the mind itself was illuminating itself.
"Proof of a being that has already stepped beyond the former world."
— At ease anywhere.
As he entered meditation, a transparent light spread within his mind.
It was not something perceived by the eyes.
It felt as though the mind itself was illuminating itself.
Bright.
Cold.
Clear.
Like a piece of glasslike ice slowly revealing itself within his chest.
"So this is it."
The thought brushed past him, and he let it go.
This too belonged to passing forms.
Cultivation is always accompanied by thresholds.
They appear as light, as sound, as currents of energy, as wondrous sensations.
Sometimes the body grows light as a feather, as though it might rise.
Sometimes the legs grow heavy as lead, anchoring one in place.
Heat may surge through the body until sweat pours forth.
With eyes closed, dazzling forms and scenes may flow in brilliant colors,
clearer and sharper than reality itself.
Some see what is unseen.
Some hear what is unheard.
Some sense movement dozens of li away.
Some claim to have touched the heavens.
Yet all these remain within the turbulence of energy.
The Dao does not abide there.
When form manifests, a place of dwelling arises.
To dwell is to step away from the flow.
Park Seongjin did not grasp at the light.
He did not interpret the sensations.
He did not delight in wonder,
nor did he attach his mind to fear.
He simply steadied his breath once more
and emptied one further layer of thought.
The light dissolved naturally.
The sounds scattered.
The weight of the body lost meaning.
Nothing remained.
In that moment, he understood.
Enlightenment is not the gaining of something,
but the opening of the eye that beholds the world.
The sky remained the sky.
The earth remained the earth.
Humans remained human.
They were no longer objects to grasp.
The nation was the same.
Fate was the same.
He himself stood as a single point within the current.
After passing the boundary, he no longer pursued the strange.
Where strangeness receded,
the simplest sensations remained.
Breath entering and leaving.
Night deepening.
The spiritual creature sleeping beside him.
The mountain speaking nothing.
Within that ordinariness, the Dao already functioned in fullness.
—Time stretched on without end.
As the night deepened, a tiger's cry sounded at his side.
"Kiryororong."
It was time to return.
His consciousness, which had drifted afar like something swimming through distance,
slowly returned to the body.
Park Seongjin drew in a deep breath.
He rubbed his hands together to warm them
and brushed his face with his palms—
forehead, cheeks, arms, abdomen in turn.
It was a method learned in childhood.
He followed it still.
A motion he would repeat decades, centuries hence.
When the spirit returns, one calls the body back.
Someone approaches.
Cheoeun.
Soon, in the darkness, a small ankle-lamp appeared like an illusion.
The faint light that had swayed in the distance drew near
and crossed the yard.
"Were you here?"
"Yes. Why?"
"My lady thought you might not have eaten, so she sent me."
Park Seongjin smiled faintly.
Cheoeun set down a small tray wrapped in cloth.
Rice, soup, three side dishes—
neatly arranged within the wrapping.
"Did I disturb you?"
If he said yes, Cheoeun would feel sorry.
If he said no, he would return again tomorrow.
What is the path that withdraws from worldly causality?
To do nothing?
To refrain from intervening?
Or is that choice itself yet another cause?
Instead of answering,
Park Seongjin tapped lightly upon the veranda.
An invitation to sit.
Cheoeun stepped forward, then abruptly halted.
"Hik."
He swallowed his breath.
Only then did he notice the small tiger curled at the edge of the veranda.
He stepped back, eyes wide.
The peculiar hue.
The unbelievable size.
And the cool, austere presence that resisted easy approach.
An unfamiliar being.
Caution rose first.
"What is it?"
"Heh heh, shall we call it that?"
"No… what is it?"
"A tiger."
"…It's small."
"A small tiger."
Cheoeun remained standing, bowing slightly.
"Please speak."
"Nothing unusual at the house?"
"No. Much the same as always. Noisy and restless, then quiet again. When something happens, it comes all at once."
After a breath, Cheoeun continued.
"Since the noodle shop began, much has changed. The servants no longer move by force. They step forward on their own. They take on work willingly."
"And fighting?"
"Almost none. Even those who once raised their voices now speak calmly."
"And the household?"
"Utter stillness. Many people, yet no clamor."
Park Seongjin narrowed his eyes.
He knew what that stillness meant.
After a moment he said,
"You are managing the household well."
"Of course."
"Continue to do so."
Cheoeun raised his head.
"Are you going somewhere?"
Park Seongjin chose his words,
then left none behind.
He did not speak aloud the possibility
that one day he might suddenly depart.
Silence weighed heavier than speech.
On the veranda, the small tiger purred softly.
The lamplight flickered.
The night deepened.
All of it rested there
as though nothing at all were happening.
(Within, Park Seongjin murmured.)
I alone walk a distant road no one else has taken.
That is the path of a warrior.