bayedsolid Chapter 296: Unable to snag a ticket, she transmigrates into the body of Princess Wencheng.
Chapter 296: Unable to snag a ticket, she transmigrates into the body of Princess Wencheng.
Zhen Xiaosi, clutching her phone, curled up on the bay window of the guesthouse, tapping away at the screen. The loading bar of the Potala Palace reservation system, like a slowly swaying Tibetan antelope, finally popped up after seventeen or eighteen laps—the four bold words, "Remaining Tickets: 0," made her temples throb.
"What a lousy system! It's harder to refresh than my ex-boyfriend's conscience!" She made an international hand gesture at the WiFi router, refreshing the page for the 47th time in three days. As a seasoned travel blogger, whose guides are full of "official website ticket-hunting tips," she now felt like a snowbird with its throat being choked, watching helplessly as her itinerary on the calendar turned into a pale, blank page.
The bay window reflected her pouty face, the freckles on her nose trembling from the high-altitude UV rays. Suddenly, a pop-up window appeared in the lower right corner with a gilded Tibetan antelope icon. The eight gold-plated characters, "Exclusive Channel? Potala Palace VIP Access," gleamed eerily in the twilight. Zhen Xiaosi's eyelashes fluttered twice, and she clicked on it almost unconsciously—after all, who could resist the temptation of "100% ticket availability"? Especially since the other party's profile picture was of the Potala Palace's gilded roof, and their WeChat Moments were filled with smiling tourists holding up their tickets.
"Don't worry, little sister, see you at the foot of Yaowang Mountain at eight o'clock tomorrow morning." The voice from "Potala Ticketing" on the other end of WeChat carried a strong aroma of yak butter tea. Zhen Xiaosi stared at the 800 yuan transfer record and bit her lip. The 200 yuan ticket price on the official website now fluttered like prayer flags on her phone screen. She comforted herself: consider it paying protection money to the highland sunshine.
Before dawn the next day, she crouched at the foot of Yaowang Mountain, wrapped in her windbreaker. The soft tinkling of prayer wheels echoed through the morning mist, but the expected yellow vest didn't appear. Her phone switched from 4G to 2G, and the chat window turned into a red exclamation mark; only then did Zhen Xiaosi realize she'd been blocked. "You damn scalpers! My drone has filmed Mount Kailash!" she grumbled, waving her trekking pole at the empty street, startling a few lazy pigeons perched on the wall.
As she cursed until her throat was dry, suddenly ripples spread across the bluestone slabs beneath her feet. Countless golden prayer wheels flashed before Zhen Xiaosi's eyes. When she opened them again, her palms no longer felt the coldness of her phone, but the warm smoothness of carved sandalwood. The dangling jewels cast delicate shadows on her forehead, and the woman in the mirror wore a moon-white, water-sleeved ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), with a single floral adornment between her brows like a fallen peach petal.
"Does the princess find the rouge too pale?" Xiao Yao approached, carrying a mother-of-pearl inlaid makeup box. The silver bells in her hair jingled softly with each step, and her fingertips gently twisted the hem of her sleeve. "Yesterday, I specially had a Tibetan craftsman grind some new malachite powder, mixed with peach blossom dew. It has a more delicate, snowy fragrance than the rouge from Chang'an."
Zhen Xiaosi looked down at the bright yellow imperial edict on the table, the words "Conferring the title of Princess Wencheng upon Lady Li of Rencheng" instantly chilling her fingertips. The distinctive scent of Tibetan incense drifted in from outside the window, mingling with the bitterness of failing to buy tickets, brewing a ridiculous dizziness in her nostrils. She instinctively poked her cheek—ouch, the pain making her eyes twitch.
"Princess, be careful!" Xiao Yao hurriedly put down her makeup box and gently pressed a handkerchief embroidered with twin lotus flowers onto her flushed cheeks. "Although the sun is strong on the plateau, your face has just been treated with ghee ointment; you can't let it suffer like this."
The beauty in the mirror frowned, the turquoise pendant on her earlobe shimmering with tiny spots of light. Zhen Xiaosi suddenly remembered what the travel guide said: the Potala Palace was originally built for Princess Wencheng. But now, the jade belt around her waist was so tight she wanted to curse. Forget about princesses; she just wanted to grab that scalper and ask: If I traveled back to 2025 from the Zhenguan era, could I still file a complaint?
"Princess, the king's wedding envoy has arrived outside Lhasa." Xiao Yao gazed at the gradually clearing procession outside the window, her voice thick with the aroma of yak butter, yet tinged with a barely perceptible tremor. "The chieftain said we'll be passing through seven city gates today. What do you think of this makeup... should we add some more vermilion?"
Looking at her face, which was gradually turning sorrowful in the mirror, Zhen Xiaosi suddenly laughed. She wiped the gilded bronze mirror on her dressing table, reflecting the blue sky and white clouds outside the window—so be it. Princess Wencheng didn't have an appointment system when she went to Tibet, yet she still managed to travel the ancient Tang-Tibet Road a thousand years ago. Now that she, Zhen Xiaosi, had transmigrated into "Jiamusa," perhaps she could invent an ancient version of WeChat mini-program so that future tourists would never be scammed by scalpers again.
“Xiao Yao,” she suddenly grasped the maid’s cold hand, and rouge and powder puffs from the mother-of-pearl makeup box fluttered onto the moon-white hem of her skirt, “you said we could draw a QR code on the travel document, and when we get to Lhasa, could the Zanpu scan the code to make an appointment using yak coins?”
Xiao Yao froze, then a silvery laugh suddenly escaped her lips: "Princess, you're being witty again. But... if we could really get Tibetan caravans to carry your 'reservation scrolls' across the grasslands, perhaps even the gods of the snow-capped mountains would remember your name."
Thinking this, she gently brushed the pages of "A Record of My Experiences in Tibet" on her desk, a smile more radiant than a peach blossom ornament blooming on her lips. Outside the window, prayer flags fluttered in the morning breeze, as if unfolding a wondrous journey for this ticket-buying girl from a thousand years in the future—a journey she had never planned before…