The Monk, Pashupati, did as the Eightfold Path commanded. On the side of the road, he expounded on the dharma as he held his bowl forth, expecting food to come, but only receiving coins and sometimes trash.

It was amazing how disappointed you could be at something. Deep down, he was always so skeptical about the capacity that humanity held for cruelty. He had heard stories, of course, and read accounts of the surface world, but in all his life, he never imagined he would be met with the most extremes of cruelty so quickly on.

Adventuring with Kang Yilan had opened his eyes to the depravity of this world, but he had not broken in the face of it, like his mentor had so feared. And now, he was on a mission, the fate of the Martial Arts world hinging on its success.

Had it been him a month ago, he would insist that they speak softly to Tian Mo, to convince him of the error of his ways.

The him of today was… largely the same, but tempered with life experiences. He had killed his first human being only recently, and was forced to move so quickly, barely giving him time to let grief run its course, but such was life; suffering with no end.

He tried to think happier thoughts, and found that they came easily. Kang Yilan and Han Yu Jie had realized their feelings for each other, now looking much happier for it. A temporary reprieve from suffering would do them both good, so they could meditate on it once it all came to pass, so they could ride on a sustainable decrease in suffering rather than a curve which crested and troughed in equal measures.

But it would still not grant them true reprieve. Only Transcendence would do that; Nirvana. A most succulent fruit, always a millimeter away from the grasp of the most pious men of the Shaolin Monastery.

He had seen the statues built to commemorate the great Siddharta Gautama, and a handful of other Transcendents. It had been over one hundred years since the last monk or nun transcended, and it truly put it into perspective the amount of wisdom one required to actually transcend.

The Great Buddha was said to be thirty-five when he ascended. The thought of it didn’t excite him so much as fill him with tranquility. The arrogance borne from age was one that worked against oh so many initiates, many of which could only wallow in ignorance.

Pashupati would never say this to anyone, not even his Mentor, but truly, deep inside his heart…

…he believed they treasured Nirvana too much.

He felt a pang of shame for saying it, but there really was no other way to look at it, even from a logical perspective. ‘Treasuring a Jade Ring Becomes a Crime’. Too much desire for one thing would inevitably remove them from the dharma, and that applied to even the dharma itself. What a harsh and cruel task it was, then, to purge the Three Poisons, follow the Four Noble Truths, and walk the Noble Eightfold Path. Even the name was obliquely sinful: with the word ‘noble’ used. The aristocracy called themselves noble, believing themselves to truly be above the average person.

And on some level, the initiates did, too. There were a few still true to the Path, who only wished to expound on the dharma to save more, but there were others who were deceiving themselves, carrying out selfless deeds with selfish intentions. The Monastery was not pure. They dug into the earth in order to sow seeds and make food for the more astute initiates, leaving the less holy on the wayside.

Those farmers would say that it was an act of sacrifice, but he could never avoid seeing the anguish in their hearts at being unable to attempt at following the Noble Path, instead having to sin so others may not. In his opinion, those were the truly selfless of the Monastery.

Still, as he had been taught, he was grateful for their sacrifice, and as they had been taught, they were grateful for the opportunity to be self-sacrificing. At the very least, the promise of another chance at being born as a human waited for them all, but the bitter truth was that most humans were not initiates.

The missionaries sought to reclaim the lost souls by sending monks out indiscriminately. The likelihood of meeting a reincarnated monk was low, but the knowledge that they were trying, in the face of such daunting odds, was hopefully enough to satisfy the self-sacrificing farmers.

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A kindly stranger put a loaf of bread in Pashupati’s bowl, and the monk thanked him kindly before consuming the meal slowly, guiltlessly.

If he were to speak for himself, he would be the harshest, however. Whereas they treasured Nirvana too much, he didn’t. He only wanted to live by the tenets of an initiate so he could be the best that he could be to all of life, to be one with ‘life’ in general and all that it entailed. It included negativity and ignorant suffering, but it also included enlightened thinking and lateral problem-solving skills.

There was so much to life, and wishing to abandon it without learning the most important things… it would eventually be the Monastery’s downfall, but Pashupati would do his best to spread his own wisdom if it ever turned out that he was somehow right.

Then again, no two minds were ever the same, and what would transcend one person could not necessarily do so for another. Maybe they were erroneous in their ardent wish to follow the footsteps of the Great Buddha?

It remained to be seen what was right and what was wrong only by transcending, oneself, so the question itself was meaningless to ask.

A young child bumped into him. “Oh, sorry, mister!”

“It’s no problem,” Pashupati smiled.

“We were just playing tag,” the boy explained himself. Pashupati nodded.

“Ah, can I join you?” He asked. He had finished eating his bread, now, so it wouldn’t hurt to exert himself a little. Laziness made for a poor body, which made for a poor mind.

“Sure!” He said. He pointed at the other children present, before suddenly tagging Pashupati. Amused and greatly surprised by the child’s guile, he made to chase them, tagging one with ease before running the other way with a congregation of children in tow.

He allowed himself to be tagged some times, and carried on a great and heart-pumping pursuit to make the experience more fun for the children, each time tagging them by only the barest of margins.

“Hey!” The children all stopped as a middle-aged man strode over to the monk, his bowl in their hand. “What are you doing playing with my son? How old are you, anyway?”

The Monk bowed his head. “My apologies. I did not know that you would have a problem with that.”

The man laughed sarcastically. “Not a problem? How am I to know you’re not some kind of sick bastard who would prey on my children? What’s your name, anyway?”

Pashupati shook his head regretfully. “My vows prevent me from revealing my true name to an outsider.”

The man growled and stepped in to deliver a slap to the monk’s cheek, one which he readily accepted so he would not escalate. “You think you’re smart, dontcha? You think you’re better than us because you’re a man of God or something?”

The monk shook his head. “No, no, I do not. I’m sorry, I’ll leave you to,” he tried to walk away, but the man held his hand.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He lifted the begging bowl up, before throwing it down on the ground with all his might, denting one side. Pashupati picked it up and evened out the dent with ease which the man probably did not expect. “If I ever see you around my kids again, I’ll beat you so damn hard you’ll be begging for death and not food-scraps.”

He turned his eyes surreptitiously to one of the kids, their expressions dour. It wasn’t fair to them to see something this cruel at such a young age. Time and time again, this world continued to disappoint. For fear of escalating the man’s ire, he spoke haltingly. He knew that what he was about to say ran counter to the Path, but he cared more about the wellbeing of the children than a path to perfecting him and him alone.

Everyone deserved perfection.

“You shouldn’t behave this way in front of your children,” he said. “It makes you… seem like a bully.”

“How dare you!” He tried to grab him, but he took a smooth step back, causing the man to overextend, stumbling forth. A gentle push above his ribs had the man regaining his balance.

“And neither should you be violent to strangers in front of your children,” he continued. “You do them a disservice by hurting me just to prove to them a point. If you were truly scared that I would harm your children, then you could have sent me away, but instead, you chose to attack me.”

The man tried to attack him again, only for the monk to smoothly duck underneath him and send him staggering forward. Before he could fall, he grabbed the stumbling man by the back of his shirt collar, correcting him. “I don’t want to hurt you, and neither do I want to humiliate you, but when you ruin fun for your child and display such cruel tactics, you force my hand.”

The man turned around and tried to tackle him. At just the right moment, Pashupati stepped away and kicked his feet up, sending him in a flip that had him land on his feet, like nothing had happened. The children laughed uproariously at the sight, as even a crowd began to gather around the spectacle.

The man had learned from his flip that he was not facing an ordinary foe. Pashupati gave the man a deep bow. “I am sorry if I have damaged your reputation, but to raise your hand against a stranger innocent of a crime you have accused them of will only invite calamity towards you in the future. Please take my solemn advice and please do not treat your children with the same level of cruelty that you have treated me with.”

With that, he took his bowl and went back to his corner where he had deposited his monk’s spade. He picked it up and left the area, steps lighter than he would have expected.

With a heavy heart, he decided there and then, that he liked doing the right thing more than he liked being a perfect being. His mentor would probably be disappointed with him, but Pashupati was not.