Savage Divinity

“Why do you seek the Dao?”

Delivered as more of a statement than a question, I can tell the Abbot isn’t asking me directly, but remembering a time when someone asked him. “My Mentor asked me this question often, and I never did understand why. I believed it was because my answers were wrong, and he wanted to guide me to the Right View without influencing my perception, but as I lay here and wait for death, I wonder what the deeper meaning to his daily query might be. Why do I seek the Dao? A good question to ask, one which I can no longer answer with confidence.”

The Abbot falls silent as he loses himself in his thoughts, his melancholic sorrow so heavy it’s almost contagious. Much as I would like to leave him to stew in solitary peace, I know better than most how addictive self-pity can be, a soothing balm for one’s woes that sets the stage for a future self-immolation of misery and despair. The only way forward I can see is getting him to open up and talk, because sometimes, that’s all it takes, having someone who will listen, even if they have nothing to add. The important thing is to air your grievances and get them off your chest, so after waiting an appropriate amount of time, I give him a little verbal nudge and ask, “What answers did you give?”

Still adrift in his memories, the Abbot smiles ever so slightly, his youthful features softening until he glows with childish mirth as the world comes alive around us. No longer are we sat across from one another in the monastery courtyard, but instead standing side by side outside the gates, except not the gates I know and recognize. Though they appear the same, this particular monastery sits on a grassy plain, one bordering the same shoreline I saw in the Abbot’s pleasant dream. Hundreds of peasants kneel in front of the monastery with their hands pressed together in prayer, their faces blurred and indistinct, but their clothing stands out more than anything else. Dull, ragged tunics, cut in a style I don’t really recognize, though calling it a style is a bit generous. They might as well have cut holes in sacs and called it a day, with a few having the added benefit of a twine belt to keep their ill-fitted robes from slipping off their emaciated frames, the obvious abject poverty standing in stark contrast of the bustling docks and prosperous harbour-front property sitting only a few hundred metres away from the monastery

Two faces stand out in the crowd, the first being the former Abbot, looking every bit as wise and elderly as he did in the current Abbot’s Kukku-induced dream. The second person is the only other distinct face in the crowd, that of a young boy standing by the monastery gates, not quite pressed up against the wall, but edging closer as if afraid to move too far. As the former Abbot turns away from his kneeling audience, he catches a glimpse of the young boy and stops in place before gesturing for the boy to follow. “I was eight or nine here,” the Abbot says, and there is not doubt in my mind that the young boy is him. “Mentor had just finished giving a sermon and reassuring the city folk when he saw me there by the monastery gates, waiting for the free lunch they provided each day. The monks didn’t have an endless supply of food, so they tried to serve those in greatest need first, but it was difficult to determine whose needs were greatest.”

Following the former Abbot into the monastery, young Abbot is brought into the dining hall where he’s given a small bowl of fried rice with scant vegetables scattered within, as well as a cup of weak tea. “Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo,” the former Abbot intones, and I can feel the sorrow and heartache in his voice. “Apologies boy. This monk knows you missed yesterday’s meal, but this meagre fare is all we can provide for now. Worry not, for this monk has an audience with the Magistrate later tonight, so with a little luck, there will be more food in days to come.”

“There wasn’t.” The Abbot chimes in, not the child but the aged one standing beside me. “A war was being waged between nobles who possessed more material wealth than they could spend yet still demanded more. And why not? It all came at the expense of those who had nothing, for the wealthy would never have to bear the true cost.”

Picking up on contextual cues and the Abbot’s smouldering anger, I ask, “Your parents?”

“Victims of the nobles’ war, alongside the rest of my village,” the Abbot replies, and though his tone remains calm and neutral, his shoulders tense and fists clench. “One fought not on the battlefield, but in city streets and village farms, spilling blood in the name of economic prospects. Instead of targeting shipments protected by Martial Warriors, the local Magistrate’s foes found it easier to slaughter peasant workers to create a shortage of labour, so that fewer fields could be sowed and a smaller harvest reaped. The Magistrate saw the lives of his people as numbers on a page, and thus believed the losses well within ‘acceptable margins’, because he could make up for lost profits by taxing the survivors even more. Thus, my Mentor’s attempt to dissuade him from this course of action was doomed to fail, and life continued in this fashion for many months more.”

A spark of anger ignites within the defeated Abbot, one I keep in mind for later perusal. Say what you will about anger, but sometimes, it can be enough to keep you going when things are rough, and that’s all I can do for the Abbot. Keep him going until he can find his own way forward again instead of just calling it a wrap and riding off into the sunset before his time. I can’t say I’ve got any better ideas yet, so I continue to watch and listen as the Abbot’s tale unfolds.

While young Abbot eats, the former Abbot brings out a block of wood and sets to carving, his hands moving with the deft surety of an expert at his craft. The young Abbot watches with rapt attention, unable to tear his eyes away for even a second as a fish all but emerges from within the wooden block, one that was trapped and is quickly being freed from its confines by the former Abbot’s seemingly magical touch. “Even now,” the Abbot says, smiling as he watches his Mentor alongside his younger self, “I am unable to match Mentor’s skill with carving, like seeing poetry in motion as he gave life to his works.” I’m hard pressed to disagree, recognizing the work now as a wooden fish drum, one similar to the one the Abbot himself uses, or the one the former Abbot used in the rooster-induced dream. “Nor can I match him in kindness or empathy, having noticed a single boy missing out of a crowd of hundreds only to personally ensure he was fed when he returned. I was not the first to benefit from his kindness, nor was I the last, and while few persevered long enough to take their vows, Mentor never minded those who left.”

“Charity is to give without expectation of profit,” the former Abbot says, breaking the fourth wall of this dream sequence to address us without looking up. “If you give expecting something in return, then it becomes a transaction, and therefore is not in accordance with the Right Effort.”

...No, no, that doesn’t apply to me. Sure, I’m here because I need the Abbot’s help, but I’d try to save his life even if I didn’t. I mean, I owe the Brotherhood that much, right? Hang on, is reciprocity also not in accordance with the Right Effort? Whatever. I’m not a monk, so who cares?

Although the Abbot has gotten a little off topic and directed my thoughts astray, at least he’s talking instead of getting all stuck up inside his head. I can feel the tremendous amounts of love and respect he has for his Mentor, the former Abbot of the Brotherhood, who doesn’t really look all that remarkable for a Mentor to two Divinities. That being said, nostalgia is a powerful drug, one that can be detrimental if indulged in too much, but considering the Abbot just told me he’s dying because he believes he has no reason to live anymore, a bit of reminiscing about the good old days might be just what the doctor ordered. Maybe I should have him conjure up a reclining couch to lie down on and a chair for me to sit in, so we can do word associations and ask him about his relationship with his mother.

Then again, as far as psychiatric help goes, I’m probably more of the pop up cardboard shop type of doctor, one not worth the five cent price tag, but I don’t see anyone else around to help.

Still engrossed in his memories, I stand with the Abbot and watch as his younger self devours his meagre meal. When the boy finishes, he looks at the monk with rapt attention, finally noticing the aged ascetic carving out a fish drum with what appears to be record speed. “I wont to be’n a monk,” the boy declares, with the bold brashness of youth, his rustic accent thick and heavy.

“Oh?” Without looking up from his work, the monk asks, “And why do you seek the Dao, young man?”

“I kin do chores,” the boy says, faltering a little because he clearly doesn’t understand what the monk is asking. “Sweep’n leaves, run’n messages, wash’n floors, whatever ye needs. All I’m askin’ is fer a meal like this every day... Every two days even.”

The former abbot says nothing as he puts the finishing touches on his fish drum, carving the scales with almost careless ease and making the fish come to life before my eyes. His work finished, he pulls out a rag and sets to polishing the piece while finally directing his gaze to the young boy. “Your parents?”

“Dead’n. Kill’t by the bandits three... four months back? Me brothers and sisters too.” Meeting the monk’s gaze with fierce determination, the boy straightens up and says, “I kill’t one of em. Plunged Da’s pitchfork right through the bandit’s chest I did. Put ‘im down screamin’, and got ‘em a few more’n times fer sure.”

“And how did it make you feel? Be honest now, for your answer determines my own.”

“Everyone ses I ought be proud fer avengin’ me Da.” Deflating in quiet resignation, the boy whispers, “But his face... the bandit, he looked so sad. So scared. Why’d he attack us then? We didn’t have much of nothin’, the fields barely sown much less harvested, but they still came like they said they would, and the Magistrate, he done nothin’ about it. Why?”

“Your village was warned of the attack beforehand?” The boy nods and the monk frowns, his expression one of pensive thought. “And your village stayed to fight?” Again, the boy nods, and the monk sighs. “Such pride, such sin. Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo.”

“They thought the Magistrate would protect us,” the boy protests, stubbornly sticking up for his village’s decision. “We sent Old Li to the city, and he told’n twelve different guards about the bandits, guards he knew from sellin’ his ale. They all said they’d see to it that their superiors would hear of it, swore we’d be looked after, but no one ever came.”

“Hmm... most distressing.” Still pondering the matter, the monk pauses to inspect his handiwork before passing it to the boy. “It must be Heaven’s will that we met then. Come boy, let us find you some robes then and start on your lessons. Pure though your intentions are not, your journey along the Dao begins today.”

Though scared, hope wins out as the boy follows the monk away, the scene fading away before my eyes only to be replaced by another. There young Mahakala sits, at a desk across from his Junior brother, the young boy now a young teen in loose-fitting robes. His bald head lowered in concentration, the teen’s brush moves with deft confidence as it moves across the stone slate, writing in neat, orderly characters, ones I cannot read for they are the same characters I see carved into the four pillars of the courtyard. Not so for Mahakala though, who looks even younger than he did in his Natal Palace, maybe somewhere in his early twenties as opposed to mid thirties. “Incorrect,” he says, pointing at the offending character the teen Abbot just wrote, though I suppose he isn’t Abbot just yet. “It is ‘Vah – Sei – Kai, not Vah – Suh – Kur as you have written here.”

The syllables mean nothing to me, but Mahakala speaks as if he understands it, and teen Abbot huffs a sigh of muted chagrin. “Honoured Senior Brother,” he begins, wetting an ink-stained rag and using it to wash the entire slate clean. “This small one understands his own ineptitude, given how he is still unable to memorize the Sutras in their entirety, but perhaps it would be easier if this one understood what the characters meant. To this small one’s eyes, these characters are merely symbols without meaning, unlike with Senior Brother who clearly recognizes what each one represents.”

“Recognition will come soon enough, Junior Brother, once you have memorized the Sutras in their entirety. Crawl before you walk and walk before you run, such is the way of the Dao.” Seeing the young Abbot’s sullen glower, Mahakala sighs and leans forward on the desk, losing the air of a stern teacher and slipping into a friendlier, more approachable demeanour. “Tell me, Junior Brother,” he asks, resting his chin in his hand with a smirk. “Why do you seek the Dao?”

“In search of Enlightenment,” the young Abbot responds, “So that I might make my way further along the Path to Nirvana and escape from the endless cycle of Samsara.”

“A textbook answer,” Mahakala intones, “But not a correct one from you. Failing marks Junior Brother. Try again.”

Resting his head on the desk with a groan of frustration, the young Abbot’s voice takes on an insolent tone, one only a snotty little brother can get away with. “It would help if I knew what sort of answer you and Mentor were looking for.”

“An honest one, Junior Brother, that is all.” Patting the back of the young Abbot’s resting head, Mahakala chuckles and explains, “This monk feels you are lacking in ambition, but in truth, this is not so terrible a thing. Mentor and I ask because we are unsure of your heart’s desire, and seek to know more about who you truly are. You are clever and quick to learn, but have you ever asked yourself if this is the life you truly desire?”

“Why would it not be?” Lifting his head, the young Abbot flashes an impish smile. “I have Mentor and you doting on me, my friends to keep me company, more scrolls and books than I can read in a lifetime, and enough food to fill my belly each and every day. Were I still on the farm, I would work from dusk until dawn with only one meal, and usually go to bed hungry because the only other choice is to starve during winter. Even then, with the bandits still plaguing the farmlands, most of those poor souls will go hungry regardless, and I pity them for their struggles and hardships. This is a good life, better than most, even if some of the lessons are more frustrating than others, and I hope to one day help others the way Mentor helped me.”

“Honesty at last,” Mahakala begins, knuckling the young Abbot’s forehead. “And why can you not be this honest with Mentor?”

“...Because I don’t want to disappoint him.” Still resting his chin on the desk, the young Abbot raises his head to peek at Mahakala as if daring him to laugh. “It seems so... uninspired. I seek the Dao because to do otherwise would be to work hard and go hungry. Would he not think less of me?”

“You are like a son to him.” Rolling his eyes, Mahakala says, “Nothing you say or do can disappoint him, so long as it is done in earnest. When he asks you again, answer him as you did just now, but this monk already knows what he will say.”

“And what is that?”

“Life is suffering.” Offering a melancholic smile, Mahakala gestures at the door of the room, which I assume leads out to the courtyard. “Mentor, myself, your friends, even those books, all of it is fleeting and impermanent. Eat all you want today, but you will still be hungry tomorrow, and therein lies the rub. There will come a day when we both pass, or you part way with your friends, or you discover something in those books is incorrect, and then what will you do? Even simpler, what will you do if the monastery was no longer able to feed you?”

Though I can tell Mahakala is probing the young Abbot to see if he still holds a grudge against the bandits, the subtle nuance goes right over the innocent teen’s smooth, bald head. “Then I would become a farmer again,” the young Abbot replies, grinning in playful insolence, “And provide food for the monastery. There is a fascinating scroll in the library, one that details a more comprehensive approach to agriculture, and I have long since itched to try it, but Mentor said any personal projects will have to wait until I’ve progressed further in my training, else I will never have enough time to complete it.” Tilting his head, the young Abbot asks, “How long do you think my training will be?”

“A lifetime if you never finish memorizing the Sutras.” Pointing at the slate, Mahakala hides his smile and gestures for the Abbot to take up his brush and begin anew. “And even when your training is finished, know that your journey will have only just begun, for the Dao is everything, and there is no limit to what there is to be learned, so long as you have the ambition to continue ever onwards.”

“It was only recently,” the real Abbot intones, “That I finally understood the truth behind Senior Brother’s words, and I wish I could have seen it all sooner.” The scenes flicker to life before my eyes, the Abbot’s memories playing out at the speed of thought, yet somehow, I am able to remember and understand them as if I’d lived through it myself.

Upon his deathbed, Mentor appoints him as Abbot over his Senior Brother, and Mahakala’s eyes flash with the pained anger of betrayal. There is no victory or pride to be had in this appointment, for the Abbot himself never wanted or expected it. All he wanted to do was support his Senior Brother, but now the tables have turned and he has no idea why or what to do. All he can do is watch while Mahakala slips into decline, the anger of his perceived failure driving a wedge between the two brothers, one that inevitably ends in a parting of ways. “I must find a new reason to pursue the Dao,” Mahakala says, still the prim and proper Senior Brother. The Abbot is older now, though still in the prime of life, but I notice the monastery gates they stand before are not the same gates I saw in the first scene. Rather than the coastline, the monastery sits upon a secluded mountain pass, one which sees little to no travel at all. Carrying his spade and a small pack of clothes, Mahakala nods in farewell to the Abbot, and I can feel the man’s pain and misery. He wants to tell his Senior Brother to stay, offer him the mantle of Abbot and follow his lead, but the offer has been made many a time to no effect. Mahakala’s pride will not allow him to accept the role of Abbot, nor does he himself wish to go against his Mentor’s wishes, because if he was not chosen to succeed him, then there must be good reason for it.

What those reasons might be, no one could say, for until after his Mentor’s passing, Mahakala was the perfect monk of the Brotherhood, a man born to follow the Noble Eight-fold Path. That’s what everyone said, and how even the Abbot saw it, but alas, their Mentor thought differently. In hindsight, I think I understand where their Mentor was coming from, because if Mahakala was truly determined to follow his Dao, he would’ve done so regardless of whether he succeeded his Mentor as abbot or not. Still seems like kind of a dick move, but I suppose their Mentor had other reasons. Life is suffering and what not.

The scene shifts to one of the Abbot toiling away in the fields alongside his brothers, the lush and beautiful landscape surpassing anything I’ve ever seen. The monastery is once again in the same place, but the once barren mountains are now covered with cultivated greenery, most of which can be eaten. I see giant fields of rice, wheat, yams, cabbages, and more dotting the mountainside, but therein lies the rub. The Abbot sought to provide food for all who might need it, but in doing so, has stepped on the toes of wealthy nobles who fund their lavish lifestyles by taxing hardworking farmers, farmers who would have no reason to farm if the Abbot provided them with free food. Stupid is what it is, to try and block the Abbot’s efforts instead of adapting his superior farming methods for themselves, but stupid is as stupid does. People in power love the status quo, because it ensures they remain in power, and I can sense the Abbot’s sour dissatisfaction with the current state of events, knowing that this will be the last harvest before they will be forced to move again. The Brotherhood was respected when his Mentor was Abbot, but without a Divinity to speak for them, they had no choice but to bow to circumstance and leave before the Imperial Clan takes action against them.

Part of the Abbot yearns to stay and fight, but he knows his brothers will not stand for it, nor does he have any desire to spill blood or see it spilled in his name. Even his Mentor, powerful as he was, could not save the people from the Abbot’s hometown, all those years ago. Why did he think he could do any different? No matter. The monastery was merely where the Brotherhood rested, and they could begin anew elsewhere, so long as they could find somewhere that would take them.

A defeatist attitude, and one that shows exactly why the Eight-Fold Path is not for me. The Brotherhood’s intentions are good, but as soon as some sort of conflict arises, the monks fold like wet paper. What good are they doing hiding away in their monasteries, preaching the Truth to those few who will hear it? The world at large barely even acknowledges their existence, and while the Abbot might say it is because the Imperial Clan and empowered nobles will not allow them to do their good work without bloodshed, I believe there are some things worth fighting for. Life is suffering, and in suffering we find life, that is their mantra and their excuse for why they bow their head in defeat, because even if they try to do good, there is no saving the world because it is impossible to save.

So instead, they strive for something more than mere survival, and the Abbot turns his studies back towards ascension, but this time, without his Mentor and Senior Brother to point out his flawed reasoning. Once again, he seeks the Dao for the wrong reasons, which is why he makes little to no progress for so long. Decades pass, and the young man is now an old Abbot, one who stands at the Peak of the Martial Path, but a single, seemingly insurmountable step from Divinity. Day and night, he frets over the future of the Brotherhood, because he always believed he would have more time to find a proper successor. In his ailing days, he sends word to his Senior Brother, dependable Mahakala who once promised to always be there in his time of need. True to his word, the Senior Brother appears, but much changed from the man he used to be. His tall, lanky frame has been replaced with a bulky, bulging torso sat atop two tree trunks for legs and arms to match it, a body forged by over-indulgence and over-exertion.

And yet, despite having clearly slipped from the Noble Eight-Fold Path, Mahakala clearly found a new Dao to follow, for the man standing before him now was no mere mortal, but a Divinity in the flesh, just like their Mentor had been.

“Congratulations Senior Brother,” the Abbot croaks, his voice choked with emotion, so proud of his Senior Brother and regretful he was not there to see his moment of triumph. No longer does the Abbot stand at my side to watch his memories play out, but is instead immersed within them, playing the part of himself while reliving the moment. “I always knew you would succeed one day.”

“I have failed where it counts,” Mahakala replies, taking no pride in his accomplishment. “I did not follow Mentor’s teachings to achieve this success, and only now do I understand the folly of my ways.” Despite so many years having passed by, Mahakala’s anger has yet to subside, and it pains the Abbot more than his Senior Brother will ever know. “That is not why I came here though. You said this was a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“I am dying, Senior Brother.” Though he yearns to reach out and take Mahakala’s hand, the Abbot fears the rejection too much to try, because this is all the family he has left. “I have no successor to take my place, so I implore you to take what should rightfully have been yours.”

“...Fool.” Shaking his head, Mahakala’s eyes glimmer with tears even though he keeps his distance from the Abbot’s deathbed, a sight which fills the Abbot’s heart with hope for reconciliation, but Mahakala’s next words shatter that hope beyond repair. “That sort of thinking is the reason why Mentor passed his mantle onto you instead of me. I expected it, yearned for it, believed it was mine to begin with, whereas you never even wanted to become the Abbot, which makes you all the more suitable for the job. Thus he named you Akupara, boundless and immeasurable, or potential without limit.”

Though his reasoning was sound, it was clear that Mahakala still didn’t agree with his Mentor’s decision, nor did the Abbot himself. “And yet I have failed so miserably.” Despite having lived for over a century, before his Senior Brother, the Abbot feels like a child again, openly weeping and wanting nothing more than to be consoled, for he feels like his potential was wasted. “Banished from the thriving coasts all the way out to the Arid Wastes, in only a matter of decades. I was not meant for this life, never pursued it for the right reasons, and in my ignorance, I have brought the Brotherhood to ruin.”

“And why did you come here?”

“Where else could we go?” Wherever the Abbot opened a monastery, disaster would soon follow, the Imperial Clan’s insidious work no doubt. Honouring the letter of their agreement, to leave the Brotherhood in peace so long as they kept to themselves, but this agreement did not apply to the denizens of the outer provinces, who were always more than happy to win favour with the Imperial Clan.

“The world is large and much of it uninhabited,” Mahakala begins, before gesturing at the Arid Wastes outside. “Yet you came to this place of danger, where even I dare not traverse freely. How many of our Brothers were lost along the way?”

“Too many.” Four-hundred and seventy-seven, which left them with less than three-hundred total survivors, a far cry from the days of the Abbot’s youth when they had monasteries in every major city. Most left when Mentor died and the Imperial Clan made their displeasure known, and there were precious few initiates foolish enough to board a sinking ship. “But here, we are free to study in peace, and with you as the Abbot, surely we can bring new initiates in whenever needed.”

“I will not be Abbot.” Finally deigning to kneel by the Abbot’s bedside, Mahakala moves to help him sit upright, and despite the pain and fatigue, the Abbot cannot remember the last time he’d been so happy, for his Senior Brother is here with him again, even if only for a little while longer. “You will continue to serve as Abbot, because you will not die, as you are far more talented than I.” Removing a pouch from his belt, Mahakala opens it up to reveal dried jerky, and the Abbot is shocked by the reveal, but he is appalled when Mahakala urges him to eat. “Do it. It will give you the strength needed to survive and ascend,” he says, and the Abbot almost obeys by reflex, until Mahakala’s patience wears thin. “Eat, or die knowing you have failed. These are the choices before you.”

And so the Abbot eats, weeping as he does, not just for his sins, but for the sins of his Senior Brother who must be suffering so. The thought turns his stomach even as the Abbot feels his body breaking down the meal and processing Energy of the Heavens contained within the flesh of this dead Divinity, no doubt an Imperial slain by his Senior Brother, for who else would dare strike at the Imperial Clan?

...I knew there was something magical about cannibalism, though I suppose it doesn’t have to be another human. Would I get super strong if I ate Pong Pong or Ping Ping? Hypothetically of course, since I have no intention of eating them, but still... it’d be nice to know. For science.

Though his weakness abhors him, the Abbot is ecstatic to not only survive for a few years longer, but also to have his Senior Brother back. A fatter, gruffer, harsher Senior Brother, but his Senior Brother nonetheless. With Mahakala’s guidance and help from the forbidden meal, the Abbot eventually ascends to Divinity, but not as quickly as he could have, because he knew that the day he succeeded would be the day his Senior Brother left again. He was right. They soon part on bad terms, arguing about the direction the Brotherhood should proceed, for Mahakala believes they should be more active in the outer world, but the Abbot sticks to his guns and the Brotherhood remains hidden in the Arid Wastes. To repent for his sins, the Abbot takes up self-mutilation, intending to repay the pounds of literal flesh he himself ate and return it to nature. The monks see this and follow suit, for they idolize their Abbot like he idolized his Mentor, and despite his arguments against it, he sees that this meaningful suffering has a beneficial effect, and studies it in depth.

And thus the Penitent Brotherhood is born, when they were once merely nameless monks serving in obscurity.

Time passes, and the Abbot transforms the sparse oasis mountain into the thriving forest I recognize, an effort that is decades in the labouring. Sometime during all this, a promising young monk proposes an idea that catches the Abbot’s interest, that of studying the Animal Path to better understand their own. Together, they set about raising chickens, goats, and other such beasts suitable for living in the Arid Wastes. A brilliant young man much like himself, the monk becomes the second Divinity of the Brotherhood and ascends to the rank of Wisdom, at which point the Abbot bestows him with a new name, Vyakhya, named for Clarity of Thought. Though they were not quite brothers, they were still the best of friends, and the Abbot was happy to have a like-minded individual to exchange ideas with.

Until Vyakhya shows just how unlike their minds truly are, by raising the man-eating tiger Rakshasa in secret. How many deaths went to fuel his experiment? The Abbot should have put an end to Vyakhya then, but how could he condemn another man for a lesser sin than that which he himself had committed? Vyakhya never partook in human flesh himself, nor did he kill a Divinity, and while he was arguably responsible for the lives lost to Rakshasa’s fangs and claws, the tiger would kill to eat regardless of any outside interference. Even Mahakala did not agree with removing Vyakhya, for he believed that while Vyakhya might have set out with the Wrong Effort, his intentions were good and the knowledge gained invaluable towards their understanding of the Dao.

“And so you now know the breadth of my failures,” the Abbot says, once again standing by my side as we watch more recent events unfold. “I compromised my morals and strayed from my Path, after building the foundation of my Dao on impermanent relations. And what do I have to show for it, after so many centuries of life? My Mentor is dead and gone, and it gladdens me to know he did not see all this pass. My Senior Brother has passed as well, before we could ever reconcile. Everything they strove to build has come apart under my direction, hastened by the actions of a man I once called friend.” Sighing as he shakes his head, he cuts short his reminiscence before I can see his battle against Vyakhya and Poppa Piggy, much to my dismay. Instead, he shows me a scene I’ve never seen, but one I experienced first-hand, me arguing with Han BoLao in the midst of the Purge.

“What’s this now?” I ask, as I watch myself hurl my sword into a dying man’s chest, cutting short his suffering by mere minutes at best. A futile gesture, but one I think I would repeat if given a second chance. “You were here?”

“That I was.” Patting my shoulder in a reassuring manner, we watch as I incite the soldiers of the Empire to violence against the suffering peasants, hurling our weapons into the suffering masses and feeling no better for it. “After learning of Vyakhya’s illicit actions, I took up the habit of wandering the outer provinces every few decades, and I happened to come across you in Sanshu. I myself yearned to stop the Purge and free those suffering souls, but to do so would go against the Noble Eight-Fold Path, not to mention go against the Brotherhood’s agreement of non-interfence with the Imperial Clan and their agents.” Gesturing at my tear-soaked expression, the Abbot explains, “This was when I decided to accept you into the Brotherhood, for you reminded me of my younger self, if only I had the courage and resolve to stand up for what I thought was right. I named you SanDukkha for Perpetual Suffering, because I could see that though you had good intentions, your path would be more arduous than most, for the righteous man suffers when the innocent are harmed, and our world is one that preys upon the weak. Yet your resolve to do right was admirable, even if your approach was flawed from the start, but I thought that if I could teach you and change your ways, then it would validate my own beliefs.”

With a wave of his hand, we appear in the courtyard, this time with the Abbot sitting where I first saw his Mentor, on the raised dais at the front of the courtyard, and me sitting before him dressed in monks robes, though I can still feel the hair on my head and the contents of my pants, so there’s that. “A selfish reason for inducting you into the Brotherhood,” the Abbot says, flashing a sheepish grin, “But an action guided by the Heavens themselves. Come, Junior Brother. Ask your questions, and I will answer them to the best of my ability, so long as I still draw breath.”

Mahakala had the same courtyard for a Natal Palace, so I’m guessing their Mentor taught both his students in a similar manner. I have no idea what benefit there is to be gained from using a standard template Natal Palace, but it raises interesting questions to be sure. I’m fairly certain the dais is the Natal Throne, but why was Mahakala so large he could barely even fit? Because his Soul was too big for his Natal Palace? Why couldn’t he just scale everything up?

“You spent months pestering me with questions,” the Abbot says, raising an eyebrow in amused question, “Yet now, with free rein to ask and limited time for answers, you waste precious seconds in idle thought?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Snapping back to reality, I push myself to my feet and stretch, feeling like I haven’t moved in ages. “Er, don’t worry about the limited time thing. I’m pretty sure I can fix you.” Raising an eyebrow of my own, I ask, “Unless you don’t want to be fixed?”

“Ah, the bold confidence of youth. How refreshing it is to see.” Chuckling as he shakes his head, the Abbot explains, “My issue is not so easily solved, and I will not sin so heavily again. Before, I feared death and failure, but now it is clear I am not fated to succeed, so I’ve no longer anything to fear. Such is life, of which death is an inevitable part of, so I can only hope that I am reunited with my Senior Brother once more, in at least one of our next lives.”

“Sin? Oh, the cannibalism. No, that’s not it.” Not that I have a dead Divinity lying around, though it explains why so many Divinities spend their lives in hiding and why a bunch of them dropped by to see Guan Suo die. They weren’t paying respects, they were waiting for the dinner bell to ring. Then again, maybe some of them were there to stop the others from eating him in secret, though I doubt it. “If it’s a reason for living, I can’t help you there. I can list a whole host of reasons I think you should live, but it’s pointless because you clearly don’t agree. If it’s Heavenly Energy you need however, I have lots, which I assume is what you need to Heal yourself.” Removing a gourd from my belt, I double check to make sure its the right variety and present it to the Abbot, who is both intrigued and confused by the gift. “I have more, but for some strange reason, I couldn’t carry too much with me. We can just pop on over to my Natal Palace and I’ll have you fixed right up in no time.”

“...Do you know what you are asking me, child?”

“To risk the destruction of your eternal soul, yea.” Shrugging, I say, “You’re the one who said we’re short on time, but if you want an explanation, it’s easier to show than tell. Don’t worry though, I think we can go straight back to my Natal Palace without a pit-stop in the Void, but even if we do have to make a layover, I’m pretty sure I’ve Devoured every stray Spectre hanging about.”

“If only it were so simple.” Still holding the gourd without caring to use it, the Abbot’s attention focuses inward as he reflects on his sorrows and regrets. “I have lived a long life, longer than you can even imagine, and I am just so tired of my trials and tribulations. Even with Heavenly Energy to Heal me, my injuries are so great the Healing itself might be enough to kill me, for my will is simply too weak to wield it in the way you envision. Too much or not enough, the end result is the same, so no matter how many gourds you might have, I fear they will be wasted on one such as myself.”

Seeing the Abbot still hesitating, I give him a little time to wrestle with the decision, but I’ve little patience for self-pity when it’s not my own. “You think you have failed, that you’ve lost everything and have come to the end of your Path. Your Senior Brother felt the same way, but I always thought differently. You’ve both made mistakes, but who hasn’t? No one is perfect, but the only way to really fail is to quit before you succeed. So long as you keep trying, then you haven’t failed yet, which is something I wish I could’ve told your Senior Brother.” The memory returns to me, and I repeat Mahakala’s words verbatim. “He said that no matter what trials or tribulations I may face, the Mother always leaves a path to salvation, that I should not allow pride and arrogance to bring me low, and to trust in the Abbot and the people around me.” Extending my hand to the Abbot, I add, “Those were his final words to me, before passing out, words he believed would be his final testament. To know that there was always a path forward, and to trust you. I failed to save him, but I believe I have the means to save you, except I need your help to do it.” Shrugging, I add, “Besides, you don’t even have to send your whole soul, just make a Natal Soul and send it to test the waters. Probably would be easier anyways.” Again, the Abbot fixes me with a befuddled stare, and I remember just how unorthodox my Path has been, so I suppose it’s only fair that he would like to know what he’s getting into before risking his eternal soul. “Okay fine,” I say, settling back down in front of him. “You win. We’ll do it your way, so I might as well start from the top.”

And hopefully, we have enough time to get through the entire story, because that’d just be my luck. To finally have someone willing to entertain my questions only to have them die before I get any answers.

...I should probably give him the short version, just to be safe.

Chapter Meme