What I Couldn't Pass On (2)
He was a young man whose presence exuded a mature air, even if he was a bit on the large side.
Amitabha.
Thinking back, their meeting hadn't been ordinary from the start.
Does he see right through people's true hearts?
Or perhaps he knew instinctively. Sometimes, Namgung Daeso gave off an atmosphere utterly unlike that of a boy his age.
"What do you mean, running away? I was just packing my things."
"Y-yes, sure. Whatever you say. I thought you were gonna up and leave on your own again, just like always."
"Ahem! Why drag up old stories?"
It hadn't even been two full years yet. Still, I could understand the old monk grandpa's feelings right now.
He wanted to run. He'd been running for over ten years, after all.
People can't easily ignore inertia. A corrupt man knows he's wrong but keeps corrupting because it's familiar, easy.
Defying that inertia, turning against it— that's incredibly hard. It upends everything you've held onto.
Not that I, with my little dream of escaping Namgung Sega, had much room to talk.
"That's just how the world works."
I wanted the people around me to live better lives because of someone like me. Wouldn't it be better to live with a smile, even a small one, than to scowl and seethe?
"Even if you take winding roads on purpose, detour deliberately, go the long way to avoid it thoroughly—you still end up back where you started. Damn thing."
Yeah. Even if you lose your life and get reborn, it's the same.
That inertia feels impossible to change on your own. Even reborn, I stroke my belly every morning when I wake, worrying if another hole will open up someday.
But dodging fate doesn't change it. To defy inertia, you have to face the problem head-on.
Just like I'm thrashing about now.
This stubborn old coot might ignore my advice and do whatever he wants again. In the end, the decision is his, not mine. My advice isn't always right anyway.
Since we don't know the true answer, both he and I have suffered for over ten years.
"Buddhism has a saying for this."
Those who meet will part, those who part will meet again—hoejajeongri, geoja pilban.
"It means you'll part from those you meet, and reunite with those you've parted from. Even if you run now, you'll face this situation again someday. Ten years have already passed—enough time for mountains to change. Isn't it worth meeting at least once after all that?"
I stepped outside right after. What the old monk grandpa decided next was up to him. He could leap out that open window, or come out the door I'd closed behind me.
I waited in front of the door for the old monk grandpa.
Ilseon Dosa stared long at the closed door. Then he glanced at the wide-open window.
"Haa... I should've just left without packing."
He'd already passed on most of what needed passing. In time, the seeds he'd sown would bloom soon enough. Then he'd scatter them across all of Sorimsa.
But he knew that wouldn't untie the knot between him and Sorimsa.
As Namgung Daeso had said. He'd been trying to run.
Even "passing on" had been avoidance disguised as atonement.
He'd wanted to restore Sorimsa to the pinnacle of the world. Then maybe his past sins would be forgiven.
But it was all excuses. He'd simply lacked the courage to face his inertia.
If he ran now, the chance for atonement might never come again.
Leaving Namgung Sega, he'd vowed: this time, he'd make the choice.
Perhaps he'd been thinking it for much longer.
But in the end, he hesitated again at the last moment.
This wasn't the first time his feet had faltered like this.
Ilseon Dosa had come to Sorimsa's threshold dozens, hundreds of times over the years—but turned back each time.
Each visit, he'd sworn to pay for his sins, yet failed and retreated.
Am I about to repeat that foolish act for another ten years?
A creeping thought: maybe running again would be best. Everyone was doing fine now.
Amitabha.
Muttering the chant low, Ilseon Dosa unpacked his bag.
His eyes no longer trembled. The gaze of one who'd decided.
Rumble.
Overturning a pouch, various items spilled out. He picked one up.
A dark, worn rosary settled in his hand.
"Amitabha."
He stuffed the rosary into his robe pocket. Ilseon Dosa stepped forward.
Creak.
Outside waited Namgung Daeso, Mujikja, and Namgung Je-cheon.
"Yes! I was right, huh? Come on, hand over ten silver taels each."
"Ah, damn! He had to come out—why not run this time too! This is ridiculous!"
"Amitabha, that damn monk."
Namgung Daeso and Mujikja scowled at Ilseon Dosa. Namgung Je-cheon bounced gleefully with his twenty silver taels.
"I told you I'm not running this time! Heh heh heh heh."
Ilseon Dosa eyed Namgung Daeso in bewilderment. What was that Buddhist stuff earlier? Hoeja what? Jeongri? Geoja? Pilban?
"By the way, I'm not even Buddhist. That geoja pilban crap? Yoogi here taught me that. And a grown man sulking for ten years looks pathetic, right?"
Ilseon Dosa turned toward the open window again. Namgung Daeso grabbed one arm.
"Hey~ You sulking or what? Who said to run? If you'd done right from the start, it'd be great!"
It happened once! And that wasn't running—it was going with resolve to die!
Mujikja grabbed the other shoulder.
"Amitabha. Just kidding, kidding. Haha, come on! I believed in you all along. Of course! I knew your resolve. We once staked our lives together!"
And you were betting the whole time?
They say Wudang bastards' words are the least trustworthy in the world.
"Ah... crap! Running now would've been forty silver taels!"
Ilseon Dosa looked at Namgung Daeso and Mujikja.
You damn bastards... it was all a bet up to here?
The two turned away sheepishly, gazing at distant mountains. Only Namgung Je-cheon rejoiced over his winnings.
* * *
Ilseon Dosa barely kept his composure as Namgung Daeso led him to the training ground.
One hundred eight Sorimsa monks awaited him, with Jinheo at the forefront.
Jinheo smirked bitterly at the arriving group—specifically Ilseon Dosa.
"Master, if you're leaving, settle things between us first."
At Jinheo's glance, the 108 warrior and Arhat monks took positions instantly. Ilseon Dosa stood at the center.
"Nngh..."
Ilseon Dosa let out a low groan.
That day of horrific defeat at Namgung Sega, he'd returned to Sorimsa and drowned in drink every day.
No one could reproach him. He was Sorimsa's elder, the most respected, Murim's paragon, its pride.
Then, in an instant, he became a one-armed cripple.
Pathetically beaten before all by a kid half his age.
It must've been agony. Unbearable.
Yet they'd believed he, of all people, would overcome and rise again to lead Sorimsa.
But hopes shattered utterly.
One day, Ilseon Dosa vanished completely. His room held only the stained rosary he'd worn lifelong, left alone.
Jinheo finally spat words unfinished for a dozen years.
"Just one Daegalbak headbutt! That's the only way to vent this rage!"
Of all in Sorimsa, Jinheo likely felt the greatest betrayal. The paragon's disappearance thrust upon him Sorimsa's massive burden unprepared.
Since then, Jinheo devoted every moment to Sorimsa.
These warrior monks were Sorimsa's elite: first- and second-generation disciples.
No matter Jinheo's efforts, could one man achieve this? Impossible.
All joined his efforts. When he bled from the nose, they sweated.
Amid the storm of blame for Ilseon Dosa's absence, they endured and rose.
Even if the Heavenly Demon stood here now, Jinheo trusted he could suppress him with these men.
This was the true Nahajin.
What Namgung Sega's youngest young master had shown was mere imitation.
Jinheo waited briefly. Not expecting a reply, but perhaps an excuse.
Ilseon Dosa merely gazed silently. His eyes seemed to say he was blameless.
"Amitabha."
Jinheo chanted low. No point dredging the past now.
Murim spoke with strength. Right and wrong were decided by the strong.
From Ilseon Dosa's body flowed immense, indescribable energy—like his answer.
Jinheo murmured low.
"Nahajin, open."
The 108 Arhat monks moved as one. Like vast gears meshing: one steps out, the next fills, the side fills the gap, another the void.
That's the real Nahajin.
It bore no resemblance to the sloppy version half-learned for proxy battle that day.
The difference was immense.
They were one, yet not. All 108, yet not. One while 108, 108 while one.
What would it feel like trapped inside? Even outside, where my intent barely reached, the pressure was no joke.
Probably get crushed flat.
"Impressive as ever—well-deserved reputation."
I nodded at Bald Grandpa's admiration.
Meanwhile, Mujikja looked a bit downcast. The reason soon emerged.
"Wudang hasn't surpassed that in over a century."
History showed: when the Demonic Cult rose, Sorimsa was always first targeted. Crush the top, seize initiative.
Wudang swords once reigned supreme, but the sect itself? Not in the last hundred years.
I had to admit: this was Central Plains' best.
"Still, what's cool about a bunch of turtles? Right?"
Namgung Je-cheon disagreed.
"108 on one— that's turtle tactics, no matter how cool you act. And he's no Heavenly Demon or Martial God. Right?"
Everyone nearby shot faint killing intent at Namgung Je-cheon.
Damn... consistently earning beatings.
Thwack!
I lightly smacked his head.
"Ah, damn! Knew you'd hit me!"
Oh? Martial arts practice let him sense it coming.
Though dodging? Another ten years of training.
Meaning he was still prime beating age. After a mountain-changing span of smackings, he'd improve a bit.
Only then did the mood ease.
I couldn't show my face in Sorimsa because of this guy.
"Je-cheon."
I called Namgung Je-cheon softly.
"W-why?"
He edged back, ready to bolt.
"I've never seen the Heavenly Demon, but..."
In my eyes appeared the old monk grandpa's true face.
"You know those monsters, goblin-looking ones."
"Ah... the Four Heavenly Kings by Sorimsa's gate?"
"Yeah, those."
"What about them?"
What about them? The old monk grandpa now perfectly overlapped one of those Four Heavenly Kings.
"What was the name of the one at the top?"
"Not goblins—they're Heavenly Kings. Top one's probably the Northern Heavenly King."
The divine guardian of Sumeru's north. Unlike other Four Great Divine Kings, allied with darkness, commanding yakshas and hungry ghosts, yet ever hearing sutras—also called Bishamon Ten.
Though he looked goblin-like.
"W-we've arrived!"
Then, led by I-gwon, third-generation disciples rushed in.
"Amitabha."
As if waiting for them, Ilseon Dosa chanted low and moved.
One thought flashed: had he waited for all of Sorimsa to gather? Under that pressure?
Haha! Just apologize and be done.
Me? I'd stretch my neck, waiting for the hit. Damn pride.
Tsk tsk.
"Begin."
With someone's shout, the Great Arhat Formation truly activated.