Chapter 37
“Even after spending a long time as a Buddhist practitioner, there are times when things happen in this world that defy all understanding.
Just like today.”
The one who entered the temple was an old monk, so wrinkled that it was impossible to tell his age.
“I am Beop-un, abbot of Cheonmun Temple—though I am unworthy of the position.”
It was a face I had already seen once upon arriving at Cheonmun Temple—
a kind face that had cheerfully assigned work to others.
‘Doesn’t seem like someone who’s trained in martial arts.’
And yet… perhaps he was. There was something inexplicable about him.
If I’d met him in the martial world, I’d have been on guard.
But here and now, I felt no need.
From him came an unexplainable sense of goodwill—
and something like yearning.
“I am called Gam Ga, an adviser of the Jin family.”
Even as I greeted him briefly, a thought arose.
‘Could he know something about the mark?’
Otherwise, there’d be no reason for him to appear now, just as I was examining Jincheon’s mark.
Besides, he’d directly referred to it as an “amusing doodle.”
That alone made Beop-un worth speaking with.
Whether he knew my thoughts or not, Beop-un smiled faintly and spoke.
“So you are Young Master Gam. I hope I’m not intruding upon your time without reason.”
“Not at all. Rather, Abbot—do you know anything about this drawing?”
Instead of answering, he returned a question.
“There are, as you said, many things in this world we cannot understand—and people we cannot understand as well.
Do you know what kind of people those are, Young Master Gam?”
People beyond understanding.
In my experience of the martial world, such people fell into two types.
“Madmen… or eccentrics.”
It wasn’t even that profound an answer, but Beop-un looked pleased and nodded.
“You already know the answer. Then, do you know the difference between them?”
Another simple question.
“A madman is one who’s ugly-crazy, an eccentric is one who’s gracefully-crazy, is he not?”
At that concise answer, Beop-un let out a genuine sound of admiration.
“Your thoughts and mine are alike once again. Then—if you permit me—may I ask one last question?”
“Please do.”
“Forgive this old man’s rambling. Tell me, do you know why I ask such questions of someone I’ve just met for the first time today?”
This time, I didn’t have an immediate answer.
It wasn’t easy—but not impossible either.
“You think of me as either a madman or an eccentric, don’t you?”
And one more thing.
“You also know the one who left this mark.”
Beop-un was clearly a man of deep cultivation.
A person like that wouldn’t speak of madness or genius without reason.
That was my first answer.
‘Then why see me that way?’
From that came the second.
Beop-un and I had only met today.
All he’d seen was me observing Jincheon’s mark.
So if he called me eccentric, it must have been because of that.
He must either know about Jincheon, or at least understand the nature of the mark.
Then another realization dawned.
“So it was you who decided not to erase this, wasn’t it?”
To one who knew, it was a mark.
To one who didn’t, it was graffiti.
If it had been considered mere graffiti, it would never have remained for a hundred years—
especially not beneath a Buddha statue.
Someone had clearly recognized its meaning and prevented its removal.
In a place devoted to Buddha, such a thing could not have been easy.
Whoever did it must have held considerable influence within Cheonmun Temple.
No need to search far—
the abbot himself.
If the temple’s head willed it, who could oppose him?
“Young Master Gam, you seem to be more of an eccentric than I first thought.”
That was, in essence, confirmation.
And from it, I understood how Beop-un saw me—
as an eccentric.
“I didn’t think I’d given such an impression.”
Beop-un’s smile deepened.
“This is the first time I’ve met someone who didn’t frown upon seeing this ‘graffiti.’”
He explained that everyone else who saw it—monks and visitors alike—always frowned.
Even after he’d told them it wasn’t mere scribbling, they still did.
And indeed, I could understand why.
“Even I must admit—it’s a terribly drawn piece of graffiti.”
Looking at the mark made me chuckle.
It didn’t look like a symbol at all—
more like a child’s careless doodle.
One thing I could say for sure: it wasn’t intentional.
Because Jincheon was, in truth, an atrocious writer.
That remarkable handwriting was perfectly preserved in this mark.
‘It’s not even that meaningful… how did they manage not to erase it all this time?’
Did it hold special meaning for Beop-un?
Or perhaps it was due to his bond with the one who made it.
I soon learned the answer.
“As you have already guessed, Young Master, I know the one who carved this.”
Beop-un’s eyes grew distant, as if lost in memory.
I felt almost guilty interrupting, but had to ask.
“May I know his name?”
The mark was certainly Jincheon’s work.
But I asked anyway—to gauge when he’d made it.
Jincheon had used various aliases while wandering the martial world.
Knowing the name he’d used could help estimate when he came here.
“The man said he used the characters for ‘truth’ (Jin) and ‘heaven’ (Cheon) for his name—Jincheon.”
That was the one answer I hadn’t expected.
“…Jincheon.”
I didn’t show it outwardly, but inside, I was deeply shaken.
I had been sure that name wouldn’t be his real one.
‘Jincheon only used his true name briefly…’
Back when he’d first entered the martial world—
young, naïve, untested.
But this mark was made after that period.
Which meant only one thing.
‘So this was after he left Mount Hwasan…’
After his fateful battle with the Heavenly Demon and the demonic followers.
My heart pounded wildly.
It was the first time it had done so without any physical exertion.
‘I guess… he’s still the one wound that never healed.’
A dull ache spread through my chest—
but alongside it came a warm swell of emotion.
‘He left, acting like he was about to die any moment…’
And yet he hadn’t died immediately.
He lived on for a while longer.
That alone was a relief.
He hadn’t gone so pitifully, after all.
My surprise turned into quiet comfort, and at last, a faint smile crossed my lips.
Beop-un, who had watched me closely the whole time, asked gently,
“Are you all right?”
I realized I’d revealed too much emotion.
Fortunately, I remembered how this monk handled such moments.
“It’s a fine name.
Hard to believe it belonged to someone who would carve on a Buddha statue.”
Like how Beop-un had answered indirectly before, I now gave my own roundabout reply.
He might have called me eccentric, but in truth, he was the extraordinary one.
“It seems you and I share much in common, Young Master.
I, too, think the same.”
Understanding my meaning, Beop-un smiled again and pressed his palms together.
Amitabha, Avalokiteśvara.
I didn’t know why he suddenly invoked the Buddha now,
but one of my earlier suspicions was finally confirmed.
‘So he really hasn’t trained in martial arts.’
Yet from his voice alone, I could feel it—
his cultivation, his spiritual strength.
It was pure and untainted, something that no swordsman, no matter how skilled, could ever possess.
Not even Shaolin’s monks could match it.
‘And that includes me.’
I couldn’t help but reflect on my own recent obsession with strength.
Then, suddenly, a question arose—
what was true strength, anyway?
And at that thought, something within me stirred.
‘Why does my whole body feel… itchy?’
It was exactly that—an itch, like countless ants crawling all over me.
Startled at first, I soon realized the cause.
‘So this is… the process of enlightenment.’
I had heard it countless times—
before reaching a new stage, one experiences this.
But this was my first time truly feeling it.
And it made sense—
until now, my “progress” had just been refining what I already knew, not true realization.
‘Still… to gain a glimpse of enlightenment like this, in such a way.’
I hadn’t fully attained enlightenment—
otherwise, this sensation would be refreshing, not itchy.
Itchiness meant impatience—imperfection.
But that was fine.
If I pursued it patiently, I was sure I could reach it.
And so—
‘No need to cling to a small enlightenment. I can afford patience.’
For—
‘The taller the tower, the stronger its foundation must be.’
To rush would only lead to collapse.
‘Even if I lack the power to build the tallest tower in the world,
I am confident I can build the strongest one.’
It wasn’t arrogance—
it was experience.
I had spent years living as the Divine Sword.
That, too, was a form of tower-building.
So, relying on that experience, I let go of this fleeting enlightenment.
The itch vanished instantly.
My narrowed vision widened again—
and before me stood Beop-un.
He must have sensed everything at a glance.
With surprise in his voice, he said:
“I have misjudged you, Young Master.
You are no eccentric—
you are a sage.”
