The Shramana at the Northern Gate
Even the Sage himself knew how foolish it was.
How could any man live doing only what he wished?
Childish. Absurd. He had no defense against the charge.
And still, knowing all of that, he truly did not want to be king.
If I refuse the throne—then what?
The question turned over and over in his mind. He could, like the shramanas he had once defeated, sever every tie to the world, found a school of his own, and raise disciples. That would not be so terrible. But how many would follow the teachings of a coward who had cast off his duty and fled? He would be lucky to escape with nothing worse than pointed fingers and scorn.
Nor did he want to bury himself in some empty jungle and cut every bond. What meaning was there in living alone, like a beast?
The truth of his torment was simpler still. There was no joy left in living—only the weight of obligation and duty. Becoming king was not a choice among many. It was the only path remaining.
That ordinary, merciless fact would not leave him alone.
Even so, having steeled himself at last, the Sage made to enter the palace one final time through the northern gate.
"Aaaaaah!!"
"Kosala soldiers!"
"Run! We have to tell the Regent!"
Screams tore through the air without warning. The Sage turned toward the direction the people were fleeing from—and there, in the distance, an army of no small size was pouring forward. Their armor and dress made it plain enough: they had come from the Kosala Kingdom. Men bearing swords and spears, clad in full armor, did not arrive with peaceful intentions.
He had been restless anyway. For a change of pace, if nothing else, the Sage walked out and planted himself in their path.
"Who are you?"
The man leading the Kosala force—clearly their commander—called out as the Sage approached. Under ordinary circumstances he would have cut the stranger down and ordered the advance without a second thought. But a quiet, oppressive pressure rolled off the figure before him, and his body shrank back of its own accord.
"I am Gautama Siddhartha, prince of this land. I have returned to my homeland after a long absence, and it seems you mean to do my country harm—so I stand in your way."
"Gautama Siddhartha…? The famous shramana?"
The sudden appearance of so formidable a man left them visibly shaken. The soldiers knew his renown as well; a low murmur of unease ran through the ranks.
"Speak. You look to be soldiers of Kosala. What business brings you here?"
"…As you say, we come from the Kosala Kingdom. Your lord insulted our king, and so we have marched."
"Our king?"
His father would never have done anything so reckless. The man was not one to pick needless fights with careless words. Then, unbidden, something rose in the Sage's memory. Once, at a drinking party, his cousin Mahanama had sneered behind Virudhaka's back, calling the Kosala prince the son of a slave woman—and the Sage had rebuked him sharply for running his mouth. Mahanama was no fool who would hurl such an insult to a man's face. Somehow, that muttered slight must have found its way to Virudhaka's ears.
Come to think of it, Virudhaka drove out his own father and took the throne of Kosala, didn't he? But why call him 'your lord'? Mahanama is only a member of the royal family—nothing more.
His thoughts knotted. He could not be certain of the full picture, but it seemed likely that Virudhaka meant to use this chance to conquer the Shakya Kingdom and lock his own kingship into place. Whether that was the truth or not, the Sage could not simply stand by while Kosala raised its hand against his people.
"What are you doing, stopping there?! Kapilavastu is right in front of us!"
The voice came from far back in the column, yet somehow it reached both the Sage and the commander with perfect clarity.
This is…
Something felt wrong. The Sage sensed a faint divinity—though at the time he had no name for what he felt.
In any case, he now knew that the true leader of this force stood elsewhere. He plunged straight into the enemy ranks, cutting a path through the soldiers in a single breath, and arrived where the voice had come from.
"Wh-what—?"
A man in splendid robes sat atop a palanquin borne by attendants. He stared at the Sage's sudden appearance in open shock. His frame was well-proportioned, the muscle visible beneath his clothes as solid as any warrior's. A strong fighter, yes—but beyond that, something about him was fundamentally different from ordinary men.
This is…
Through his eyes, the Sage saw it clearly: the man carried a Prana unlike anything other people possessed. Everyone's Prana had its own temperament, of course—but this was no mere individual variation. Faint though it was, it was something entirely other than the life force ordinary humans bore.
It was the first moment the Sage truly, unmistakably recognized divinity.
"Who are you?"
"I am Siddhartha, crown prince of this country. Are you Virudhaka, king of Kosala?"
"You dare speak a king's name so freely—!!"
Virudhaka ripped free his sword and hurled it. The blade struck the earth with such force that a crater opened and dust boiled upward—but it did not find the Sage.
"Ghk—!"
In the next instant Virudhaka's face was seized and driven into the ground. The palanquin shattered beneath him. The Sage had leapt in a single bound and crushed him from above—the motion simply too fast for anyone to follow.
"Breaking your neck here would be the easiest thing in the world."
"Y-you dare—!!"
Virudhaka strained with monstrous strength, trying to tear free of the Sage's grip by raw force. It did him no good. The Sage was, without exaggeration, the strongest human alive. Even if Virudhaka was a mutant demigod carrying a spark of divinity, the gulf in sheer physical power was absolute.
"Withdraw your army. Now."
"D-don't make me laugh! I—I will never submit—"
The Sage applied pressure.
The force on Virudhaka's face and throat surged past any reasonable limit. A fraction more, and his neck would snap and his skull would crush.
"Ghhhk—aaaaargh!!??"
"I'll let you go. Pull your army back. I will not say it a third time."
The Sage released him. Virudhaka scrambled away, clutching his throat. A moment later he realized he had fled like a terrified dog—and still he could not bring himself to give the order to advance. Instinct had already told him the truth: push any further, and he would die. And if he died, the soldiers would not hesitate long before turning for home. The attack on the Shakya Kingdom had been his command alone; there was no profit in this war worth the blood it would cost.
"…We withdraw."
In the end, seething with resentment, Virudhaka had no choice but to pull his forces back. Thousands of soldiers receded from the northern gate of the Shakya Kingdom.
"Don't think this is the end."
Virudhaka twisted around to spit the threat over his shoulder. The Sage paid it no mind. The empty bluster of a defeated man, nothing more.
"Not even worth killing time."
The enemy had been far weaker than expected. And since the Sage had no taste for slaughtering the helpless, he considered this a reasonably peaceful send-off.
An unfamiliar presence brushed against him. A strange sensation drew his gaze upward—and there, floating in empty air, a small child looked down at him.
What is that?
Was it even human?
The Sage's eyes stripped the child's nature bare. It belonged to a category utterly apart from ordinary living things. In a sense, it was a finished being—complete. The alien, faint Prana he had sensed in Virudhaka filled this creature to overflowing. It did not age. It carried none of the mortal limits every living thing was supposed to bear. It wore a human shape, but in truth it was a being of an entirely different order.
How could one even name such a thing?
If gods existed, this was close enough to perfection to deserve the word.
No. That was wrong.
This was a god. If this was not a god, nothing in the world could claim the name.
The Sage's eyes met the child's. Interest kindled in the small face at the discovery that someone could perceive it.
"…Who are you?"
"A god… So gods truly exist."
The Sage did not doubt a word of it. His all-seeing eyes had already confirmed the truth: the child before him was one of those transcendent beings spoken of only in legend—immortal, unbound by the constraints of the real.
And so, at the northern gate, the Sage met not a fellow seeker of the Way, but a god.
Another singularity—one that would bend a fate already written.