Chapter 105

On the Napudi River, the pale blue mist drifts.

This is Xiang Feiran’s third morning in the Chitwan rainforest. From today, he will venture deeper into the forest along the Napudi River with his guide.

“Wait for three more people,” the guide and his assistant push a wooden canoe into the river from the shore.

The water makes a couple of splashes, and at five o’clock before sunrise, it feels lonely. The boat floats into the water, and the two men work together to secure it with ropes around wooden stakes. A few crocodiles float on the river’s surface, resembling rotting wood. Although the guest is a botanist sent by higher authorities and appears to have considerable outdoor experience, the guide still offers a cautionary note: “Don’t get too close to the shore. Do you see those crocodiles?”

Xiang Feiran sat on a rock by the riverbank, nodding at the guide’s words while the pen on his notebook moved smoothly and incessantly.

Compared to other hikers or consultants who come to explore the forest, Narayan, the guide, found him quiet, focused, and always scribbling away on his notebook and iPad. He showed neither excitement nor fear in this potentially dangerous situation; he appeared remarkably at ease and relaxed.

If one were to say he had rich outdoor experience, Narayan had seen many, and it didn’t seem true because no outdoor worker had such a complexion. The assistant had even switched to Nepali to ask if this young Chinese man was really a UN expert.

A quarter of an hour later, a couple from Bangladesh arrived. They were forest enthusiasts dedicated to exploring and filming documentaries about species conservation. Shortly after, a monk in a red robe emerged from the misty depths of the green forest.

With everyone gathered, Narayan, his assistant, and another guide checked the supplies and transferred them to a second canoe.

To distribute the weight, they divided into groups, with Xiang Feiran and the monk sharing one boat.

They communicated in English until the monk saw the writing on Xiang Feiran’s notebook cover and asked, “Are you Chinese?”

The monk introduced himself as a Tibetan doctor and practitioner from a dilapidated temple on a cliff in Ganzi. “The snow has sealed my temple, so I came out to collect medicinal herbs,” he said serenely.

When introducing himself, he mentioned his Dharma name, which Xiang Feiran didn’t remember, so he simply referred to him as “monk.”

The monk frequently practiced in the mountains and grasslands, held some renown, and was highly respected by the herders. Whenever he encountered Han people, regardless of their belief, their gaze towards him was always slightly different. Xiang Feiran was the first to look at him as he would look at plants and flowers, or rather, the same as he would look at the Bengali couple, the guide, and the assistant, with no distinction in his gaze when observing plants or soil.

The only change in the monk’s expression occurred when he occasionally looked at his phone.

That change was indescribable, like the first ray of sunlight piercing through the cold mist on the Napudi River, making everything seem both the same and completely different from that moment on.

The monk showed inexplicable interest in him, talking a lot and discussing Tibetan medicine and plant properties. Whenever plants were mentioned, Xiang Feiran’s patience increased. By the end of the day, this monk in the red robe had become a constant companion.

Starting in the evening, they walked while collecting dead branches to light a campfire upon reaching the campsite.

November in Nepal was slightly cool, and the night temperatures in the jungle dropped rapidly. Narayan opened a wine pouch and distributed some to everyone.

The monk, of course, abstained from alcohol and kept to himself, opening a coarse cotton bag to eat tsampa.

“Don’t you plan to share the photos you took during the day?” he asked while eating tsampa.

They encountered wild elephants, one-horned rhinoceroses, crocodiles, and pythons coiled on branches. In the evening, the golden light bathed the riverbank clearing, where a herd of hundreds of spotted deer rested, licked water, and nuzzled each other.

There were also less appealing sights, such as indistinct termite mounds, red and ruggedly protruding from the ground, giving one goosebumps, and large tiger tracks.

Xiang Feiran was uncertain whether to share these images. The reminder only made him more distressed, and he drank from his flask in one go, the sound of his jacket rustling accompanying the crackling fire.

Sharing was the most advanced tangible expression of “I miss you.”

Busy with collection and recording during the day, he had no time to chat. He thought that this Shang Mingbao might not have seen such scenes, and that this Shang Mingbao might be amazed. After resting at the camp, he noticed he had taken photos from before dawn until six in the evening, until it was completely dark.

To facilitate archiving, he had set automatic timestamps on his photos for years—wasn’t this a clear indication that he had been thinking of her since six in the morning?

“You don’t seem like you’ve never wavered,” the monk said.

Xiang Feiran’s face was illuminated by the campfire, with deep shadows, and he glanced at him, seemingly annoyed by the intrusion.

In the end, he only sent the photo of the spotted deer.

Essie scrolled through the chat history and decided a stronger approach was needed.

“Clearly, Xiang Feiran is completely focused on you and has never forgotten you, but his inner barriers are too strong. He is a person who relies heavily on thinking and logic,” Essie analyzed, “You need to provoke him a bit, stir up his sense of crisis.”

Shang Mingbao felt a bit desperate, with no experience in relationships, unlike Essie. She asked, “How should I provoke him?”

“Hmm… Tell him your family is arranging a matchmaking meeting for you?”

“I already told him last time that my family won’t arrange a marriage for me,” Shang Mingbao admitted.

Essie: “… Hmm, reveal that you have other high-quality suitors around?”

“Sounds too deliberate…”

“But men fall for this. As long as—he’s a man and has an interest in you, he will definitely get jealous, and might even confront you,” Essie tapped her chin, “Will Xiang Feiran break down? I’m quite interested in seeing him do so.”

“I can’t suddenly tell him I met a nice guy today,” Shang Mingbao said awkwardly, “He might just quietly watch me.”

“…”

Essie began pacing the room, “You need to find a way that allows you to push him while still being able to smoothly resolve things—like… changing your profile picture! Swap it for one with another man.”

“No way!” Shang Mingbao flatly refused. “It’s impossible.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Essie said, taking on the role of the strategist today. “When he asks, you can say it was a punishment for truth or dare at a party, or… casually mention that this is your pure and innocent childhood friend from back home—no romantic entanglements, or a cousin or a relative.”

Shang Mingbao was silent.

“How about that? Sounds pretty reasonable, right? Even if he knows it’s just your little trick, he won’t be able to do anything about it—ambiguous situations are all about these kinds of exchanges. Especially with someone like Xiang Bo, who is so stubborn,” Essie said, clenching her fists in frustration. “And you’re from Hong Kong, so your real social circle isn’t on WeChat. No worries about misunderstandings from others—what a great advantage!”

Shang Mingbao looked confused. “Your suggestions are good, but I don’t have any photos with other men.”

“…”

Essie was frustrated. “I don’t believe it. I’ll find some for you.”

She opened Shang Mingbao’s photo album. “This masked one is pretty good.”

Shang Mingbao glanced at it. “That’s Xiang Feiran.”

“…This one with the atmospheric profile!”

“That’s also him.”

“This one! The back view of him holding you in a selfie, perfect!”

“…”

“Alright, no need to say more. I see it’s him again.” Essie was almost exasperated. “You actually have so many pictures with him!”

Xiang Feiran wasn’t keen on taking photos, but Shang Mingbao liked it, especially when new couple poses appeared on Instagram. Xiang Feiran dutifully became a prop in her photos—hugging, kissing, or holding in one hand as requested. Shang Mingbao was sweet and cool; he remained expressionless, but his eyes betrayed his tenderness.

“Even after breaking up for so long, there are still so many photos of him.” Essie muttered, not knowing she was poking a wound in Shang Mingbao—Xiang Feiran had completely erased her from his life.

“Hey, this one should work, right?” Essie finally came across a photo that wasn’t Xiang Feiran’s. She zoomed in. “Look, isn’t that Ke Yu?”

“Yes, it’s Teacher Ke.” Shang Mingbao checked. “It was taken during the New Year.”

“This one is perfect!”

“He knows Teacher Ke and is aware….” Shang Mingbao trailed off and cleared her throat.

“By the way, you and that director, Shang Lu, have the same surname.” Essie casually mentioned before giving up and announcing, “Your opposite-sex relationships are so clean.” She was almost grinding her teeth.

“Not interested in others,” Shang Mingbao muttered softly.

Essie was already on the phone. “Wait, I’ll get my brother over here.”

“…?”

Assistants shouldn’t be too decisive; otherwise, the situation could escalate.

When Essie’s brother arrived, he had a trendy American hairstyle, exuding a cool vibe, but his gaze was clear, as he was only nineteen.

Arriving late at night, he yawned and asked, “What’s up?”

Essie kicked him in the rear. “Go take a photo with that sister!”

Shang Mingbao, feeling embarrassed about making her brother come for nothing, offered, “I’ll give you a pair of limited edition sneakers. Pick whichever you like.”

Upon hearing this, the young man was no longer tired. He opened his eyes wide, tidied his hair in the mirror for three minutes, and, after hearing the whole story from Essie, said, “It’s not appropriate for me to do it. I’m so handsome; what if she feels inferior and backs out?”

Essie sneered. “Overestimating yourself.”

After adjusting his appearance, the young man raised his phone and posed coolly with Shang Mingbao, giving a peace sign. “Boyfriend material or a little puppy, 199 for five edited photos, all raw files included!”

Shang Mingbao forced a smile. “Thank you, just one is enough.”

She didn’t care much about how the photos turned out but spent a long time looking at his face.

Under the light, his face reddened slightly. He touched his nose and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Shang Mingbao smiled. “Nothing, just suddenly feel old.”

“Don’t,” the young man said seriously. “You look about twenty-two or twenty-three, not old at all. Besides, what’s so old about twenty-seven? What about those in their thirties or forties?”

Shang Mingbao felt her eyes warm and smiled even more. “Every age has its best, but once nineteen is past, it’s gone. Treasure it.”

It was too late, so she had a guest room prepared for him.

Essie urged her, “Change it. This is really your brother, as genuine as it gets.”

Seeing her hesitation, Essie grabbed her phone and said, “I’ll change it for you.”

With quick and decisive movements, Essie changed Shang Mingbao’s WeChat profile picture in no time and encouraged her, “Don’t worry, Xiang Bo will definitely ask. With his personality, he might ignore you for a couple of days, but when he comes back to China, he’ll confront you directly. At that point, you can switch to offense and go in for a kiss—won’t that solve the problem!”

It seemed Essie had Xiang Feiran all figured out.

“You must stay steady. If he doesn’t ask, you don’t bring it up. If he doesn’t look for you, just keep saying good morning and good night, reminding him to dress warmly and stay safe.”

Shang Mingbao was persuaded by her and gave a thumbs up. “OK, I’ll follow your lead, rhythm master.”

But once she got into bed, she kept tossing and turning, changing the profile picture back and forth. At one point, she thought the tactic was too trivial and decided to switch back to the original photo; then she thought time was precious, and maybe Brother Feiran was just waiting for this last push? After all, he had been jealous of Wu Boyan in the past, although he never mentioned it, his actions were full of possessiveness, even tossing away the Christmas ring Wu Boyan had given him without a second thought.

After changing the picture more than ten times, Shang Mingbao still couldn’t decide and fell asleep holding her phone.

The next morning, the first thing she did upon waking was to change the profile picture back to a solo one. She realized that they didn’t need such tricks between them.

But she didn’t realize that WeChat profile pictures can sometimes be delayed, especially when she has changed hers several times and Xiang Feiran only has a 3G signal in the jungle.

On the fourth day in Chitwan Forest, it began with the roar of a tiger.

At the sound of the roar, all the beasts fell silent, and only the birds fluttered in panic.

The day before, they had discovered two tiger paw prints, one large and one small, on the soft, muddy riverbank, indicating a mother tiger with her cub.

Narayan looked tense and instructed everyone to quickly but quietly pack up their tents. The campfire from the night before had just been extinguished with a splash of cold water to prevent forest fires.

“Listen, encountering any wild animal here is different from meeting a tiger. I need you all to stay quiet, don’t fall behind, and don’t make any noise if you see anything,” Narayan said in a low voice. “This is a mother tiger with cubs. If we encounter it, do not provoke it.”

No one really believed they would come across a tiger, but seeing Narayan and his two assistants looking serious, everyone also restrained their expressions.

A couple from Bangladesh swallowed nervously and asked, “Have you encountered one before?”

Narayan replied, “I have.”

Everyone was silent.

The good news was that he was still alive; the bad news was that he really had encountered tigers.

The monk remained serene, holding a large Bodhi seed in his hand. “Well, since there’s Shakyamuni feeding the eagle with his flesh, I will gladly feed the tiger with my own body.”

With a swoosh, Xiang Feiran zipped up his jacket and slung his backpack over his shoulder, saying, “Monk, shut up.”

The monk smiled, “You have a Buddhist fate; how come you haven’t grasped life and death?”

They continued on without stopping, until after nine o’clock when the sun began to rise and gradually illuminated everything in the dense forest.

Among the dark green Bodhi trees, a shadow with black and yellow stripes suddenly appeared, moving silently. Beside it was a tiger cub, somewhere between a juvenile and an adolescent.

Narayan, the most excellent guide, stopped and raised his hand slightly. “Stop.”

The remaining six people halted, with less than a hundred meters separating them from the Bengal tigress.

“Oh my God,” the Bangladeshi man said briefly—suddenly, there was a loud crash, and the 400mm lens in his hand fell straight to the ground, breaking into two pieces at the interface.

No one dared to make a sound or even breathe. Complaints and despair—these emotions all vanished, leaving only silence.

In the dead silence, the heavy breathing of the team grew louder while the cold eyes of the tigress locked onto them, slowly emerging from the shadow of the Bodhi tree. It was strong and in its prime, casting a giant shadow on the ground.

“Easy… easy…” Narayan bent his body and spoke slowly, backing away gradually.

The assistant at the back of the team, responsible for keeping watch, trembled as he said, “Don’t run, don’t turn your head, don’t scream…”

It was so difficult, moving inch by inch in a fatigued standoff, only managing to create a five-meter gap. But the tigress remained still and, after a long, suffocating few minutes, probably realizing that the group had no intention to harm her or her cubs, calmly retreated back into the forest.

No one dared to move until Narayan lifted the alert, sitting down on the ground with sweat covering his coffee-colored face.

Xiang Feiran let out a sigh and tore off his half-fingered gloves. His palms were damp and pale, clearly soaked in sweat for a long time.

Unable to endure any longer, he needed a cigarette to calm his nerves. He pulled out a cigarette box from his work pants pocket, and only realized his hands were shaking uncontrollably as he tried to light it.

“What are you worried about? Your legs are the longest, you run fast,” the monk joked while wiping his forehead—he had just said he would gladly feed the tiger with his body, but now his forehead was covered in sweat.

Xiang Feiran didn’t respond, taking two deep breaths and silently watched Narayan retrieve the $50,000 lens.

The Bangladeshi man didn’t dare to pick it up and had collapsed on the ground, motionless for a while.

“Monk, people who haven’t resolved the situation don’t deserve to die,” Xiang Feiran said expressionlessly, crouching down to extinguish the cigarette butt in the dirt and then putting it in the trash bag.

Except for looking paler than usual, he didn’t show much change and was perhaps the calmest person in the team. But was he the most scared at that moment?

He was.

Because he still had an answer to deliver, between life and death, the revolving lantern couldn’t turn in time, only the silent eyes of Shang Mingbao floated up.

Before Mianzhi left, she received a “I truly love you” from Xiang Lianqiao. How could he leave her waiting in uncertainty? If he were to die here, he couldn’t justify it; according to his brief life’s actions, he might just brush the line of heaven, and when he faced God and the gods about this matter, it would surely be an ugly scene.

He wanted to send the recent danger to Shang Mingbao, but the signal was temporarily lost, so Xiang Feiran had to wait until they reached the village Narayan mentioned.

The journey continued. After replenishing their energy, everyone set off again. Heading upstream, they saw the water level rising, covering the rolling stones and green moss on the banks, indicating that there had been continuous heavy rain here.

“Monk, why did you say in the morning that I have a Buddhist fate?” Xiang Feiran asked, arms crossed, taking two steps for every step the monk took, quickly scanning the plants in the jungle to determine if any needed collecting.

The monk said, “You have no fate in the mortal world.”

Xiang Feiran glanced at him, “Do you also believe in the Four Noble Truths?”

“Just say if what I said was right or not.”

Xiang Feiran smiled, “I come from a prestigious family, and my elders are influential figures.”

“Riches and honor are not mortal fate.”

“I achieved success at a young age, am intelligent and knowledgeable, have ideals and passions, and have students to cultivate.”

The monk smiled, knowing that he was deliberately putting on a proud and arrogant posture. “Worldly fame is not your fate.”

Xiang Feiran bowed his head, his chin hidden in the collar of his jacket, and the wind swept his hair across his brow. “Why don’t you just say it directly?”

“I can’t say it directly,” the monk replied. “You seek nothing from the world. The things you possess are not what you truly want; you’re simply carrying a self-imposed responsibility. For you, whether it’s being a scientist or a consultant, if fate required you to let go now, stripping everything away, you would happily do so. You would find peace being a person who watches the mountains and the clouds among the flowers and grasses.”

Xiang Feiran slightly curled his lips. “How come I never realized I was so indifferent to fame and fortune?”

“If you ever figure it out, you can find me in Ganzi. The small monastery there suits you.”

Xiang Feiran snorted a laugh. “So, after all this talk, you’re just looking for someone to take over after you pass away.”

Their conversation ended there as he returned to work, and the monk busied himself with gathering herbs. Along the way, they saw riverbanks and cliffs collapsing, with white flowers floating, already washed to an unrecognizable state by the current.

“This weather is truly strange this year,” Narayan remarked. “This is supposed to be the dry season in Nepal, but it has been raining here for a week. You should be careful of landslides when walking along the shore.”

They finally arrived at a village deep in the forest before nightfall. They were still using slash-and-burn methods, with small rice paddies, and, like in the town of Chitwan, they tamed Asian elephants.

That evening, they ate with their hands in the village house, with rice served on palm leaves, accompanied by spicy curry—the curry made from forest produce, not as refined as industrial products, but Xiang Feiran chewed and swallowed without changing his expression.

The monk continued eating his tsampa, watching as Xiang Feiran quickly finished his meal, washed and dried his hands, and pulled out his phone.

The village had no electricity, relying on bonfires and candles for lighting. The yellow flames flickered, and the monk glanced at his pinned chat.

“Oh? I was wrong,” the monk said cheerfully. “It turns out you do have worldly attachments.”

Xiang Feiran was selecting today’s photos for Shang Mingbao, regretting that he hadn’t captured the two Bengal tigers. He didn’t even raise his eyes at the monk’s teasing.

The monk continued on his own: “But, it turns out your worldly attachment is a Tibetan? This is the first time I’ve seen someone note ‘Ajia’ as a contact. You and your wife must be very much in love.”

Under the flickering flames, the monk saw for the first time a sudden change in the expression of this young doctoral advisor.

“What did you say?” Xiang Feiran stopped typing, his neck seeming to stiffen as he slowly asked, “What do you mean?”

Seeing his expression change, the monk put down his tsampa and asked in confusion, “Don’t you know? This Tibetan text reads ‘Ajia.'”

“Isn’t it Baima?” Xiang Feiran lifted his face in astonishment, his eyebrows filled with disbelief. “Doesn’t it mean fairy?”

“Then your wife must have been playing a funny joke on you,” the monk replied. “Ajia means wife. The word ‘wife’ in Chinese is as formal and proper as ‘Ajia’ is in Tibetan.”

Ajia…

Xiang Feiran lowered his head, looking at this line of Tibetan text he had looked at for eight and a half years.

Wife.

“What does it say?”

“Baima, it means fairy. From now on, that’s your contact name for me on your phone, and you can’t change it.”

“Then how will I find you?”

“Just pin me at the top. If I’m always pinned, you won’t lose me.”

He had always kept her pinned at the top, but when did he still manage to lose her?

At dusk, the last ray of sunlight illuminated the face of the nineteen-year-old girl. She smiled, her black hair blowing in the wind beneath the snowy mountains. That final ray of sunlight lit up her brows and eyes—

Her eyes were so gentle, so content, yet carried a distant loneliness.

What he couldn’t understand before, he now understood.

Marriage was not her dream. She wasn’t someone who would trap herself in such a way.

Since falling in love with him, “marrying Xiang Feiran” had become her new dream.

Her dream was so well-behaved, never spoken aloud, knowing it couldn’t come true.

“Do you know, since I was nineteen, I’ve wanted to marry you.”

This line of Tibetan text said such words.

You will never know.

On that final night before they parted, her uncontrollable cry of “husband” only led him to retreat. In the years since, he never dared to think carefully about her shock and distress at that moment.

This six-year-long relationship, which he thought was a tacit tango between them, was actually him dragging her, who was kneeling in prayer.

Shang Mingbao, when you learned from your mother that there was no need for an arranged marriage, when you learned that there was a chance between us, only to have my adamant anti-marriage stance crush that hope, did you feel like Sisyphus, finally pushing the boulder to the top of the mountain after days of despair, only to watch it roll down, crushing you?

He ruthlessly crushed her dream.

Feiran, you must not hurt the heart of the one you love.

But he had hurt her for over 1,800 days and made her lick her wounds herself.

He crushed her dream once with his own hands, so she obediently crushed it herself every day thereafter.

The monk had been silent for a long time, watching the tears that fell from Xiang Feiran’s eyes extinguish in the bonfire.

But his face bore a smile, one of self-mockery, of relief, and perhaps of enlightenment.

Two parts of love.

Three or four parts of love.

He had been talking to himself, self-righteously, blinded for too long. What kind of man is that?

“You’ll never know how much I used to love you.”

A man who can’t even see the love of the one he loves—what kind of man is that?

“Monk.”

Xiang Feiran looked at his phone. “There was a person who told me when she was nineteen that she had liked me since she was sixteen. I believed her but underestimated her feelings, equating them with the few parts of love I wanted. Now I realize that from nineteen, she dreamed of being my wife.”

Xiang Feiran wiped his face, looking hesitantly and unfamiliarly at the wetness in his palm—it was only now that he realized he had shed tears.

He had a hundred percent of love, but he only asked for three or four parts of it. The remaining ninety-seven percent, which he ignored year after year, turned into a desert.

“She could have had a great life. Even if she had been arranged to marry someone of equal standing by her parents at twenty-five, she would still have had the ability to fully love and be loved by someone else.”

Xiang Feiran spoke calmly, the firelight reflected in his eyes.

“But because of me, she passed the dream milestone of her twenty-fifth year, smiling as she told me she had matured, that her career came first. We broke up, in a way that was both dignified and not dignified. She came to find me, and I told her she was too late because I believed that her love for me was far from enough to sustain us for a lifetime. I couldn’t bear for her to leave me a second time, so I spouted some nonsense about how I would always love her but didn’t have the courage to start over with her.”

The monk began kneading the tsampa again, his gaze slightly closed, his shadow blending with that of the plantain leaves: “You sure talk a lot.”

Xiang Feiran curled his lips: “I’m very afraid that things won’t be cooked through when I cook. I’m also afraid love won’t be enough. If things are overcooked, they’ll turn to mush. Now I understand, if you demand too much from love, the person who loves you will end up like a steak on a griddle, constantly being fried.”

“The person you’re talking about,” the monk glanced at him, but his posture remained unmoved: “The person next to her in the photo is no longer you.”

It was only then that Xiang Feiran noticed this detail. After the initial instinctive shock, he realized, “It’s probably one of her younger brothers.”

“Oh, then you clearly know how much she loved you.”

The monk’s words pierced through him, like a needle threading through a dewdrop, the elite, translucent realization splashing like water droplets on Xiang Feiran’s mind.

Tears clung to Xiang Feiran’s eyelashes, and he laughed, again and again.

“Monk.” He stood up from the campfire, his tall figure walked out of the shadows and into the moonlight, his gaze clear and decisive: “So you were wrong. I do have ties to this world.”

He spoke with certainty, even with pride, truly arrogant—arrogant with love.

Xiang Feiran canceled all the photos he had selected and sent Shang Mingbao a brief message: “Don’t stay up late, wait for me to come back.”

He still wanted to call her “baby.”

That night, the rain beat down on the plantains, drenching his mind but unable to penetrate fate—

The torrential rain of destiny still poured down.

He never made it back.