Tour of the Four Gates
The tale of the crown prince who left the palace at twenty-five and wandered the world became a legend of heroism, spreading to every corner of the land.
Above all, the story of a man who sought out the strong and challenged them was more than enough to set people aflame with excitement.
But even for such a prince, the six Shramanas were adversaries so formidable that one had to stake one's life against them.
The word Shramana originally meant ascetics who withdrew from the secular world in pursuit of enlightenment — yet at some point it had come to signify grandmasters who had pushed Four-Image Martial Arts to its absolute limit.
Facing them, the prince's blood boiled. He felt more alive than ever before. It was the desperate, all-or-nothing struggle he had longed for.
Nigantha Nataputta practiced non-killing, non-possession, non-falsehood, non-theft, and non-intoxication, perfecting a Four-Image Martial Art of absolute non-attachment. Though his body was frail, no attack could touch him — and he alone was the one opponent against whom the prince could never decide a victor.
Sanjaya Belatthiputta was a master of Four-Image Martial Arts built upon illusion. He poured his skeptical philosophy and ceaseless doubt straight into his art, scrambling the prince's senses until the man nearly took his own life. Midway through the fight, however, the prince awakened the Mind's Eye, perceived the dissonance each sense was reporting, and turned the tables with a counterattack. Afterward, those among Sanjaya's disciples who had already grown doubtful of their master's teachings became the prince's students — and Sanjaya, shattered by the shock, coughed blood and died.
Ajita Kesakambalin was, unkindly put, little better than a beast; even kindly put, he was nothing more than a hedonist. He took drugs, took women, slept when he pleased, and killed when he pleased. A brute of a man — yet the Four-Image Martial Arts he had built were the real thing. With animalistic movement he threw the prince into confusion again and again, and the technique that burned his own life force to unleash monstrous strength and speed was especially lethal. In the end, the prince's fist punched clean through his chest, and he died.
Makkhali Gosala was the incarnation of emptiness. He was less a teacher than a monster of unknown nature. He took no disciples; he simply killed whoever came seeking a match. He believed everything was already predetermined, and by absorbing the Prana of anyone nearby he could win without truly fighting. But the prince controlled his own Prana with near-perfect mastery and refused to let a single drop be stolen. Judging that none of his attacks would ever work, Makkhali cut his own throat and ended his life.
Pakudha Kaccayana made no distinction between the living and the non-living. An unmoving boulder, flowing water, a human soul — all were fundamentally the same to him. And so his sword was colder and sharper than anything else. Even the prince's powerful body was carved open countless times by Pakudha's blade. Yet when the prince answered with a sword of his own, the duel ended with Pakudha's blade shattered and his arm severed, never to hold a sword again. The words the prince spoke at the close of that desperate fight — "Your sword is faster than anything, yet it holds nothing, and so it is light" — spread so widely they would be remembered for generations.
Purana Kassapa had been born a slave. Perhaps for that reason, justice and morality held no claim on him whatsoever. When he heard that the prince was coming to challenge him, he resorted to every underhanded method imaginable — ambushes, deception — trying to prevent the duel from ever taking place. In the end he unleashed a Four-Image Martial Art of poison, but it had no effect on the prince. The prince broke Purana's limbs just enough, accepted his surrender, and left without a second glance.
After that, the prince continued to travel the world with his companions. What he came to understand was simple: there was no longer anyone left who could stand as his equal.
"I suppose it's time to go back."
He was only thirty years old.
The years of travel had changed him deeply — for better and for worse — and had set the shape of his temperament more firmly than ever.
"Sage, the night grows late. Shall we camp nearby for the evening?"
"Very well."
People no longer called him the crown prince. They called him the Sage. He had contended with the six great masters and, in the end, prevailed — so the logic ran that he must be the most righteous and wisest of all.
"That irritating look on your face again. What useless thoughts are you chewing on this time?"
As always, his cousin needled him the moment the Sage settled into a seat.
"Nothing much. Just feeling a little regretful."
"Regretful about what? Going home?"
"That too. But more than that — the fact that I have no rivals left. That stings quite a bit."
"No rivals?"
"Yeah. Seems I've gotten a little too strong."
"…Hah."
Irritation surging, the cousin sprang up and launched a surprise kick at the Sage. Before any force could gather in the leg, the Sage rested his index finger against the shin. That was all it took. The ambush was casually, completely stopped.
Thoom.
Dust billowed from the impact, yet the Sage's face showed no particular interest — the expression of a man brushing away a bothersome insect. The cousin's chest tightened with feeling. He already knew the gap between them had grown vast. No matter how hard he tried to close it, time only widened the distance the other way. Feeling that truth again, envy rose sharp in his heart.
"I don't like that look in your eyes. So that's why you've been wearing the face of a man who's already finished living."
"That's right."
"Good. You've had your fun. Now you can finally prepare to become a true king."
"…"
"Don't tell me you haven't even thought about that. If you were dead, fine — but you're alive. It's time to shoulder a crown prince's duty."
"…You're right, Devadatta."
"Tsk. Annoying bastard."
The cousin clicked his tongue and walked away. The Sage watched him go for a moment, then, just as his cousin had said, turned his thoughts toward the future that awaited him.
Once he returned, he would inevitably succeed his father and take the throne. He would bear responsibility, be bound by obligation, and spend his entire life living for others. A life so dreadfully dull and tedious it was almost horrifying. Even if wine and women were available, he doubted they could ever match the thrill of a life-or-death struggle against a worthy foe. The privileges a sage-king might enjoy meant virtually nothing to him.
Is the sudden recovery of my sight heaven's way of telling me to accept my fate?
The Sage opened his eyes. Where once they had been clouded, they now shone like blue jewels. Crossing the line between life and death had expanded the domain of Prana he could command, and his body had begun to leave the ordinary path entirely. Unless a limb was severed clean through, most wounds would heal on their own.
He could see the countless stars scattered across the night sky, the moon, the grass and trees steeped in green. And when he focused his eyes as he once had, still more revealed itself. The sight called back memories of a childhood that had once seemed meaningless and dull.
"Master, I have something to ask."
The next day, while they were on the move, one of the disciples approached the Sage. Disciple — though the Sage had never once considered himself a proper teacher to any of them. Strictly speaking, people had simply insisted on becoming his students and begged for instruction, and he had never bothered to push them away. Surprisingly, teaching others had turned out to be rather enjoyable.
"If you become king, Master… will you still be able to offer us your teachings?"
The Sage shook his head. Through five years of travel he had come to feel that a king and a teacher could not coexist. A king responsible for an entire nation would have to choose his disciples carefully, and there would be limits to what he could teach. A kind of conviction, perhaps. He did not want to wear the mask of a master only to bind his students.
"I've already said it. If I succeed my father and become king, I cannot teach you. You should each find your own path."
"No, Master. I only asked out of curiosity. We all follow you because we want to. For as long as you remain our teacher, we will stay with you."
"There's no need to force it."
Even the Sage's discouragement could not break their resolve. In the end he let out a faint sigh and left them alone.
"There — Kapilavastu is in sight!"
Someone's voice carried over. The shape of the homeland where the Sage had been born and raised entered his field of vision. Paradoxically, his steps toward home grew heavy. His mind had been tangled long before he ever reached this place, and he still had no answer.
"What are you doing?"
At the eastern gate, his cousin looked back at him.
"Go in with the others first. I… have something to check."
"You never stop, do you."
The cousin clicked his tongue and passed through the gate with the disciples. The Sage steadied his restless heart and prepared to set foot inside — when his gaze fell on an old man sitting nearby. Looking at that wrinkled face and the frail body slumped as if it could no longer support itself, the Sage felt as though he were staring at his own future. Only then did he understand that the reality he had been refusing to face had drawn right up to his nose. He saw himself as king — growing ugly, growing old, and dying.
That day, the Sage did not cross the gate.
The next day, unsettled, he made for the southern gate. There he saw the sick — bodies propped against the wall, people who could not even control their own limbs — and fear seized him cold. He saw himself as king, wasting away day by day. That day, too, he could not return to the palace.
The day after that, he tried the western gate. There he watched a funeral bier leave the city, the people trailing behind it wailing. Once more the Sage saw himself as king, meeting death. He did not fear death itself — but he did not want to die as a king. The royal duty his father had branded into him as a child kept tormenting him without end.