"You studied philosophy?"
"Family tradition," Zhuoma said with a smile. "My father was a kind of folk scholar. He always said real wisdom doesn't hand you answers—it teaches you how to ask the right questions."
"So did I ask the right one just now?"
"You asked the question a character should ask," she said, studying him. "But I think you're looking for an answer yourself. Not for the role. For you."
Cassius didn't deny it.
After the instance, he could feel something mysterious still clinging to him.
The plane began its descent. The announcement said they were landing at Beijing Capital Airport. City lights glittered below.
"You transferring in Beijing?" Zhuoma asked.
"Yeah. Three-hour layover, then Lhasa."
"Same here."
She packed her small cloth bag. "We could wait together. Makes the time pass faster."
Cassius helped her pull her small suitcase down from the overhead bin on the way out. It was heavier than it looked.
"Thanks."
"Books for the family," she said, taking it. "Hard to find good paper books where I'm from."
They cleared customs and found a quiet corner in the transfer area. Two hours to kill. They ordered coffee.
"Your question reminded me of a story my father used to tell," Zhuoma said, stirring her cup.
"What story?"
"About two brothers."
She took a sip. "They studied medicine together. One became the greatest healer—could cure any disease. The other became the greatest poison master—could create any toxin. The healer wanted to wipe out every illness in the world. The poison master wanted to end all suffering by making people feel nothing at all."
"In the end the healer cured every poison the poison master made, and the poison master created toxins the healer couldn't fix. They fought their whole lives, each believing they were saving the world."
"What happened?"
"They both got old."
"On his deathbed the healer told the poison master, 'I saved three thousand people, but I watched thirty thousand die.' The poison master answered, 'I freed ten thousand from pain, but none of them ever smiled again.'"
"Neither of them won. But their student—a kid who studied both medicine and poison—realized the real thing that needed healing wasn't the disease or the pain. It was the human heart's fear of both."
Cassius sat with that for a long time.
"What happened to the kid?"
"No one knows," Zhuoma shrugged. "My father said the ending belongs to whoever hears the story."
The boarding call for Lhasa came over the speakers.
They stood and walked to the gate.
On the second plane, as they took off toward the real plateau, Cassius asked, "Is Zhuoma your real name?"
"In Tibet it's like Mary in America," she said with a small laugh. "Lots of girls have it. So yes—and no, it's not unique."
The plane climbed. Below them the clouds thinned, and the first snow-capped ranges appeared.
In Cassius's mind the memories from the instance overlapped with the view. He had seen these mountains countless times as Yao.
"Someone picking you up in Lhasa?" Zhuoma asked.
"Should be."
"Ganden's in Dagzê County, still a ways from the city. If your ride's late, my little brother can drive you. He's got a car."
"No need to trouble him."
"It's not trouble," she said, looking out the window. "On the way."
They landed at Lhasa Gonggar Airport at three in the afternoon local time. The sun was fierce, the sky a sharp, painful blue.
The moment he stepped off the plane, the thin, clean highland air hit him—ice, dust, and something ancient. Cassius took a deep breath and his lungs immediately protested. Yao's body had adapted to altitude. His hadn't.
"Take it slow," Zhuoma said beside him. "Don't rush."
They collected luggage and walked into arrivals. Plenty of cars and people holding signs. Cassius was scanning for his name when a young monk in maroon robes approached, hands pressed together.
"Mr. Cassius? My teacher sent me to pick you up."
Cassius turned to say goodbye to Zhuoma, but she was already gone. Just like when she appeared—quiet, without a trace.
"The woman I was traveling with—" he started.
"Which woman?" the monk asked, confused.
Cassius looked around. The terminal was busy, but the figure in the off-white linen tunic had vanished into the bright plateau sunlight.
The car pulled out of the airport and onto National Highway 318. The asphalt was soft from the sun. Bare yellow-brown hills on either side, snow peaks in the distance. The monk drove steadily, slowing for yaks that wandered across the road.
Cassius sat in the passenger seat, window cracked, dry wind blowing in. His head still felt foggy.
"Teacher's been waiting half a day," the monk said. His name was Dorje, early twenties, Mandarin with a Tibetan lilt but fluent English. "He said you'd arrive a day early."
Cassius turned. "He knew I changed my flight?"
"Teacher said your sense of time would be messed up." Dorje grinned, showing white teeth. "Told me not to be surprised. Just come get you like normal."
A chill ran down Cassius's spine.
This teacher knew things.
An hour later they turned onto a mountain road—narrow, rocky, rough. Far up the slope, layers of maroon buildings appeared, stacked against the mountainside, golden roofs flashing in the sun.
Ganden Monastery.
The first of the six great Gelug monasteries. Founded in 1409. Thirteen thousand feet up.
When Cassius got out of the car, the altitude hit him hard. Head spinning. Lungs burning.
"Slow steps," Dorje said, carrying his bag. "Give it two days. You'll adjust."
They crossed the square, passed the main hall, and climbed a narrow stone staircase. The steps were worn smooth. Faded prayer flags snapped in the wind on both sides. Cassius had to stop every few steps, heart pounding against his ribs. Dorje waited patiently.
At the top was a small, separate courtyard. Old wooden gate, faded plaque with Tibetan script above the lintel. The place felt heavy with quiet.
Dorje pushed the gate open. "Teacher's inside."
Flagstone courtyard. An old elm tree in the center. In its shade sat a figure.
Cassius couldn't see clearly at first. The man wore a plain gray monk's robe, back to the door, tapping a stone slab with a small hammer.
Tap. Tap.
Clear, even sounds.
Dorje pressed his hands together and left, closing the gate behind him.
Cassius stood there, catching his breath. The courtyard smelled faintly of butter and incense mixed with dry highland air.
"Sit."
The man didn't turn around. Voice low but clear.
Cassius walked over and sat on the stone bench across from him under the tree.
Now he could see. A monk of indeterminate age—lean face, dark skin, deep knife-cut wrinkles, but eyes that were unnaturally bright. He kept tapping the slab. It was already half-covered in dense Tibetan script, the lines flowing and alive.
"Cassius."
The monk set the hammer down and turned.
Cassius's heart jumped again. He had seen this face in the instance. Not exactly the same, but the resemblance was uncanny—like a younger version of Yao's master, or a moment from Karu before the darkness took her.
"I'm Sangye," the monk said in English, accent much cleaner than Dorje's. "Marvel asked me to consult. And to meet you."
Cassius nodded, unsure what to say.
Sangye stood. Short, but straight-backed. He walked over, stared straight into Cassius's eyes for three full seconds.
"Your soul didn't come all the way back."
Cassius blinked. "What?"
"Part of you's here. Part's still in another world."
Sangye's tone was flat, like he was commenting on the weather. "Astral wandering. Common problem for old practitioners. But you're different. You were yanked out and slammed back in. Time's scrambled. Your anchor's loose."
A cold line ran down Cassius's back.
This old monk had seen straight through the instance side effects.
"I—"
"Don't explain."
Sangye raised his hand and pressed his index finger directly to the center of Cassius's forehead.
Cassius's body refused to move.
The fingertip was ice-cold.
The moment it touched, something in his brain went click.
Four hundred and fifty years of memory fragments snapped back into place. The time distortion, the identity confusion, the detachment from modern life—every side effect vanished in an instant.
He was suddenly, completely awake.
High-altitude dizziness was still there. But he was himself again.
He was Cassius. Actor. Just finished Guardians of the Galaxy. Here to talk script with the writers for the Ancient One project.
Not Yao. Not a four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Sorcerer Supreme.
"Done."
Sangye pulled his hand back and sat down again. "Now we can talk about the script."
Cassius touched his forehead. A faint coolness lingered. "What… was that?"
"Small trick," Sangye said with a smile that creased every wrinkle. "I used to wander too much when I was younger. My teacher taught me this—Heart-Stabilizing Finger. Basically just hammering your consciousness anchor back into place. You modern people call it therapy. We skip the talking and go straight to the fix."
Cassius had no words.
This was therapy on steroids.
But he felt better. The instance memories were still there, but the unreal feeling was gone.
"Thank you."
"No need. Marvel paid."
Sangye reached under the stone table and pulled out a tablet—movements smooth and practiced, slightly surreal on a monk. "I didn't write the script. But Marvel wants me to do the final review and revisions. They want Eastern mysticism, real philosophical depth, and fights that look good."
He opened the PDF for The Ancient One: Shadow of Vishanti.
"First, the good parts," Sangye said, looking up. "Timeline's smart—1890 to 1943, stays clear of the main WWII mess but still shows the world changing. Tibet visual language is used with restraint, no cheap exoticism. Magic system blends Tibetan mudras with Taoist taiji. Creative."
Cassius waited for the "but."
"But," Sangye continued, "the character motivations are weak. Why is the Ancient One so obsessed with protecting? Why does Karu fall into darkness? The script says ideological differences, but ideology alone doesn't destroy five hundred years of brotherhood. You need something more concrete. More human."
He tapped a scene. "Like when Karu's mother dies and she uses forbidden magic to extend her life, only for the mother to turn to ash. That turning point works, but there's not enough buildup. The audience needs to feel how much she loved her mother first. How helpless she was. Then her going to extremes makes sense."
Cassius nodded. He hadn't expected a high monk in Tibet to understand script craft this well.
"And the Ancient One himself," Sangye said, flipping pages. "He's too perfect. Never makes a mistake. Never wavers. Always chooses the right path. Nobody wants to watch that kind of character."
"You have to give him struggle. Selfishness. Moments where he doesn't want to be the saint but has no choice."
Cassius thought for a second. "For example?"
"For example, he's actually afraid of dying."
Sangye looked straight at him. "Four or five hundred years. Watching everyone around him age and die. Feeling his own body start to break down. Then the Dark Dimension offers him a way out—eternal life. You telling me he never once considered it?"
Cassius felt the words land like a punch.
In the instance, Yao had considered it. One night, when the hidden pain of his body breaking down got bad, he had stared at the book Dormammu's Contract in the forbidden library for hours.
"He did," Cassius said quietly.
"Exactly. You understand the character deeper than the script does." Sangye pushed the tablet across. "Let the audience see the saint's weakness. Then they'll believe in his strength. Otherwise he's just a paper cutout. Doesn't stand up."
Cassius took the tablet, fingers scrolling.
Sunlight filtered through the elm leaves, moving light spots across the stone table. Distant chanting drifted on the wind.
"Why did you take this project?" Cassius asked suddenly. "With your level, Hollywood scripts probably don't interest you."
Sangye laughed out loud this time. "They're paying well. The monastery needs to repair the scripture hall. We're short on funds."
"I also see it as a chance," he added. "Let the world see real Tibetan wisdom. Not cheap mysticism. Not shallow chicken-soup spirituality. Real thinking about life, suffering, and choice."
He smiled again. "I've got a niece studying film in Los Angeles. She said if I didn't take it, she'd come back and become a lama just to scare me."
Cassius laughed. This old monk was shockingly down-to-earth.
"Oh, right," Sangye said. "On the way here, did you run into a woman named Zhuoma?"
Cassius sat up straighter. "You know her?"
"My niece."
Sangye winked. "She happened to sit next to you, saw your soul was half out of your body and your time sense was completely scrambled. That's when I knew I'd need the Heart-Stabilizing Finger."
Cassius stared.
So the whole thing had been arranged.
"Is she a practitioner too?"
"Half," Sangye said, taking a sip of butter tea. "Grew up in the monastery, then went out to study. Now she does what you people call spiritual healing. Pretty popular in Los Angeles. Three hundred dollars an hour."
Cassius smiled.
"Back to the script," Sangye said, serious again. "Marvel wants your revision notes in two weeks. Then they'll start pre-production. Shooting in Qinghai and Iceland. Can't film in Tibet, but Qinghai has similar terrain. Iceland for the Dark Dimension—volcanic landscapes look alien enough."
"What about action design?"
"Yuen Woo-ping's team," Sangye said, pulling up an email. "But they need someone who understands Tibetan mudras to guide them. So I'll be in Los Angeles for three months. First time in America. Looking forward to it. Heard hamburgers are good?"
Cassius grinned. "As many as you want."
They talked through the afternoon.
Sangye didn't just understand scripts—he understood film. Shot language, pacing, the balance between commercial and artistic. He had studied cinema when he was younger, then returned to Tibet to practice, but he had never stopped following the industry.
"Have you seen Nolan's Interstellar?" he asked suddenly.
"Yeah."
"Where do you think it lost people?"
Cassius thought. "Too long. Too deep. Audience got tired."
"Right. And wrong," Sangye said, tapping the table. "It lost them on distance. Nolan wanted to talk about big ideas—love, time, human survival. But he stood way up high and talked down. Audience had to crane their necks to listen."
"Your Guardians of the Galaxy? You squatted down, threw an arm around the audience's shoulder and said, 'Bro, this tree guy dances. Pretty cool, right?'"
He even imitated the American casual tone. Not bad.
"So The Ancient One needs to sit in the middle. Has height, but not too high. Make the audience feel this sorcerer is badass, but also that he has the same everyday worries they do."
Cassius nodded.
The sun was starting to set. Long shadows stretched across the courtyard.
Dorje came in and said dinner was ready.
Sangye stood. "That's enough for today. You're staying in the guest room here. Conditions are simple, but quiet. We'll continue tomorrow."
Dinner was in the dining hall beside the scripture hall. Simple tsampa, butter tea, and stir-fried potato shreds. Cassius wasn't used to it and mostly pushed food around. A few young lamas at the table kept sneaking glances and whispering.
"Is that really Star-Lord?"
"Doesn't seem like it. In the movie he's funny—"
"Shh. No talking while eating."
Cassius smiled at them and kept eating.
That night the guest room had no TV, no internet. Just a bed, a table, a lamp. Outside, black mountains and a sky full of stars. The Milky Way was visible to the naked eye, the highland stars hanging low and bright.
Cassius lay on the bed and opened his panel.
[Side effects cleared]
[New passive skill acquired: Soul Anchor (Mental strength +20%. Greatly increased resistance to mental interference, memory confusion, and time distortion)]
Damn.
Sangye's one finger had given him a permanent buff.
This trip was already worth it.
He rolled over, thinking about the day's conversation. Sangye was right. The script needed more human struggle. And everything Cassius had lived through in the instance was perfect raw material—the moments of being afraid to die, the love-hate tangle with Karu, the nights when protecting the world started to feel meaningless.
All of it needed to go in.
He turned off his phone. The starlight was too bright to sleep.
He sat up, crossed his legs on the bed, and tried forming the Vishanti mudra again.
Hands moved through the sequence quickly.
Final position held.
Nothing happened.
But this time something felt different. Like a faint thread had connected to the world.
Footsteps passed outside—Dorje on night patrol. The sound faded. The monastery fell quiet again.
Cassius closed his eyes.
Tomorrow they would keep working on the script.
At seven the next morning, knocking woke him.
Dorje stood outside with a tray. "Teacher wants you to eat, then come to the scripture hall. We need to lock in the last few scenes."
On the tray: tsampa, butter tea, and two hard-boiled eggs.
Cassius washed up and ate sitting on the edge of the bed. The eggs were overcooked and the yolks stuck in his throat, but the butter tea helped.
Outside, dawn was just breaking. Morning light touched the distant peaks. Chanting had already started in the monastery.
At exactly eight he walked into the scripture hall.
Sangye was already there, sitting cross-legged on a cushion, tablet and handwritten notes spread in front of him.
He waved Cassius over. "Sit. Last three scenes."
They leaned over the screen and started grinding through the pages one line at a time.