On the third night of the winter snow in Medog, the door of Jila Temple was knocked open. A man covered in blood fell into the snow, and the Qiongqi tattoo on his left arm was soaked in blood. When the Tibetan doctor cut open the frozen cotton-padded clothes, a system pop-up window lit up - the special identity triggered the disguise and rewarded the Tibetan pulse-finding skills. I squatted by the brazier and stared at his red face, and suddenly I felt like I had seen this face before. The Buddha clasped his hands together and whispered: People who don't feel pain are either true gods or evil ghosts. When he took the stoneware bowl, he changed his hand and his sleeves slid down half an inch.
