Echoes from the Burned Temple

Bo-ta Munju Un-seon's words opened with a spark of curiosity.

"Where did you learn such a mantra?"

A thousand years ago, Buddhism hadn't fully spread yet—it was known only among a few pioneers. Back in Chim-ju, his writing teacher Mok-u had introduced him to a few sutras, marking the beginning of his studies. Later, being in Sin-gang, close to Cheonchuk and the Western Regions, made it easy to encounter more. Naturally, there were no Hanja translations of the Buddhist scriptures then; they spoke in the original Sanskrit. Out of familiarity, he'd recited the mantra in Sanskrit.

Only now did the sole mantra in the previous Mu Yun's memories surface.

'Ah! Namu Amitabul, Gwanseeum Bosal!'

But beyond that, there was no knowledge or memory related to Buddhism. He quickly made up an excuse.

"A monk who taught me sutras recited it that way, so I followed suit."

"Oh! I see. I'm curious what kind of person still uses Sanskrit these days."

"He's passed on now."

"Oh no! Do you know his dharma name?"

"He never told me. He just taught me the true scriptures."

"In Sanskrit?"

"Yes."

Un-seon's eyes sparkled. It could just be a trick—he knew only a single short phrase and was trying to deceive them. He added carefully,

"Do you remember anything else?"

"I know a few more."

"Could we hear them?"

"Of course."

Mu Yun's eyes gleamed. An unexpected variable had arisen.

'This is my chance.'

With Ha Hu's matter settled, the only one left was Bangju Gok Jeong-pil. Winning favor with the Bo-ta Munju could allow a small request—enough to shake off the bangju's gang for a moment. That moment could decide success or failure.

Mu Yun recalled his memories and recited softly. In this situation, he needed a mantra not widely known even back then.

After a good while, as several mantras flowed, all eyes turned to Mu Yun in bewilderment. They'd thought he'd overheard just a line or two by chance, but for a quarter of an hour, the clear Sanskrit mantras continued endlessly.

At one point, Jin Seo-yeon's surprised gaze shifted to Munju Un-seon.

'No way!'

The mantra that had just begun was one even she had never heard. Wondering if it was nonsense, she checked Un-seon's expression—it was utterly solemn. No one dared interrupt in that gravity.

After a long while more, Un-seon's grave mantra slipped from her lips.

"Namu Amitabul! Who would have thought I'd meet a noble being here."

All astonished gazes turned to her. For the leader of one of the Central Plains' premier Buddhist sects—alongside Soring and Ami—to call him a noble being was no small matter.

Jin Seo-yeon, more curious than anyone, stepped forward.

"Munju-nim, what do you mean?"

"It's clearly the mantra to open the dharma assembly at Yeongheung-sa. But it was almost entirely lost in a fire—how does this layman know it?"

This could work out better than expected. His old friend, the monk Ban Gak, had been the abbot of Yeongheung-sa.

"The monk who taught me mentioned Yeongheung-sa."

"Heavens! Really? It burned down centuries ago!"

A natural question rose in Mu Lun's mind.

"Was Yeongheung-sa destroyed?"

"It was."

"How?"

A wistful shadow crossed Un-seon's eyes.

"The long passage of time. Wars, murim affairs... it happened somehow. But do you know any other true scriptures?"

"A few more."

"Really? Could you pass them on? I beg you."

"It's not difficult, but I have a request of my own."

Un-seon's eyes deepened.

"For such precious scriptures, I'll do anything I can. What is it?"

"I'll tell you after writing them down. Whether you grant it is up to you, Munju-nim."

"Heavens! You want me to decide after?"

"It's not that hard."

After a moment's thought, Un-seon spoke gravely.

"Very well. Come to my quarters."

"Yes."

Dan Mok Cheol-jin's face flushed red and pale by turns. Just moments ago, he'd been a lowly worm. For Bo-ta Mun's munju to show such interest was infuriating. He'd never even sat alone with her.

'You little shit, how dare you!'

Sogaju Ha Hu Cheon-gi was dumbfounded.

'What the hell is this?'

For Bo-ta Munju of all people to act this way meant something was up. Yet he was clearly just a grunt from a black path gang. For now, he had to watch closely. This was someone to keep an eye on until the end.

The others murmured.

"What's going on here?"

"Were those really precious scriptures that thug recited?"

"How should we know? But Munju-nim isn't one to be fooled."

"Even so, he probably just got lucky and overheard a few."

Dan Mok Cheol-jin couldn't comprehend it. The expression while reciting scriptures—could it really be the same trembling coward from yesterday? He was even doubting himself. But his worry was singular: the man he'd tried to cripple might become Bo-ta Mun's benefactor.

Dan Mok Cheol-jin shook his head.

'Nah.'

Reciting a few phrases like a high monk was con artist territory. But writing them down was another level. Without years of practice and deep scholarship, it'd show. Bo-ta Munju wouldn't miss it.

A chill glint entered his eyes. In fact, it was a relief.

'Trying to play tricks in front of Bo-ta Munju.'

If exposed, it'd give him grounds to deal with him again.

'When he comes out!'

Ha Hu's quarters.

As Mu Yun transcribed the mantras onto paper, he frowned.

"Um, sorry, could I rewrite this?"

He prided himself on his calligraphy above all else, but this body's hand felt unfamiliar. To his eyes, it was scrawled chicken feet.

"Why? Any wrong characters?"

"It's been so long since I wrote, my hand isn't used to it."

"I see. Rewrite it."

After crumpling a dozen sheets and starting over several times,

'Paper! What a marvel.'

The texture was worlds apart from rough bamboo slips, drawing a smile to his lips. New to paper, the smoothness felt strange at first, but soon the brush danced freely, the ink absorbing just right, forming his desired script.

A light thrill trembled his lips. If writing could be this joyful,

'Maybe I'll live as a scholar this life.'

Then a memory from Mu Yun surfaced.

'Wait! Come to think of it.'

His clan, Cheon Ga-jang, lay about two hundred li north of Chim-ju, in Nae-yang—the hometown of the eunuch Cae Lun, who introduced paper to the world. And the clan producing the most paper there was his own Cheon Ga-jang. The place with his family.

But to Mu Lun, who'd lived as an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠orphan, blood ties were alien. And there were painful wounds. Wol So-ryeo, raised like a daughter—their parting hadn't been good.

Mu Yun shook his head vigorously.

'Not yet.'

For now, focus on the matter at hand.

Meanwhile, Un-seon, alternating between the crumpled sheets and the current script, watched her eyes widen more and more.

'How!'

The first script was already on par with a decent scholar's, but now it was truly like the Dragon Tablet Stele—flawlessly fluid, without a single flaw.

And the script was clerical script (ye-seo), used centuries ago. It matched the era when those mantras burned.

The content, the brush power in every stroke, even the script style—all proclaimed the scriptures' authenticity.

Curiosity tinged, Un-seon sent a sound transmission to Jin Seo-yeon.

Jin Seo-yeon was equally stunned by the calligraphy. It wasn't masterful, but poetry, writing, and painting were among her interests.

Un-seon shook her head firmly.

Jin Seo-yeon's eyes widened like saucers. She knew Un-seon's skill better than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠anyone.

Soon enough, Mu Yun let out a long sigh and a satisfied smile.

"It's done now. Please take a look."

Un-seon's faint smile deepened as she examined the writing. She was en route to the Central Plains Grand Dharma Assembly at Soring—this scripture would surely elevate Buddha and Bo-ta Mun's name there.

"I've already checked. I acknowledge it's precious. May I ask a few interpretations?"

"I know little, so I may not help much."

"Just share what you know."

The dharma discussion that followed lasted about half a shichen. But Mu Yun's expression remained clouded throughout.

'Heavens! Even Buddha's words have come to this.'

Mu Lun still couldn't forget the shock of first encountering Buddhism.

'It upended my world.'

Mu Lun, Yeo Hwi, and Yeo Dan had been fugitives fleeing the custom of live burial. Escaping that barbarity, they'd settled in Chim-ju, hiding their identities—fleeing retainers was an unforgivable crime then.

About two hundred years prior, Kongja had proclaimed live burial a heaven-defying sin. After his death, his philosophy became the ruling class's doctrine, emphasizing strict hierarchy and centralization—but that didn't matter to Mu Lun. Kongja's words freed him from lifelong criminality.

Then, delving into scholarship, he learned Buddhism's teachings.

All things in the world are equal in essence, without distinction.

A lowborn like him could become Buddha through asceticism—it was a thunderbolt.

Yet a millennium later, Buddhism had changed utterly. He understood it had to—time brings change.

'Inevitably, after so long.'

Now, Buddhism blended Confucianism, Daoism, and Laozi thought, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠steeped in Central Plains colors. Natural, perhaps. But Mu Yun couldn't help his regret.

It wasn't about thriving or not.

'I hoped Buddha's true words would remain for the lowly.'

But that was his wish alone. Like Kongja or Buddha's teachings, widespread ideas evolve. Just regretful.

Meanwhile, Jin Seo-yeon's dazed gaze never left Mu Yun during the debate.

First, shock at his Buddhist knowledge—even topics she couldn't grasp arose.

But as the sharp debate with Un-seon pressed on without pause, her mouth hung open.

'Impossible!'

Who was Bo-ta Munju Un-seon? One of the Central Plains' top monkesses. Yet the logical battle showed neither side dominant.

More shocking: the fire in his eyes as he argued.

'From the weak's side.'

His rebukes—why had Buddhism, meant to champion the suffering and deprived, strayed?—pierced Un-seon like needles, not once or twice.

But what gave her chills, enveloping her in passion, was another reason.

Mu Yun intrigued her. Not who he was.

What that gaze revealed.

'A seeker's eyes—on a black path deputy?'

Black path wielded blades for self-interest, excuses for dogs.

Yet this black path deputy had it.

She, torn between swordswoman and nun, couldn't help wondering. She'd wanted nunhood, but watching pirates die by her blade distanced her from the seeker's path.

Yet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she saw it in this thug—the thing she was losing, abandoning. Her parched, yearning gaze clung to Mu Yun.

'How?'