The Goal (2)

I didn’t want to call it the senior’s legacy. I hated that word. Whenever I felt like it, I could just message him on Skylight and he’d greet me with that laugh of his. Hahaha.

I spent the next three days in a daze, holding the gift he’d left me. It felt like I was observing a three-day funeral rite. I didn’t want to do anything. I just replayed every memory: the sharp scoldings when I first contacted him, the warm advice he gave whenever trouble arose, even the time we spent in Hawaii. I laughed, then cried, then laughed again.

“Let him go.”

A monk approached me while I sat blankly on the wooden porch facing the Buddha statue.

“You still don’t understand.”

“Even so, let him go.”

When I didn’t answer, he continued.

“Form is emptiness, emptiness is form. Everything with shape arises from two causes, yet its true nature is originally void. Your relationship with that person was the same.”

“You’re an adult now. You must learn when to let go, and how to welcome new connections.”

With that, he clicked his tongue and returned to the main hall. From the distant main temple of Donghaksa, I could hear the chanting of the Heart Sutra.

That evening, I held a funeral inside my own heart.

The next day, I returned to my usual routine at Donghaksa. I woke up, trained, hiked the mountain, studied, and practiced emptying my mind. Something inside me felt like it was hardening.

“You’re finally starting to look decent.”

The monk spoke suddenly while we ate dinner. He had taught me that making noise during meals was rude, so when I replied with a simple “Thank you,” he smacked me. I answered humbly.

“Descend the mountain.”

?? He’d talked like he was going to keep me here forever.

“When I first saw you, I didn’t think you were an athlete. And when I saw the killing intent in your eyes, I assumed you belonged to the world of fists. Someone who’d killed before.”

“But watching how you carried yourself, that didn’t seem right either.”

“So what exactly are you?”

……

When I stayed silent, he either gave up on hearing an answer or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had never expected one. He left me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a piece of advice that was also a request.

“When you came here with Miju, you were a ticking time bomb ready to explode at the slightest touch. The people around you were barely holding you together.”

“Time here has calmed you down, but your true nature won’t change.”

“If you feel like you’re about to explode—or after you’ve already exploded—come find me.”

That evening, I packed my bags. I knew it was time to leave. Staying longer wouldn’t change anything.

The next morning, after my usual run around the mountain, I went to the main hall to say goodbye. A note lay on the porch. It was from the monk.

I tucked the note into my robe, entered the main hall, bowed to the Buddha, then bowed toward the monk’s quarters before returning ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to Seoul.

On the way back, I contacted Deputy Director Ha.

‘Deputy Director Ha, sorry, but could you send me the organizational chart one more time?’

While riding back to Seoul, I read the organizational plan Deputy Director Ha had sent. The core idea was simple: reduce the small-scale sales network and focus only on large-scale operations. With fifty-four regular members and eighteen assistant managers to manage, incidents kept happening and it was hard to find reliable people. If this were a legitimate business, we could just post job ads, fire whoever didn’t work out, and hire again. But that wasn’t an option here. I understood his point. Still, I had opposed using people with criminal records, and my thinking hadn’t changed. The moment we abandoned the small-scale network, our organization would be finished. I had the feeling we’d turn into fat, complacent pigs. Remembering how I started with pocket deliveries, I believed my view was correct. Looking back at the growth of the organization I’d built, my opinion still didn’t align with Deputy Director Ha’s.

Instead of agreeing, I contacted him.

‘Deputy Director Ha, let’s redraw the organizational plan.’

First, I thanked the two people who had been planning operations and strategy in my absence. Then I began by assessing the current state of the organization. While I had been training at Donghaksa, the group had continued operating beneath the surface. The prosecution seemed to have wrapped up the Gangnam incident after securing some results, and now politicians were using those findings to shout about connections and sling mud at each other. Let those who want to fight, fight. Aside from the members who had been taken away, the rest were half-forced into hiding, slowly burning through their stock. Section Chief Sun was expected back next week.

Next, I asked the executives to explain their reasoning once more. The issue was organizational structure—whether to shrink or maintain. The main reason, as always, was the difficulty of personnel management. This was an organization where failure was unacceptable, and any line reaching the leadership carried enormous risk.

Deputy Director Ha’s concern was clear. Every time a storm hit, people got swept away. So instead of that, why not keep only the sturdy ones—the ones who wouldn’t fly off—and manage them properly? But no matter how sturdy the tree, it couldn’t defeat nature. Besides, Deputy Director Ha was the one who had cut people for not listening. No. The decision had been mine. It was a communication problem, and I had to take responsibility.

Shannon Weaver once said that the communication process has several stages. It begins with the speaker’s thoughts—their will and ideology. Those thoughts are encoded into symbols through language, transmitted through a medium, received by the listener, decoded, and finally understood. That, he defined as communication. Every conversation, whether casual or serious, official or private, goes through this process. The problem, he noted, is that gaps appear at each step: the speaker’s thoughts may be flawed, the encoding may be poor, or the listener may decode incorrectly.

I countered. No ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠matter how well we managed things, a major incident would still sweep people away. How had our organization grown in the first place? Deputy Director Ha and I had started with gram-level pocket deliveries and seized an opportunity to expand. I pointed out that the previous reorganization had brought many benefits. Change created efficiency and motivation, didn’t it? Hadn’t they said they were working hard for the remaining deputy director positions? That was why a grassroots structure was better. Even if one or two people were lost, the organization wouldn’t collapse.

We brainstormed various opinions—shrink, maintain, or even expand.

“Then let’s create a wholesale team.”

I presented the plan I had considered on the way from Gongju to Seoul. Since I couldn’t completely ignore Deputy Director Ha’s opinion, I had prepared a Plan B as well. Truthfully, I wanted to keep things as they were. Some lines had dropped out during the process, but we had still grown well. Of course, I could force my will, but I didn’t want to. We would maintain the grassroots network reaching all the way to the end consumer while building one solid, reliable line. We would raise that friend as a wholesaler.

Deputy Director Ha also took a step back.

Back in Noryangjin, I tidied up the house and went to see Miju. Every weekend she had come to give me strength. This time, I would go to her and surprise her. Give and take—nothing was better in human relationships. Honestly, I had missed her.

When I got into a taxi and said, “Ewha University front, please,” the driver smiled and asked, “How would you like to go?”

“Just follow the navigation.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yeah, haha.”

He must have seen me smiling. We chatted about nothing in particular until a sudden thought struck me.

“Driver, what’s your goal in life?”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that question in broad daylight.”

He said people usually asked that after a few drinks, when they were feeling miserable. The pattern was always the same: they asked, but never listened. Most of them ended up crying while talking about themselves, then got out of the taxi.

“What goal could there be? Just that the kids grow up healthy, that I don’t get hurt while driving. That’s all.”