Jesus Heaven, Buddha Hell (1)
"Tsk tsk!"
"You're here, S-man."
I leaned halfway against the massive iron bars separating the cell block from the guards' surveillance area and asked.
The tongue-clicking sound from beyond the bars was S-man's self-appointed code, something he'd decided on because he wanted to play secret agent like in a spy flick.
"You got here faster than expected. How'd you dodge the surveillance and trackers?"
"With Cafeteria's help."
S-man, positioned in a blind spot out of sight from the other inmates, explained how he'd infiltrated the place.
Well, Gyodongdo Island was a military base built to camouflage this prison facility, so civilians would've been relocated ages ago. And since secrecy was lifeblood here, they'd have been ultra-selective with staff. No women employees, thanks to the harsh environment—any flare-up meant brute force and bloodshed, so only men were posted. Cafeteria had the perfect setup for sneaking in.
"What're they doing now?"
"Monitoring and managing the entire facility in real-time from the control room. They said they'd signal once I arrived, but..."
"Got it."
One CCTV camera was bent at an odd angle, staring right at me. Cafeteria's way of saying they had our backs.
"Speaking of, what the hell is this place? Even the guards working here only seem to know fragments. The warden spilled some decent intel, but they had no clue about these guys' true nature. Just vaguely figured they couldn't be killed—or wouldn't die."
"You could slap fancy terms like enlightenment, ascension, reincarnation on it, but one word sums it up."
Transcendence.
As soon as I uttered it, S-man peered cautiously through the bars into the cell block.
"They all look like ordinary inmates."
"That's why they're anything but ordinary, right? Targeting realms beyond the mundane."
"...Makes sense when you put it that way."
"They crave transcendence. The twist? They're sharing the ascetic grind not through individual power, but collective."
"Paper can be lifted by a group physically, sure. But minds and bodies are separate for each person. How do they share the ordeal?"
"Why assume it's impossible?"
Take conjoined twins. Distinct personalities, brains, even two souls—but sharing one body means a lifetime together. Same space, same time, same events. Personalities might clash, but environments stay identical; viewpoints differ, but they see the same things. Two egos living one life's worth. Despite being clearly separate entities.
"Look closer. Do they really seem like ordinary inmates?"
S-man scanned the prisoners in my arbitrary A, B, and C groups, then nodded as realization dawned.
"They're moving like one body—many parts, single organism."
"Yeah. Like they've divvied up the load."
"Even so, they won't all hit enlightenment or transcend simultaneously. Different roles mean different outcomes at the same moment, right?"
"Think back to why the government dragged them here."
"Because they posed a massive threat that could collapse society?"
"Who breaks the bonds and systems of normal society?"
"Usually vicious criminals, international terrorists, traitors... and cults. Ah."
S-man's eyes widened as he caught on.
"But still weird. Korea's crawling with cults. Shincheonji's the most infamous."
"Has Shincheonji's leader or cronies ever performed real miracles in front of fanatics?"
"...No. Just slick sophistry to reel people in."
"That's why the government's hands-off. As long as cults don't commit obvious crimes, religious freedom applies. But these guys? Different story."
"They showed off undeniable immortality."
Bingo. Government tolerates cults below a certain threshold, but public displays screaming "We're not human" are a no-go. That's why sorcerers operate in the shadows with tacit approval. Overt miracles? Government steps in to maintain order. My own spotlight came from YouTube vids.
"Government admitted throwing everything at killing them. Meaning? No plans to warehouse here from the start. Spot a miracle-worker? Kill 'em quick, shut 'em up."
"Failed, so they locked 'em up instead?"
"Half right, half wrong. Yeah, they rounded up every 'immortal' miracle-maker nationwide and dumped 'em here. But these fuckers didn't know each other before incarceration."
"Profiles."
As S-man said, I reviewed the inmate dossiers the black-suited guy had handed over in the office. Birthdates, life histories, year-by-year breakdowns—I devoured it all. Confirmed: total strangers. Same charges, same prison, even buddying up in cliques? All fake. Hilarious, right?
"Back to the original question. Different tasks, same outcome at the finish line? Simple. Piece together the scattered puzzle (consciousnesses). Merge 'em, done."
"So you're saying all these inmates are...?"
"Yup. Government's been clueless, letting this Living Buddha hatchery run wild. Now we gotta patch it up. Thought year-end might bring something fun—stepped in shit instead."
To the government, ironclad prison. To them? Training ground for penance, ritual space to unify shattered minds, hatchery to shatter mortal shells and ascend as Living Buddhas.
"If you get how urgent this is, head to the cafeteria. Whip up some 'special menu'."
"...Yes, sir!"
I sent S-man off, then mouthed silently at the CCTV still watching. Instantly, the cell block's soothing background music for mental stability and indoctrination cut out. The TVs blaring religious channels went dark too.
The inmates' rigid routine—clockwork as a pro athlete's warm-up—just crumbled.
First ripples of unrest as the gentle tunes and tongue-speaking pastors vanished. Their daily grind: meditate to the music, absorb sermons, perform assigned penances. Even athletes tank without routines; imagine pre-transcendence zealots?
But they've got backups.
Sure enough, inmates who'd frozen mid-ascetic snapped into flipped behaviors. Group A drifted from the now-silent TVs, sinking into quiet meditation. Group B halted activity, suddenly bowing in perfect rows. Group C, slumping like corpses, started muttering—ears perked, it was Sanskrit (Sanskṛtam), ancient tongue barely used today. How'd I know? Hell if I know. Latin sticks in my ears fine; Sanskrit's no different.
Anyway, prepped alternate routines for disruptions... Yeah, merging consciousnesses here was the plan from day one.
Pre-me: 65 inmates, 15 "natural deaths," 50 left? Leaky intel. Numbers 051-065 didn't die—they merged first.
Then, the silent speakers crackled. Suddenly, a familiar nursery rhyme blasted out.
"Finally."
From today, 24/7—you're stuck listening to Baby Shark with me.