Beomso blinked up at the sky. The forest was thick with shadows now, twilight giving way to night. Among the trees, where fireflies dared not glimmer, the six assassins still argued—still unsure how to carry out the task they had been paid for.
Beomso, still bound, looked calmly at his captors and spoke.
"Listen," he said softly. "If I am to die, then does it truly matter how? Make your decision. If you delay any longer, you risk your own descent from this mountain in the dark."
The men glanced at one another. Slowly, the one in front approached him, unease flickering in his gaze.
Beomso's eyes met his. "Your face is flushed," he said. "But your sclera—your eyes—are tinged yellow. I'd wager your tongue is thick with white coating."
The man flinched. "H-How did you—?"
Beomso continued, "And when you press just under your right ribs, the pain must be sharp enough to steal your breath."
The assassin's eyes widened, and he nodded instinctively.
"You'll need artemisia, gardenia fruit, and kudzu root. Cut out liquor entirely. And rest. Properly."
The man nodded again. "What were those herbs again…?"
Beomso repeated the prescription slowly, clearly.
He turned to the next man. "Your left shoulder flinches with every movement," he said. "You were stabbed there, once, weren't you?"
The man snorted. "Of course I was. In our line of work, a blade is sometimes breakfast. Don't go playing oracle, monk."
"Then by now," Beomso said, gently, "your nights burn with fever, and your back aches like fire."
The man's mouth closed.
"The wound wasn't properly drained. It festered from within."
He avoided Beomso's gaze, but tilted his head slightly, listening.
"Take a Blood-Activating Herbal Pill to dispel the stagnant blood. You'll need cupping too, or it won't heal right. Then boil amur cork bark and job's tears. Drink it until the inflammation is gone."
The man dropped to his knees. "Please… repeat that."
Beomso did so, slowly and precisely, and the man whispered the ingredients to himself over and over like a prayer.
Then another assassin stepped forward, limping slightly. Beomso turned to him.
"You—your lower back throbs at night. You can't extend your legs fully when lying down."
The man's face tightened, and he bowed low before the monk.
"You sleep poorly. Likely from years of sleeping on bare earth, yes? That sort of strain doesn't fade. Keep your body warm. Use heat packs. Find a physician to apply acupuncture. And take eucommia bark, teasel root, and goji berry to restore your kidneys."
The others watched, their awe growing with each word.
Then, one of them burst out. "Enough! Are we spending the whole night receiving prescriptions from a man we're supposed to kill? Just finish it!"
Beomso gave a calm nod. "Indeed. I'm no more than a monk, and what I've told you could easily be learned from a decent doctor. Go on, finish your work—and seek those doctors soon after."
Then he turned to the angry one. "You, too. You've been rubbing your stomach. Your right lower belly seems tight and sore. You fart constantly."
The others broke into laughter. "He's right! We call him the farting demon!"
Beomso's voice was gentle. "Your digestion is in ruins. Boil amomum, bitter orange, and cyperus. Eat nothing but rice porridge for a while. Your stomach will thank you."
He looked up at them all. "The last two of you have ailments too, though not as urgent. Visit a healer. And now… please, let me go to meet the Medicine Buddha in peace."
He closed his eyes.
But the assassins stood frozen. No one moved. In the dark, they glanced at one another, eyes darting.
Finally, one exhaled heavily. "A job's a job. We were paid. We've got to finish it."
Another helped Beomso to his feet. "Grand Monk, would you prefer to be burned as an offering, or buried in the earth?"
And then—laughter.
A deep, thunderous voice rolled through the trees like a mountain wind. "After all the grace bestowed upon you, you still dare to force him to choose between fire and soil—while yet he breathes?"
The men spun in place, searching for the voice.
And then—touch.
From the canopy, he dropped—like a leaf carried by fate.
Goi.
He landed behind them, and in one smooth motion, drew his bronze gladius, gleaming gold in the moonlight.
"Cleansed!"
The sword swept across the air, and golden wind burst from the blade.
The six assassins crumpled—not dead, but struck to their knees. One by one, they began to sob, tears streaming, confessions spilling from trembling lips. They spoke of sins, of guilt, of the weight they had carried in silence.
Goi watched. Then he drew his steel blade, swept it once, and sheathed it again.
The ropes binding Beomso fell cleanly to the ground.
Beomso rose slowly, bowing deeply. "Your compassion is vast, noble layman."
Goi clasped Beomso's hands, and after exchanging names, offered a polite bow.
"You have my deepest thanks. You saved my life."
Goi smiled. "And I'm glad I was here in time."
Then he turned to the south, toward the glowing lights above the trees.
"Grand Monk," he asked, "do you know why that temple… seems filled with foulness?"
Beomso's eyes widened. "You mean… what I sensed is evil… I wasn't sure then."
He exhaled.
"The abbot of that temple is my junior. His name is Dongjin. He studied in India, and received a vision of the Buddha in a dream. When I heard he returned… I was overjoyed. I came without hesitation." He gave a tired, bitter smile. "Seems I nearly met the Medicine Buddha instead."
Goi turned, eyes narrowing toward the temple. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, simply: "Stay here and rest, Grand Monk Beomso. I'll go and see for myself."
Before Beomso could even call after him, Goi had already vanished—his shadow swallowed by the forest, his steps silent as the wind.