The harsh winter was about to arrive, and the last season of the year for climbing Mount Everest was drawing to a close. Most travelers left this bitterly cold land immediately after using banknotes and Sherpa shoulders to complete an achievement worth boasting about on social media. Only the fanatics who devoted their wealth and souls to the Sherpa villages hidden deep beneath snow-covered mountains and black rock, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town of Shigatse, could witness a sight they would never forget for the rest of their lives.
The only road through the remote mountain village was steep and rugged, and the black stone path was packed with people in all kinds of clothing. Even during peak tourist season, the village was never this crowded. Led by a large group of red-robed lamas holding prayer wheels, Sherpas wrapped in rough, heavy wool coats stood devoutly along both sides of the road. They watched in awe and crowded around a procession of long-robed, haired monks walking down the path, offering them fried flatbread, tsampa, yogurt, and steaming Butter Tea. At the head of the enormous procession were not only ascetics smeared with bone-white ash and dressed in patched garments, but also several giants clad in magnificent Golden Armor and dark crimson capes. Ordinary people could barely reach the elbows of these mythical figures.
If the travelers knew anything about human history and geography, they would realize that these ascetics had likely come from the other side of the Himalayan Mountains. Their overly thin clothes and gaunt bodies could not possibly sustain them in such a harsh environment. Yet fervor raised their body temperature, and scattered snowflakes melted across their filthy ash-smeared skin, washing away the grime. The ascetics regarded the falling snow as a ritual, so they spread