Atop the massive, thousand-year-old peach tree, a man in golden robes stood tall against the sky. From the ground far below, disciples and onlookers gazed upward in reverent awe, shielding their eyes against the slant of the sun.
Then, in a motion so fluid it seemed otherworldly, the robed man let himself fall—not leaping, not tumbling, but reclining backward as if into an invisible bed. Arms spread like wings, he surrendered to the air, trusting it entirely.
Gasps erupted from the crowd.
"He'll die!" "He's fallen!" "Oh heavens!"
But none could move. They watched in horror and wonder as the man plummeted, head-first, straight toward the earth. Some squeezed their eyes shut, unable to witness what came next.
And then—his descent slowed.
Just before his skull might have shattered against the stones below, his body drifted to a gentle stop, landing with a softness that defied logic—as if the wind itself had borne him down. As if heaven had caught him.
A roar of applause exploded through the grove.
"Sage Numen!" "A miracle!" "The Immortal of Mingrang!"
The golden-robed man—Sage Numen—rose slowly, lifting both hands skyward. "Those who find true faith," he called, voice resonant and warm, "shall be embraced by nature itself."
Behind his serene smile, he sneered inwardly. Fools…
But what did it matter? Most people were fools anyway. Deceiving the useless ones wasn't a sin, not in a world this broken. He lowered his arms and strode slowly through the sea of adoration.
One by one, the disciples lined up to climb the sacred tree.
The first acolyte ascended with trembling determination. At the top, he mimicked the sage's motion—arms spread, head tilted back, and fell.
His body slowed—but not enough.
He struck the ground with a sickening thud. Blood pooled beneath his cracked skull.
"Glorious is your courage, disciple," Numen intoned without missing a beat. "But your faith is yet incomplete."
The young man rose unsteadily, blood streaking his face, but beamed with pride.
That was enough. Enough to feed the tree.
Numen turned away, hands clasped behind his back. A second thud followed. Then another. Some cried out in grief. Others whispered that the fallen lacked devotion. Some jeered, bolstered by their own illusions of spiritual superiority.
Faith? Did such a thing ever truly exist?
He had believed once.
When he had borne the name Mugang, Vanguard General of Prince Baram. When he had ridden at the prince's side into battle. When death had seemed a worthy price for loyalty.
His thoughts drifted.
He remembered the day of Baram's exile. The prince had gripped Mugang's hand and whispered, "All will be well. When I vanish, peace will return to Samul Gaya."
Mugang had wept with fury. His master was being cast out not for crimes, but for greatness—for being too virtuous, too radiant.
Demoted in the aftermath, Mugang was made Military Advisor at the palace—a promotion in name only. No troops. No duties. No visitors.
Two years later, he was reassigned to a coastal outpost as Harbor Commander. He spent his days fishing, slowly boiling in resentment. Others from Baram's retinue had suffered worse.
Then, one day, as he fished beneath the setting sun, a boat appeared.
It was Unan, once a fellow general, now a fugitive. "We must flee to Baekje," Unan urged. "They've arrested my family. They'll come for you next."
Mugang hesitated. His wife and six children were still at home.
He promised to follow.
But by the time he returned, the port was crawling with soldiers. He saw them dragging his family away. Three hundred royal guards stood between him and those he loved.
He ran.
In his dreams, he watched them die again and again.
Ashamed, he sheared his beard and hair, donned the robes of an ascetic, and fled inland. They would expect him to escape by sea—so he chose the mountains instead.
Weeks passed. He slept little. Ate less. Then, one night, deep in the woods of Yimul, he felt it—a strange energy, like two storms colliding.
Curiosity won over fear.
Creeping silently through the trees, he found a man battling a living tree.
No—not a man.
A sage. A warrior. Radiating spiritual force, wielding a staff of iron, the man fought like a tempest against a monstrous peach tree whose limbs cracked like whips.
Mugang watched, awestruck.
Then—pain.
Roots coiled around his legs. He tried to flee, but the tendrils surged up, tightening around his chest. He screamed.
The sage turned at the sound—and that was his undoing.
In that moment of distraction, the tree struck.
The sage fell.
The tree laughed, voice like rustling leaves soaked in venom. "Thank you for the help, human."
It turned to Mugang.
"You're strong. I can smell it. What broke you, I wonder?"
Writhing in terror, Mugang confessed his tale.
The tree coiled tighter, then loosened. It chuckled. "I won't need to force you, will I? What if I gave you power?"
And so—a pact was made.
He stole the dead man's face, his name, his legend. He became Numen.
He told the tree:
"Perform small miracles. Let them believe. I'll do the rest. They will spill blood willingly, thinking it proof of faith. A drop from each, not a river from one."
The tree agreed, skeptical.
But Numen was right.
Within three years, the Mingrang Monastery stood tall. Believers came in droves. Some bled. Some died. The tree fed. The demon purred.
And Mugang—now Numen—smiled.
Call it faith, if they must. Call it miracle, if it soothes them.