The Bodhisattva Aspect fell still. His four arms lowered. The Vajra. The lotus. The treasure sword. The prayer beads. The radiance of all four ritual implements dimmed simultaneously.
The holy monk's eyes were fixed upon Shinji. Fixed for a very, very long time. Only the Sanskrit chanting still echoed through the corridor. Yet its rhythm was entirely different from before.
It had shifted from the earlier crushing pressure to a gentle, even cadence, like someone finally unclenching a fist that had been held tight for far too long.
"To have a flaw… so that one may still advance. So that one may still… reach completion…" The voice emerged from the mouth of the Bodhisattva Aspect. Yet the earlier oppressive majesty was gone. All that remained was age and exhaustion. And… confusion. "But even so... you could simply leave now. You would no longer be bound by me. Why… do you still remain?"
Shinji did not answer. He simply sheathed Yomi-giri as well. All three blades returned to their places. Onikiri on the left. Yomi-giri on the right. Banryū planted across his back. He stood there. His crimson demon eyes met the Bodhisattva Aspect levelly. He asked a single question. "Because I wanted to hear your question… one more time." He no longer attacked.
Saint Hakurei's golden eyes, in that instant, trembled with the faintest of quivers. The other party had sheathed his blades. When he still possessed the strength to continue the battle, he had sheathed his blades of his own accord.
This gesture made Saint Hakurei recall the past. Many, many years ago. A young monk, traveling on foot through the mountains on a rainy night. He passed by a crumbling, dilapidated temple, on the verge of collapse. Within that temple sat an aged, venerable monk. His face was gaunt and withered. His robes were tattered and threadbare. Yet he was chanting sutras there. The young monk asked him,
"Venerable senior, you have cultivated for so many years. Have you attained enlightenment?" The old cultivator smiled and replied, "No. I have merely witnessed much of life and death."
"Then what use is your chanting now?"
"By chanting again and again, one can face death calmly with reverence in one's heart, without becoming a demon."
At the time, the young monk thought these words were very foolish. How could someone who had witnessed so much life and death fear death itself? The old man's answer was also very simple.
"I can be unafraid of death. But a person must, of course, hold reverence for death." One could be unafraid of death, yet deliberately choose to fear it. It was exactly like the yōkai before him, who could have mended his flaw, yet deliberately left it there. Only, at the time, the young monk did not understand.
Later, he saved tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. He was called a living buddha. Moved by the masses, he willingly sacrificed his own life to become a flesh-buddha.
When he walked into that pit, he still believed he was utterly unafraid of death. But at the very final moment of the forty-ninth day, he discovered he was trembling. He was afraid. Afraid to the core. And he also resented. And he hated. For centuries.
In that instant, he suddenly grasped the state of heart of that old monk he had met in his youth. In that instant, he also suddenly understood. Life and death, was the true, great terror. He had failed to transcend and become a buddha. He had successfully transformed into a flesh-buddha, yet he was also a "demon-buddha," a branch of resentful spirits flowing through the mortal world.
His vow-power unceasing. His resentment just as impossible to dispel. He became the spirit of this mountain, Mount Hakurei, wandering the mortal realm.
Many had entered this mountain. Many had come and gone. Many had also "audienced" with him. Including that great onmyōji of centuries past, Abe no Seimei. They all believed he was resentful. That he was hateful. Only, in truth…
"This old monk was indeed hateful—" The lips of the Bodhisattva Aspect quivered. The light within his golden eyes was no longer buddha-light. It was the glimmer of tears.
He continued the question from before. "But what this old monk hated… was never those who wished for this old monk to die." The voice was very soft. So soft it was nearly swallowed by the lingering tail of the Sanskrit chanting still echoing through the corridor. Shinji did not interrupt.
"Those people… they lived lives far more bitter than this old monk's. No grain grew in the fields. No water flowed in the rivers. Children gnawed on tree bark from hunger. Old men leaned against the foot of walls, impossible to tell whether they were asleep or dead… They wished for this old monk to die, because they had no other way."
The arms of the Bodhisattva Aspect slowly drew inward and folded across his chest. The majestic posture vanished. All that remained was an old man, curled into himself.
"This old monk knew. This old monk… always knew." His golden eyes closed. When they opened again, the pupils were no longer gold. They had reverted to their original, clouded hue. Withered eyes. The eyes of a man. The eyes of an old man. The eyes of one on the verge of death, lost and terrified.
"What this old monk hated… was himself."
The instant those words fell, the Bodhisattva Aspect began to collapse. One arm after another shattered into fragments. Golden light drifted out from between the pieces, like fireflies, floating in every direction.
The petrified skin peeled away, revealing what lay beneath. White bone. True white bone. The body that had been buried beneath the earth centuries ago. The true face of Saint Hakurei. Gaunt. Bent. An aged monk, reduced to nothing but bone.
Something streamed down his face. Yet it was no longer buddha-light. No longer vow-power. It was tears. Clouded. Warm. Carrying the scent of earth. From those two withered eyes, which should have had no tears left to shed, they trickled down, drop by drop.
"…Why? Why, at the very end, did this old monk feel fear? Why, at the very, very end, did this old monk feel unwillingness? Feel terror?" Yes. Why? He who had always proclaimed himself unafraid of death. He who had been titled a holy monk, a living buddha. At the very end, he had been afraid.
"Because… you are human." To this, Shinji simply gave this reply. At last, he spoke the answer he had already spoken before. Only, this time was different from before.
This time, he had demonstrated it with his own body and actions. This time, the impression it left upon Saint Hakurei was deeper. Further-reaching. He said, "Even a sage… is still human. Not flawlessly perfect. And so, capable of fear. And precisely because one is not flawlessly perfect, one can still advance. Just like me. Is that not so?" As his words fell, the world seemed to fall still once more. A long, drawn-out moment. Or perhaps, a single instant.
Then Saint Hakurei suddenly exhaled a long, long breath. He thought again of that other old monk he had met in his youth. He thought of his young self. And his aged self. He thought of many things.
In the end, only a single sentence remained. "So it was thus… So… I was allowed to be afraid." His voice trembled. His entire body trembled. He spoke, "I was allowed to fear death. I was allowed to feel terror. I was allowed… to be like an ordinary person." All this time, he had held himself to the standard of a flawlessly perfect sage.
The moment those final words were spoken, the entirety of Mount Hakurei fell silent. The Sanskrit chanting ceased. The wind stopped. The sound of shattering Buddha statues halted as well. Only the sound of an old monk weeping echoed through the corridor.
The resentment of centuries, had never been hatred toward those people. It was hatred toward himself. Hatred that, at the final moment, he had feared death. Hatred that he had not been perfect enough. Hatred that he, who was clearly hailed as a living buddha, had been no different from an ordinary mortal at the very last moment of the forty-ninth day.
And now, this yōkai before him told him, he did not need to be flawless. Even a sage, was still human. He was allowed to be afraid. Allowed to feel terror. Allowed to tremble in the darkness. To feel remorse beneath the soil. None of these things were shameful. Because it was precisely this imperfection, that proved he had been alive. Proved that he had once lived.
Thus, at this moment the old monk's body began to glow. It was not the oppressive golden light of the Bodhisattva Aspect. It was gentle. Warm. Like the first ray of dawn before the breaking of day. Buddha-light. True buddha-light, without the slightest trace of resentment.
It spread from his heart to his four limbs. From his four limbs to the entirety of his white bones. From his white bones, it seeped into the very air. The shattered stone within the corridor. The broken walls. The fragments of shattered Buddha statues.
All of it was enveloped by that light. Their edges grew soft and blurred, as though they were about to dissolve into the very fabric of heaven and earth. The resentment, never abundant to begin with, vanished completely.
Saint Hakurei's body began to turn transparent. White bone became light. Skin became light. Even the prayer beads became light.
He was, once again, becoming a buddha. Not a false buddha, trapped within a mountain. Not a Bodhisattva Aspect forcibly stacked together by devouring the Mandate of Heaven.
But a true, enlightened buddha. An enlightenment that accepted his own fear. Accepted his own imperfection. Took up everything. Yet regarded it all as nothing, and let it all go. He… had reconciled all. Reconciliation was completion. Flawed, was also flawless. He was full.
Within the light, Saint Hakurei's silhouette slowly rose. His hunched spine straightened. He was transforming into a rainbow. He was also beholding the "Buddha."
In a daze, in a trance, it seemed he saw that young self of his. Saw him asking himself… why he feared death. Within that crumbling temple. Amidst that rainy night. He was chanting sutras. So the young self he had encountered back then, was his present self. Past. Present. Future. Converged.
Saint Hakurei had understood. In the very final instant, when his entire being was nearly transformed into pure light, he turned once more toward Shinji. He bowed. His palms pressed together. His forehead touched his fingertips. He performed the most reverent of bows. The bow of a disciple toward a teacher.
"My deepest gratitude… to my Root Teacher." these words, passing through the light, through the lingering resonance of the Sanskrit chanting, fell clearly and distinctly into Shinji's ears. This other party had guided him to buddhahood. Thus, he was his Root Teacher. The most fundamental of teachers.
Shinji did not speak. The five-colored radiance within his crimson demon eyes fell utterly still in that single instant. Only the outermost ring, that exceedingly fine ring of golden light, remained.
He returned the bow. A nod of acknowledgment, from a junior toward an elder. A very light bow. A very shallow bow. And a bow of final, absolute farewell. Saint Hakurei smiled. On that face, gaunt and withered until only bone remained, surfaced a smile identical to the one the young monk had worn, centuries ago, when he distributed gruel. Pure. Sincere. And then he transformed into light. Utter, absolute light.
At the breach in the corridor, Kikyō walked slowly inside. Her white uwagi and crimson hakama were bathed in the warm, gentle glow of the buddha-light. Her longbow was stowed behind her back. Her black hair drifted within the light.
She raised a single palm and inclined her body slightly. No superfluous words. As she had said before, she, too, had heard the story of Saint Hakurei. A high monk who had saved countless souls, yet was trapped for centuries by his own resentment.
Kikyō had known this legend even before she became a formal wandering miko. Toward this living buddha, she held the reverence of a miko toward a predecessor. And a farewell. The buddha-light soared into the heavens. The mist of Mount Hakurei began to disperse.
The vast white mist converged from every direction toward the mountain peak. From the peak, it rose toward the heavens. As though the entire mountain was exhaling its very last breath. Within the mist, a song emerged. Distant. Ethereal. As though drifting across from centuries past.
It was the voice of children. Innocent. Carrying the accent of the countryside. A nursery rhyme sung by a group of children. "Crows are reverence. Reverence is crows.""Good is evil. Evil is good."
The song swirled and churned with the mist. It wound past the collapsed pillars. Drifted through the shattered Buddha statues. Echoed throughout the entirety of Mount Hakurei. It was no curse. No sutra. Only a children's song. The nursery rhyme that, centuries ago, the children of those villages saved by Saint Hakurei had sung and passed on.
Those children had long since aged and passed away. But the song still remained. The singing grew fainter and fainter. The mist grew thinner and thinner. When the final wisp of white mist rose from the mountain peak and vanished into the vast expanse of the sky, at the far end of the corridor, where Saint Hakurei had once stood, nothing remained.
Only a single object floated before Shinji. As though it were a parting gift. Or as though he was returning something to them. The size of a palm. Warm and smooth as jade. Upon its surface, faint traces of gold swirled. It was the bone of a bodhisattva. And the seed of enlightenment. And even more, it was the lingering Remembrance of one who had once been, in a way, similar to him.
And then, the mist dispersed. The song fell silent. Mount Hakurei still stood. Yet it had grown still. Still beyond any stillness it had ever known. As though the mountain, had, at last, fallen asleep.