Volume One: All Things Revive, and Every Season Is Spring Chapter Two: The Shadow of Death, the True Buddha Crosses Himself

Magic City Airlines MK4566—wasn’t that the very flight he’d taken to Tibet? Mo Wen’s heart pounded with dread. The news reported a sudden outbreak of illness, but for six people to fall ill and die on the same day? Only a fool would believe that. He recalled the cryptic words spoken by the ascetic monk on the mountain road in Tibet, just before his death, and a chill crept through Mo Wen’s veins. Yet there was nothing he could do but wait, praying this was nothing more than an eerie coincidence.

That night, Mo Wen lost all sense of when he fell asleep. He woke repeatedly, and by the next morning, he was listless and drained. Normally disciplined and an early riser, Mo Wen uncharacteristically remained in bed, so much so that his roommate, Zhou Sheng, noticed and thoughtfully brought him breakfast.

All day, Mo Wen scoured the internet for reports related to flight MK4566, but curiously, there was not a word about the flight’s early arrival in Sadu, Tibet. He remained in bed the entire day, and it was not until one in the morning that his phone rang with a call from an unknown number.

“I’m Superintendent Su Qiang from the Magic City Police Department. You may be in grave danger. Gather your essentials—I’ll be waiting downstairs in twenty minutes.”

Mo Wen bolted upright, pushing aside all hesitation. He hurriedly showered and packed his things. As soon as he was ready, a police car, lights flashing, pulled up outside. Without disturbing the sleeping Zhou Sheng, Mo Wen slipped out, took a deep breath, and climbed into the car.

Inside, a middle-aged officer awaited him, his face grave, uttering only, “We’ll talk at the station.”

It was late, but the police headquarters blazed with light. Mo Wen felt a sense of bitter irony—his first encounter with the police would be under such bizarre circumstances. He was led to an interview room, and soon a few others arrived—faces familiar from that fateful flight.

His heart sank. It was clear now: something was terribly wrong.

Superintendent Su Qiang surveyed the anxious group and spoke slowly, “You must have guessed by now: all of you were passengers on Magic City Airlines MK4566 on January 1st, 2023. I won’t hide the truth—six crew members died the night before last, and last night, twenty-eight passengers died as well, all from the same sudden illness. Apart from those outside Magic City, everyone we could reach quickly is here now.”

The room went pale. A few of the weaker-willed young women broke down entirely. Mo Wen, though deeply shaken, managed to keep his composure, earning a nod of respect from Superintendent Su.

“Rest assured, the police will ensure your safety. For now, you’ll be admitted to Magic City People’s Hospital for continuous monitoring of your health,” Su Qiang continued.

Under his arrangements, the group was admitted to the hospital and underwent comprehensive examinations. Apart from some with chronic conditions, most were in good health.

After comforting them further, Superintendent Su left a few officers behind and prepared to leave, when Mo Wen called out to him.

“Superintendent Su, may I speak with you privately?”

With a frown, Su gestured for Mo Wen to follow. In a deserted hospital stairwell, Su offered him a cigarette, which Mo Wen declined. Lighting one for himself, Su drew deeply, the tension in his face easing ever so slightly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mo Wen spoke in a low voice, “Superintendent, have you ever seen the foreign film series ‘Final Destination’? In one of the films, a plane disaster is narrowly avoided, but those who survived begin dying one by one in bizarre ways afterward.”

Su Qiang said nothing, inhaling his cigarette with force. Mo Wen continued, laying out his thoughts.

“This is no longer coincidence. I suspect every passenger from our flight is caught in some kind of deathly order. Of the remaining twenty-eight, if nothing changes, they’ll die before midnight tonight—including me.”

Su Qiang regarded him with a look of admiration for his composure in the face of death, tinged with regret.

When his cigarette burned down, Su crushed it underfoot and said quietly, “You have a rare calmness. If you survive, the doors of our police department will always be open to you. Then you’ll see the world as it truly is.”

With that, Su sighed and motioned for Mo Wen to return. Clearly, there was nothing even the police could do against the rules of death.

Back in his room, Mo Wen found that each person had been given a private space—a small comfort, he supposed. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was exactly 4 a.m. on January 8th. If nothing changed, the remaining dozen or so survivors wouldn’t live to see midnight on the 9th. Time ticked away, every second like a countdown to the end, and for the first time, Mo Wen felt utterly powerless.

He forced himself to wait out the dawn. His first act was to call Mother Zhao, fabricating a story about an urgent internship with a multinational company that required he leave the country immediately. She urged him again and again to be careful. Warmth flooded Mo Wen’s heart, his eyes stinging, and to keep from giving himself away, he quickly ended the call.

The sun rose high, and by afternoon, the sky began to darken. As dusk fell, starlight sparkled outside the window. Mo Wen, anxious and unable to sit still, had not eaten or drunk all day. From the afternoon on, several officers kept constant watch over him.

Seven o’clock.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The officers maintained a strict vigil. The air in the room was so heavy it was nearly suffocating. No one spoke; they simply waited.

Mo Wen stared at his phone, watching the seconds tick by. At last, the clock struck eleven.

Suddenly, Mo Wen’s tense body relaxed all at once. He closed his eyes, a smile on his face. The officers, alarmed, shook him desperately, trying to rouse him from sleep. One, in his panic, pressed so hard he left a purple bruise on Mo Wen’s arm, but nothing worked.

Mo Wen had slipped beyond awareness, as if he’d returned to his childhood orphanage. Mother Zhao played games with a group of children, and Mo Wen laughed, running across the grass. She called to him, and he stumbled toward her embrace.

Abruptly, pain exploded in his skull, and a thunderous voice shattered the illusion. The sky and grass vanished. Zhao Mama and his friends were gone.

“Awaken!”

The voice was deep and powerful, like a great bell. In his mind’s eye, Mo Wen saw the ascetic monk from the Tibetan mountainside, now radiant with holy light, chanting Buddhist sutras that manifested and circled around him.

An eternity seemed to pass before the glowing sutras merged into Mo Wen’s body. Finally, he regained his senses and opened his eyes—he was still in the hospital room.

The officers, seeing him awaken, let their grief-stricken expressions fall away. Suddenly, a shrill alarm sounded in the hallway—a sound unique to hospitals, signaling a patient near death.

One officer left to investigate, then quickly returned, his face ashen and his voice trembling as he struggled to speak.

“The others… all of them are dead. You’re the only one left.”