With slow, deliberate steps, we ventured deeper in. The light faded, growing dimmer until our eyes struggled to adjust to the near-darkness. By instinct alone, I knew the ground beneath my feet remained a carpet of corpses, yet nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

Nyön, as if expecting this, produced a flashlight, switched it on, and turned back to call out, “Zhiwu, Xiao Luo, hurry and catch up.”

Xu Zhiwu and I exchanged wry smiles and quickened our pace to reach his side.

I didn't utter a word, having refused a mask, terrified that every breath might draw in the fine dust of pulverized bone and flesh. Xu Zhiwu was better, managing a few exchanges with Nyön, asking why he had led us into the cave.

Nyön smiled mysteriously, sweeping the flashlight beam across the cave walls as he searched for something. “Once I find it, you’ll understand immediately.”

After a few steps, the walls showed nothing remarkable. Nyön murmured to himself, “Strange, it should be right here… why isn’t it visible… truly odd.”

I noticed both walls were coated in a yellowish-brown slurry, so thick that the marks of the brush used to apply it were still visible. The sheer volume of skeletal remains buried in this cave clearly indicated meticulous planning. I recalled reports suggesting the cave housed war captives from the ancient Guge Kingdom, or perhaps that the site was used for some sacrificial rite. But Nyön hadn't mentioned any of this. In casual conversation, he had only hinted that the truth about the Corpse Cave was far from external speculation—just as no one would suspect that his thirteen households were descendants of the former subordinates of Shengtai, the Imperial Envoy to Tibet.

The cave plunged into total darkness, forcing Nyön’s flashlight beam to brighten considerably. He apologized sheepishly. “My apologies… I vividly remember it being just a few steps from here… when one gets old, the memory slips.”

I offered a silent smile to indicate it was fine. Xu Zhiwu stayed glued to my back, not daring to lag behind even a moment. “It’s nothing…” he managed, his voice slightly tremulous.

Nyön stopped, thinking hard. “Xiao Luo, shine the light for me; I need to tap the wall myself to find it.” He handed me the flashlight as he spoke.

“Here…” Nyön directed my beam to a spot he indicated. I complied. He gently tapped the walls on either side; they responded with a dull, muffled thud—solid, no hidden cavity. Nyön looked visibly disappointed and moved on, tapping elsewhere, always getting the same result. He never specified what he was looking for, leaving Xu Zhiwu and me utterly bewildered, watching his every move.

Nyön continued tapping the walls for about ten more paces before his hand struck a spot that echoed with a hollow boom. “There it is!” Nyön’s face lit up with joy. He beckoned us over urgently. “Hurry, come here, I’ve found something good.” As he spoke, he raised his fist and smashed it against the spot; a wave of earthy, musky odor washed over us—small chunks of mud rained down from the wall.

“Come look, quickly,” Nyön urged, punching forward as he walked, shouting to us through the rising dust.

It truly was something magnificent! Upon seeing it, Xu Zhiwu let out an ecstatic cry. “Heavens, a treasure, a real treasure!” He practically pressed his face against the stone surface to see—the paintings revealed where the mud had flaked away: rock art.

Naturally, I was no expert like Xu Zhiwu; I couldn't decipher the meaning of the murals exposed by the crumbling plaster. I could only observe that the lines were bold yet fluid, depicting a scene vast and intricate: Tibetan elderly women walking and sipping suo you cha (butter tea); young men burdened with large packs; pilgrims spinning prayer wheels; and herdsmen waving whips over their flocks of cattle and sheep… Following the line of sight, the scene shifted: a Tibetan man wearing a crown, surrounded by many beautiful women, with a dense escort of fully armed generals and guards, followed by retainers bearing gold, silver, and jewels… Every figure in the mural, regardless of age or gender, shared an expression of cheerful optimism tinged with slight confusion, as if heading to a feast whose host was unknown; all were moving in the same direction—deeper into the cave.

The artist’s skill was formidable. With just a few strokes, he perfectly conveyed the expression, mindset, and social standing of every individual and every scenario.

“This is what I brought you to see.” Nyön chipped away the remaining mud shell covering the murals, then took the flashlight back from my hand. “Xiao Luo, take a close look too; perhaps you two might have some insight.”

The mural was about four or five meters long. Following the crowned Tibetan man, the narrative continued like a sequence of panels. The figures were the same, but their actions had changed. The old woman drinking tea was carefully setting her bowl on a rock by the roadside; the burdened young man was unpacking his bags, laying out the contents one by one, seemingly contemplating which unnecessary burdens to discard; the pilgrim spinning his wheel was prostrated, tears streaming down his face, as if his deepest wish had finally been granted by the prayer beads; the herdsman had tossed his whip far aside, dispersing his livestock, as if he no longer needed them, his face radiating sheer joy. The king, seated in an ornate palanquin, was held high by his guards. He looked back down at the people below—concubines, guards, generals, retainers—his face alight with triumph and pride. Except for the king looking back, everyone else in this panel still moved in the same uniform direction: deeper into the cave.

The third panel was drastically simplified. It contained only figures; all the tea bowls, roadside stones, packs, prayer wheels, cattle, sheep, fine jewelry, and sedan chairs were gone. The people seen in the first two panels, along with countless other indistinct figures whose identities were obscured, suddenly surged forward, tightly following the king as they all moved toward a brilliantly shining abyss.

The fourth panel depicted an empty city, ruins stretching vast and desolate under the twilight, eerily still.

The mural ended abruptly here.

I stared, feeling a profound confusion. The painting seemed to tell a story: a place where everyone lived contentedly under a wise king. Then, for some unknown reason, the pilgrims ceased their pilgrimages, the travelers stopped their journeys, and the herdsmen abandoned their flocks. Everyone dropped what they were doing and followed the crowned leader toward a brilliant, yet ill-defined, destination. Afterwards, the thriving city they inhabited became a ruin.

This… this… The thought struck me, making me pause. Could this be the story of the Guge Kingdom? Didn't the Guge Kingdom vanish overnight, much like the mysterious Mayan civilization?

“Have you seen enough?” Nyön asked with a smile.

I nodded. Xu Zhiwu, utterly captivated, had momentarily forgotten the thick layer of human remains under his feet. He exclaimed loudly, “I must stay here! I have to copy this entire painting, exactly as it is!”

“That’s a good idea, but I doubt you have the nerve to stay,” Nyön said, already walking toward the exit. “Let’s go back first. We can discuss it once we’re out.”

Nyön’s dampening comment didn’t diminish Xu Zhiwu’s excitement. He followed Nyön eagerly. “Nyön, this painting records a complete story—it explains how a city became ruins… I suspect this is the Guge story.”

I followed silently. The bones beneath my feet stole any courage I had to speak. Thus, hearing Xu Zhiwu voice the exact same suspicion I held, I offered no comment.

Nyön affirmed Xu Zhiwu’s speculation, admitting he believed the same thing.

Exiting the cave was far simpler; we were out in under fifteen minutes. As soon as we reached the entrance, Nyön instructed, “We must hurry and call Taji to cover the murals immediately with slurry, or we’ll face even more trouble.”

Having kept silent in the cave, I rushed to voice the thoughts I had bottled up. I first confirmed my suspicion matched Xu Zhiwu’s, and then asked Nyön how he knew the murals existed. It seemed he had known all along.

Nyön answered with refreshing directness. “Yes, of course I knew, otherwise why would I bring you here? And it was I who applied that mud shell in the first place… But these cannot be seen by outsiders. If some daring tourist stumbles in and sees them, it would be a huge mess, which is why I asked Taji to cover them with slurry quickly.”

Do these murals hold a secret? I mused to myself. Why else would they need to be concealed from outsiders?

“Nyön, you know the secret of this painting,” Xu Zhiwu stated firmly.

“…” For once, Nyön fell silent, offering no reply to the question, and quickened his pace back home.

Xu Zhiwu looked at me helplessly and shrugged.

Nyön had spoken politely and cautiously; since he was unwilling to elaborate, we naturally couldn’t press the issue shamelessly. We forced down our rising curiosity and shifted to unrelated topics, chatting until we reached his home.

Nyön first sent his wife, Denzin Zongji, to tell Taji to cover the Corpse Cave murals with mud immediately, before sitting down to talk with us.

After some idle chatter, Xu Zhiwu finally couldn't contain himself and broached the subject again. “Nyön, there’s one thing I desperately need to know. Exactly how much do you know? Those murals in the Corpse Cave definitely hold a secret. What is it?”

Nyön paused slightly at the question, perhaps surprised by Xu Zhiwu’s persistence. He lowered his head in thought before replying, “That’s right, there is indeed a secret… If I’m not mistaken, it records what happened to the Guge Kingdom when it suddenly vanished. Guge didn’t vanish, nor did its subjects die; they followed their king to another place.” He paused, shifting his tone. “I brought you here hoping to hear your perspective… but…”

Nyön hesitated. Xu Zhiwu immediately pressed him, anxious, “But what?”