Under the gleam of a full moon, Dongjin stood upon the foundation stone that overlooked the heart of Guidan Streamland. The stone loomed high above the waters below, a future Buddha's throne, from which the whole Guidan glittered faintly under starlight. Beside him stood several nobles of Samul Gaya, their silken robes drawn tight against the chill, their voices low and conspiratorial. Dongjin, wrapped in golden monastic robes that shimmered faintly like candlelight, said nothing.
"…I told you, we're short on gold."
"You think this statue's two jang tall or something? It's twenty. Twenty jang high—more than sixty meters!"
"Over two thousand gwan needed—or roughly eight tons of gold, and we're still short by more than a thousand."
"No one has that kind of bullion except the Baekje fleet."
"You can't be serious. Rob the Baekje ships?"
"They're the only ones transporting over a thousand gwan in gold."
"And what of the Jin family? They'll never let it pass."
"If they find out? Of course not."
"Then we make sure no one finds out. No survivors."
"…You mean—?"
"Yes. Our own soldiers too. Once it's done, they'll be… silenced."
The nobles fell into uneasy silence. Dongjin remained still, his gaze fixed not on them but upon the moon—bright and full, hovering in a sky painted with shadows. He exhaled through his nose, an almost imperceptible scoff.
Pathetic men.
You bring me, Dongjin, whose name was already whispered in the halls of Navdarāsa, the third great monastery of the Kushan Empire, and you dare hesitate now? This was your vow. This was the promise of Gahn Shingui himself: to raise a great golden Amitabha in my honor. A form shaped in the likeness of the Buddha who gave me his vision in a dream.
You begged me to return. Then balked at the cost?
You're lucky I even agreed to use bronze for the core, so long as the gold plating was thick enough to catch the light of the heavens. And still you mutter like old hens about the price.
Dongjin turned his eyes from the moon, letting the memory rise in his mind like incense smoke.
It had happened during his training at Navdarāsa. One day, while in deep study, he had dozed—so he thought. When he awoke, three days had passed. His master said his face had seemed so peaceful, no one dared wake him.
When he described the dream, his master listened, sipping tea in calm silence—until suddenly, his eyes widened.
"Tell me again," the master said, "every detail of the one who taught you in that dream."
Dongjin recalled walking through an endless lake of darkness. At first, there was only a voice—gentle and patient, yet boundless in depth. The form came slowly: a silhouette without a face. But as Dongjin walked toward him, listening to the Dharma he spoke, his outline took shape. A pale blue radiance bloomed around the figure, and lotus blossoms began to form beneath Dongjin's feet. With each step across the water's surface, the blue glow deepened into gold—until the form became clear: a luminous, compassionate man, seated cross-legged in perfect stillness. His face shone like the sun at dawn.
Dongjin had sat before him and listened in awe, his heart trembling with a strange joy.
But when he awoke, he could not remember that radiant face. Only the feeling remained—warm, unshakable. As if he had seen something no words could name.
The master hurried to the head abbot, a man of ninety, who summoned five of the highest elders from neighboring temples. A month later, Dongjin stood before them in a formal Zen dialogue, his master beside him.
Six questions were asked. Six answers he gave.
At the end, the abbot closed his eyes and repeated part of Dongjin's words aloud: "No form remains—only the blueness that surpasses all things…"
The elders exchanged long, silent glances. Then they spoke in unison.
"The one who came to you… was Amitabha. The true, immortal Buddha."
And so, Dongjin was named as the destined disciple of Amitabha—summoned across time and space to carry his lineage. Not yet forty, Dongjin was now whispered as a future abbot.
Then came the summons from Samul Gaya.
At first, Dongjin refused. Several messengers had come, claiming that Gahn Shingui wished to house the disciple of the Buddha himself, to spark a Buddhist revival in the east. He had declined each time, believing his enlightenment yet incomplete.
But the last messenger changed everything.
It was his eldest brother. A once-proud family head… now without fingers on his left hand.
"They cut one off," he said, voice ragged, "each time you refused."
"And if I failed to bring you back this time," he added, trembling, "they would begin with my son."
Dongjin had said nothing, his blood roaring.
He had long known how weak and scorned the Gahn family had become. Even Baekje officials, when visiting Kushan, spoke with contempt. They said that forty years prior, Baekje had halved Samul Gaya's trade quota after Gahn's predecessor proved inept. Since then, their wealth had dwindled. Their armies weakened. Seraburl now pressed against Samul's borders with increasing aggression.
Only the rise of Prince Baram—a once-in-a-generation military genius—had held their decline at bay. But even he was cast out, exiled into monkhood. With him gone, Samul Gaya had become a fading ember.
And now, Dongjin realized… he was their final hope. Their proudest export.
A boy prodigy, sold to religion to win back favor.
He told his master everything.
The abbot and his master exchanged quiet glances. At last, the old man spoke.
"Where there is karma," he said, "there too shall the Buddha reside… Just as Princess Heo of Ayuta did."
And with those words, they gave Dongjin leave to return to Samul Gaya.
"Are you sure that red-robed monk was… properly handled?"
"No word yet. Why the delay?"
"Relax. I used my usual crew. They're professionals."
"Come on, it's just one monk. What could go wrong?"
Dongjin stood unmoving beside them, his eyes never leaving the moon. The others spoke in hushed urgency, but their words passed through him like smoke.
Why… why did he come now?
His jaw tensed. Rage, sharp and sudden, flared in his chest.
Beomso… why now?
Even after all these years, his senior still hadn't changed. Beomso the Pure. Beomso the Fool. He had never cared for doctrine or sutras. Didn't sit for meditation. Detested even the formality of the lotus posture. The only time he moved swiftly was when someone had fallen, when disaster had struck. His robes were always dirtied, his stench unmistakable—sweat and loam and whatever poor soul he had helped that day. Dongjin used to feel sick just looking at the grime under his fingernails.
And yet… it was that same man who had once saved his life.
Dongjin's mother had called Beomso a living Buddha. She made him swear to treat the senior monk as his own brother. The abbot had ordered him to run the mountain paths with Beomso each morning, insisting that strong legs mattered more than sutras in one so frail.
And Beomso had… done everything.
Truly, as if Dongjin were his younger brother by blood.
Dongjin remembered asking him, once, why he never studied the Dharma.
Beomso had laughed. "The moment I look at scripture, my head spins."
"Then why herbs? Why medicine?"
Beomso told him of a time, when he was about Dongjin's age, when he had helped his master paint thangkas—sacred paintings of the Medicine Buddha on the walls. For over a month, they had painted together, and the old monk had told him stories of the Medicine Buddha.
"He's my favorite of all the Buddhas," Beomso had said, grinning. "He heals. No chanting. No riddles. Just healing."
When Dongjin had announced his departure for Kushan, Beomso disappeared into the mountains for a week. He returned with bundles of herbs, drying them carefully while quietly weeping.
"Steep fresh ginger for motion sickness. If it's too strong, try mint—still good for the stomach."
"If you vomit, drink licorice tea, chew black sesame."
"If the dizziness is bad… boil gastrodia root and sip it slowly."
Dongjin had embraced him then. Held him tightly, burying his face against the sweat-stained robe. That time, for the first time… the smell didn't bother him.
A whisper broke his thoughts.
"Someone's coming."
"Where?"
"Can't see—too dark. Probably just one of the men returning."
Still, Dongjin stared only at the moon.
They said Beomso had overheard something. That he'd realized the nobles' plan. That he had to be silenced.
Dongjin hadn't objected.
He knew. Of course he knew. Beomso was only worried for him. Always had been.
"Dongjin… they now call you enlightened…" Beomso had said—right before launching into a diagnosis. "Your face is flushed. Lips cracked. That breath—dear heavens, when did you last sleep properly?"
He hadn't waited. He had taken Dongjin's wrist, felt his pulse.
"You sigh too often. Your chest is tight. And look at these fingertips—all the blood boiling right to the edge." He had touched Dongjin's face, sorrow softening his brow. "Oh, my precious young monk… what dreadful fire has made a home in your heart?"
And then… he had wept.
He knew nothing. Nothing at all.
Dongjin had remained still when the others called for Beomso's death. In truth… he'd been relieved.
Because the moment he saw Beomso again, he had realized.
It wasn't Amitabha in his dream. Nor Vairocana. Nor the true Buddha in some cosmic form.
It was Beomso.
That soft, luminous glow—the subtle blue radiance that shimmered around the dream-Buddha's form—he had seen it before. As a child.
In Beomso.
No one else had noticed. But Dongjin, back then, had seen it.
A faint blue light that clung to Beomso's skin like morning mist. The very same hue he had mistaken for divine revelation.
Dammit.
He hadn't dreamed of a Buddha.
He had dreamed of his senior.
And all the ceremonies, all the titles, all the accolades—"the one chosen by the Buddha," "the heir of Amitabha"—they were all… a lie.
All a lie.
He clenched his fists, the heat in his chest rising like bile.
How dare he glow like that.
How dare Beomso shine with his Buddha's light.
Dongjin slowly lowered his gaze from the moon, casting his eyes over the Guidan Streamland—and beyond it, into the vast, darkness-veiled land of Samul Gaya.
So be it. Who would ever believe that Beomso, my senior… was a living Buddha?
Soon, more than twenty jang of gold would rise here. A colossal statue of Amitabha, radiant and eternal.
He let out a soft, mirthless chuckle.
Yes… a Buddha. With my face.