The Guidan Streamland, cradled along the winding path of the great Guidan River, stretched from the eastern heartlands of Samul Gaya all the way to the sea. It had long prospered as the Samul's largest trade hub, a jewel of commerce under the direct command of Gahn Shingui himself, the ruler of Samul Gaya.
And yet, over the past two years, a place even more famed than the streamland had emerged—a temple neither too grand nor too humble, perched on a modest hill that overlooked the river basin. This was Guidan Temple, once a quiet, unremarkable sanctuary tucked between pine and mist. But everything changed when Master Dongjin arrived.
Summoned by Gahn Shingui with tireless persistence, Dongjin had returned from the distant Kushan Empire, where he had studied Buddhism and, it was said, encountered the Buddha himself in a dream. News of his divine insight had already echoed through the Ganges Valley, earning him rare acclaim even among Kushan monks. His homecoming was treated as a national triumph, and Guidan Temple—offered to him as a personal gift—was transformed overnight into a symbol of enlightenment.
Now, the temple thrived with a fervor once unseen. Monks, pilgrims, scholars, and tourists poured in. The sound of hammer and chisel echoed through the hills, as laborers hauled timber and stone for ceaseless expansions. Dust danced in the wind, mingling with the scent of incense and timber. The once-secluded hill had become a crossroads of devotion and ambition.
And yet, even among the footworn trails and echoing voices, there remained paths untouched—especially in the northwest, where the slope grew steep and the forest thickened. Few dared wander here, where the cliffs cut sharp and the canopy swallowed the sun.
Deep in that forgotten wood, a monk clad in red lay bound beneath the trees.
Six men dressed in black moved with quiet urgency. Three dug a deep grave at the edge of a ridge, their shovels biting into cold earth. The others gathered dry branches, stacking them into the shape of a crude pyre—long enough to hold a man.
Dusk had already fallen beneath the boughs, drawing the shadows close. As the light waned, so did the patience of the men. They gathered again, voices rising.
"Let's just bury him."
"No. He's a senior monk—we should cremate him properly. Give him the dignity of a standing pyre."
"Dignity? You are saying he will be burnt still alive!"
"And you think burying him alive is better?"
"We should've brought Gaettong. He was sick today, but at least he'd know what to do…"
Tied so tightly he could barely breathe, the red-robed monk listened in silence. He watched them bicker with an odd sort of detachment—not fear, not even anger.
He was worried for them.
If they delay too long, they'll get hurt descending the mountain in the dark… or worse, run into something wild.
The thought made him laugh at himself. Why am I still worrying about them? These men were sent to kill me…
With a quiet sigh, he turned onto his back and stared at the sky—what little of it he could see through the branches. Evening had smeared the heavens in darkening hues. He blinked up into the blue, his bound limbs aching, his chest heavy with more than ropes.
Why… why would my own junior… someone I watched over like a younger brother… send assassins for someone like me?
The wind stirred the trees above, as if in answer. But no comfort came.
Beomso closed his eyes and let the dusk swallow the edges of his vision. The ache in his limbs faded into the background as his mind slipped quietly into the past.
He remembered the first time he saw Dongjin.
A boy draped in vibrant silk robes, clinging to the hands of noble parents. His steps were tentative, his wide eyes full of fear. The abbot and elder monks had whispered in awe: the son of one of Samul Gaya's highest noble houses, a prodigy who had read by the age of three. And now, at just eight years old, his parents had brought him to the temple to renounce the world.
Beomso hadn't understood much at the time—only that something had shifted, thirty years ago. Where once it had been only the children of poor devotees or abandoned orphans who entered the monastery, now even noble families were sending their so-called prodigies to shave their heads and don robes. All in the name of reviving Buddhism, strengthening ties with Baekje, or whatever it was... The nobles had started offering their brightest sons to the monastic path.
Beomso had been fifteen then—older, a quiet temple novice with no lineage, no known kin. He had no memory of his parents, no name save the one his master had given him. But from the moment he saw Dongjin, trembling like a new lamb, Beomso had adored him. He often thought, If I'd had a younger brother… I would have wanted him to be like Dongjin.
But Dongjin kept his distance.
Beomso wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the age gap. Perhaps Dongjin was simply slow to warm to the monastery's routines.
Either way, Beomso respected the space between them, but he never strayed far. Quietly, faithfully, he stayed nearby—like an older brother watching from the edge.
Then came that late autumn day.
Dongjin, who had been coughing for about a week, began to tremble with chills. That night, a raging fever gripped his small frame. Panic spread through the temple like fire. The abbot barked orders. The old monks bustled uselessly, shouting conflicting diagnoses: Cool the body first! No, clear the lungs! He can't breathe—open his airways! The chaos only made the boy's suffering worse.
Beomso said nothing. He looked once at Dongjin and knew—it was lung fire. Pneumonic fever. He needed herbs. Now.
But the temple's stores were empty. That summer's harsh flu season had exhausted the stock of snake-tongue herb and Goji root bark, given away to homes with sickly children.
So Beomso slipped out.
He knew a mountain trail, one he had wandered often in solitude. But that year, autumn had given way to winter early. The peaks were already cloaked in frost. Torch in hand, he stumbled through brush and bramble, slipped on frozen moss, tore his robes in flight from startled beasts.
He dug snake-tongue herb from beneath a trickling stream. He tore Goji root bark from thorny shrubs, scratching his arms raw. By the time the eastern sky paled with the first breath of dawn, Beomso had returned—mud-slick, frozen, breathless.
The master raged. "Where have you been, fool boy?!"
But the herbs did their work. Dongjin survived.
The temple rejoiced, but Beomso remained cautious. Dongjin had always been delicate, eating only what he wanted. Fever might pass, but the weakness would remain. So, without a word, Beomso disappeared again into the mountains.
This time, he was gone for four days.
He returned even more ragged, robes in tatters, limbs trembling from exhaustion. The master raised a hand to scold him again—but fell silent when he saw what Beomso carried.
Wild mountain ginseng… Ten roots, thick and gold as old sunlight—treasures whispered of in old monks' tales, said to heal even the breath of death.
Dongjin's mother received them with trembling hands—and burst into tears.
With time, the boy regained his strength. After that, Dongjin clung to Beomso like a brother. Beomso, terrified the boy might fall sick again, carried him on his back through muddy paths and rainy mornings—earning more scoldings from the abbot for treating a disciple like a babe. But he didn't care. Dongjin had been saved. That was enough.
Why? Why would the boy I carried on my back order my death?