What does it matter if there's already a saint walking these lands? Who would care? Who would remember?
No one.
But this statue—this monument to my enlightenment—will endure. The people of Gaya will lift their eyes to it in prayer… and in doing so, they will look upon me.
My face.
My form.
They will call it Amitabha, and they will worship.
For a hundred years.
A thousand.
No—ten thousand years.
And in all that time… they will never know.
"Cleansed!"
The cry rang like thunder, shattering the stillness. Even before the word had fully echoed, Dongjin had leapt back—thirty paces in a single bound. A golden wave exploded across the clearing, sweeping through the air. The nobles dropped like straw men, limbs limp, as if puppets with their strings severed.
Hovering midair, Dongjin caught his balance and stared at the attacker—a youth, cloaked in moonlight and radiating a golden aura.
That boy… how does one so young possess such sacred energy?
His gaze drifted, narrowing.
No—it couldn't be. No mere boy could shine like that. Not like Beomso.
And then he saw it—the bronze gladius in the attacker's hand.
Ah. Of course.
It wasn't the boy. It was the weapon. A divine relic.
Dongjin exhaled sharply, his eyes locked on the gladius. I carry three such treasures. This one—he wouldn't know how to control even a single one.
The youth—Goi—tilted the bronze gladius slightly, peering into its gleaming surface.
Dongjin moved.
He surged forward with blinding speed, aiming straight for Goi's neck. But just before impact, he caught his own reflection in the sword's polished bronze… and saw Goi's eyes staring back.
So that's how you see me? As something… laughable?
A golden beam erupted from the blade, striking Dongjin squarely in the chest. His robes whipped and curled around him as if alive, the sacred cloth flaring with energy before hurling him ten steps back.
"Hey, monk," Goi called, his tone mocking. "A disciple of Shakyamuni? You reek more like a demon to me."
The words stabbed deeper than any sword.
Dongjin's chest flared with heat. His blood boiled. He screamed and lunged, claws outstretched like a beast, aiming to tear the boy's throat apart with his bare hands.
But Goi had already dropped to the ground. With perfect timing, he kicked both feet upward into Dongjin's chest.
Dongjin rose into the air, groaning in pain. Before he could right himself, Goi flipped to his feet, took a breath, and raised his bronze gladius skyward.
"Cleansed!"
The golden arc slashed through the air and pierced Dongjin like a lance of light.
He fell—hard.
Unconscious.
As his body struck the earth, three items scattered from his robe: a gleaming rosary, a golden-hemmed monk's robe, and a lacquered rice bowl. They clattered across the stones and came to rest in silence.
Goi, gladius still drawn, narrowed his eyes. The air still hummed with dark energy.
He raised the blade again and peered into the reflection.
"So that's where you were hiding."
The words were soft, almost amused.
He stepped forward, eyes on the three relics.
"Come out!"
The moment the words left his lips, the rosary, robe, and bowl shot into the air. Mid-flight, each one shimmered—and transformed into small, shadowy creatures, writhing in the moonlight like specters made of ink.
Goi didn't flinch.
With a dancer's grace, he spun forward, his blade tracing wide, sweeping arcs. Golden light flowed like paint from a divine brush, tracing symbols of purification into the night air.
The demons darted and lunged, but each time they grazed the golden ink, their forms flickered and faltered. One by one, they crashed to the earth with shrieks of pain.
Goi raised his gladius again.
"Cleansed!"
The final wave of golden energy swept through the air like a falling curtain. The shadows screamed—and dissolved.
In their place, only three things remained on the forest floor:
Two small pieces of claw, no larger than a man's finger.
And a single shimmering scale—large as a man's chest, glinting like polished silver.
Goi stepped forward in silence. Where the three demons had fallen, only soft trails of ash remained—no sound, no trace, no final cry.
He knelt and sifted through the ashes. Some grains glimmered faintly, like powdered pearl, and vanished the moment they touched his skin.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
Goi said nothing more.
He simply rose, turned once toward the unconscious Dongjin, then let the temple fall silent again—save for the breeze, whispering as if carrying away the last breath of something eerie.