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“A Thousand Years of Obsidian”
Qin Zhao, a graduate student in the Department of Archaeology, found a rare obsidian bracelet while sorting out Dunhuang relics. Each bead contains a strand of golden quicksand, flowing like a galaxy under the light. The moment she put it on, the glass of the laboratory suddenly reflected the figure of a Tang Dynasty musician. “This is a burial object from the Mogao Caves.” The professor looked solemn, “According to records, the person who wears it can hear the ‘music of the dead’…” That night, Qin Zhao dreamed that she was standing in the Dunhuang night market a thousand years ago. The obsidian glowed in the moonlight, and a sad pipa sound came to her ears: “Be careful… in the mural…” The next day, she found a crack on the bracelet. Even more strange, the X-ray of the laboratory showed that each obsidian contained a miniature mural depicting some kind of sacrificial ceremony. Following the guidance of the dream, Qin Zhao came to the unopened Cave 465. When her hand touched a peeling mural, the obsidian suddenly became hot – a complete “Diamond Sutra” transformation picture was hidden under the mural, and the face of the donor was exactly the same as that of a wealthy man who sponsored the archaeological team. When footsteps were heard in the dark, the gold sand in the bracelet suddenly boiled. Qin Zhao turned around and saw the professor holding a camera, the lens reflecting the cold light: “Finally found the secret that Pelliot couldn’t take away back then…” The flying fairy on the mural suddenly began to peel off, revealing the blood-red spell at the bottom. Qin Zhao realized that what was sealed in the obsidian was not gold sand at all, but a curse written by the painter with gold powder mixed with his own blood – all those who arbitrarily moved the scriptures would never be reborn. When the wealthy man rushed into the cave with cutting tools, the whole string of obsidian suddenly exploded. Countless gold powders formed a furious Vajra in the moonlight, and the last bead in Qin Zhao’s hand was quietly reflecting the same thousand-year-old Buddha mark on the professor’s wrist.