, and asked if something had happened at the temple. The lama secretly asked him for a few pots of wine before saying, “It’s like this, Master, I need to go to Mapu Temple to tell them that the guest has returned.”

Upon hearing this, Chen Xuehan felt it was quite strange: “Guest? What guest? Where did this guest come from?”

In this season, how could anyone possibly enter Motuo? Moreover, going to a temple on a snow-covered mountain made it even more peculiar. The lama shook his head, wrapped the barley cakes in his cloth, and said, “I heard from the Master that the guest is from the snow mountain. I don’t really know who it is.”

The lama’s Tibetan had a strange accent, which sounded odd to Chen Xuehan. Zhaji must be from another place, sent here by his parents to become a lama. Although Jila Temple is not considered a large temple, the lamas there are well-known wise men in the area, and many people send their sons to this temple in the snow mountains to learn great wisdom.

A guest from the snow mountain might be a euphemism; many of the lama’s words are obscure and difficult to understand, containing deep meanings. Chen Xuehan knew that discussing temple matters would be beyond his comprehension, and asking more questions would be impolite. So, he helped the lama pack his bundle, placing the wine and food inside.

According to his habit, he accompanied Zhaji for a while, helping him carry the bundle, which is also a way of paying respect, even though Chen Xuehan did not believe in Buddhism. He enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere that came with this practice.

The snow had lightened a bit, and in the distance, the Doxiong La Mountain was a pure white, blending into the gray-white clouds above, creating a scene that stirred the heart. They did not speak, listening to the sound of crunching snow as they walked for an hour. The lama stopped, and Chen Xuehan couldn’t help but ask if it would be more appropriate to find a few villagers to go with him.

The lama smiled at Chen Xuehan and shook his head, saying, “Don’t worry, I will be fine.” He spoke with a serene demeanor; although he was very tired, his heart was filled with joy. After saying this, he bowed to Chen Xuehan, indicating a farewell.

Chen Xuehan returned the gesture, but felt a bit puzzled about what had happened at the lama temple that allowed this young lama to show such a tranquil expression.

He became somewhat distracted, quietly watching Zhaji leave, when suddenly, the young lama turned back and said something to him. He did not understand what it meant. That sentence was scattered in the falling snow. By the time he wanted to catch up, the lama had already disappeared into the white snow, as if he had never existed.

These two events occurred in places thousands of miles apart; however, the secrets within these two events, when elaborated, are utterly astonishing. What kind of connection is there between the ancient underground tombs of the Central Plains and the visitors in the snowy regions of Tibet that others do not know? The greatest mystery hidden behind Chinese history will be unraveled because of this opportunity.