Chapter 348. Youngwoo's Inspection — Guangyou Temple in the City
Between the Southern Market and the Northern Market stood a watchtower.
It marked the center of Liaoyang.
Youngwoo climbed it first and looked in every direction.
From there, the main roads, markets, government offices, barracks, and even the eight gates in the distant walls could all be seen at once.
He remained there for a while before turning his horse toward the White Pagoda.
Someone must have raised that towering pagoda in the hope that the Buddha's protection would remain over this land.
Yet under the gaze of that same tower, Liao officials had ruled with cruelty.
The people who built the White Pagoda and those who committed the abuses were surely not the same men.
But once both were gathered beneath the name of a single empire, the contradiction became all the clearer.
Within the same city, one could raise a tower in the Buddha's name and trample people in the emperor's.
Youngwoo dismounted before entering the grounds of Guangyou Temple.
He tied the reins to a hitching rail and turned, only to find a monk standing nearby with his palms joined.
"What brings you here?"
Youngwoo bowed his head as well.
"I only stopped by to pray for a little while."
The monk's gaze dropped to the sword at Youngwoo's waist.
"The smell of blood hangs heavily around you."
"There were people who had lost their homeland. I tried to help them. That is how it came to be."
"You are from Goryeo?"
"Yes."
Something flickered briefly in the monk's eyes.
A warrior from Goryeo.
A man who had come to help the people of Balhae.
The two ideas seemed to connect in his mind.
The monk asked nothing more and stepped aside.
It felt strange to have anyone ask whether one was coming or going at a temple.
Perhaps things were simply different in this land.
Usually, no one cared whether a traveler entered a temple or passed it by.
The buildings of Guangyou Temple stretched along a north-south axis.
Beyond a Chinese-style ceremonial arch and an imposing mountain gate stood a large Hall of the Heavenly Kings.
Behind it came the broad main Buddha hall, spanning dozens of bays, followed by the Hall of Ten Thousand Buddhas, the Sutra Repository, and the monks' quarters.
The White Pagoda towered to the west.
To the east, the old moat ran low through the ground.
Moving without attendants made Youngwoo feel much more at ease.
He walked slowly across the nearly empty temple courtyard.
It was nothing like the night before, when he had run through the city's alleys swinging a sword.
Fine sand covered the courtyard.
Silence had settled over it.
Only the small wind bells hanging from the ends of the long, straight eaves moved softly.
Youngwoo went directly into the main Buddha hall.
Shakyamuni Buddha was enshrined in Guangyou Temple's principal sanctuary.
The interior was hazy with incense smoke.
The gilded form of the Buddha seemed to float quietly in the dimness.
Outside the doors, the city still carried the smells of blood and iron.
Yet the Buddha sat in silence, as though he had been watching all that turmoil for countless years.
At the entrance, Youngwoo unfastened the belt from which his sword hung and set it down.
He also removed his outer cloak and hung it nearby.
Then he brought over a meditation cushion, placed it before the Buddha, and slowly performed three full bows.
Each time his forehead neared the floor, the faint smell of blood entered his nose again.
He had washed his body.
He had changed his clothes.
He had cleaned his sword.
Still, the smell would not disappear so easily.
The memory of cutting through other men's flesh and blood remained somewhere deeper than the skin.
For a moment, he wanted to ask forgiveness in the names of the countless men who had died by his blade.
But the prayer was not for his own absolution.
He asked instead that peace be granted to the dead.
He did not know whether Heaven answered such thoughts simply because one offered them, but that was the heart with which he bowed.
In that sense, perhaps he was not so different from those who raised the White Pagoda while committing tyranny.
He had just killed scores—perhaps hundreds—and now he had come to pray.
At least he had enough conscience not to ask that he himself be forgiven.
Instead, he prayed for the souls of those he had killed.
A question rose quietly within him.
Those who built a tower in the Buddha's name must have believed themselves righteous.
He too believed in the reasons for which he raised his sword and cut men down.
Most people thought themselves different from the injustice they could see in others.
That thought itself was perhaps the most dangerous one.
Why should someone as insignificant as you be different?
You believe this life belongs to you.
You believe what you have seen is right.
And from the place where you happen to stand, you judge the world.
Everyone sees himself as righteous from where he stands.
A tyrant speaks of empire.
A killer speaks of salvation.
Youngwoo bowed once more, slowly.
The prayer he offered before the Buddha never became words.
It came out only as long, quiet breaths.
For a little while, in the place where he had laid down his bloodstained sword, he remained empty-handed in silence.
He set the cushion down again and sat cross-legged before it.
It was the cultivation he practiced every day, yet sitting in a temple made it feel different.
His training did not depend on place.
In an army camp, there was rarely any luxury of choosing one.
He simply found somewhere with few people, somewhere quiet, somewhere he could sit or stand for a long time without getting in anyone's way.
Sometimes, just to secure that kind of time, he had even volunteered for scouting duty and gone far out ahead to find a place of his own.
His choices were usually the same.
Somewhere with few people.
Somewhere the wind could pass.
Somewhere he could stand or sit for hours without being disturbed.
By those standards, the temple was nearly perfect.
An empty courtyard.
Quiet halls.
The faint scent of incense drifting through the air.
All of it made the place well suited to cultivation.
Whenever he had time to spare, Youngwoo would sometimes stop at temples.
It did not come from any firm faith or conviction.
It was closer to a habit left in his body from childhood, when he had followed his mother to such places.
Whenever he visited a temple, the monks would say this and that.
He rarely understood any of it.
Most of the teachings sounded incomprehensible to him.
They were said to be profound, but no matter how fine the teaching, if he could not understand it, it never reached him.
And if the words never reached his heart, there was little reason for faith to take root.
So he simply visited temples out of habit.
Perhaps inertia was the better word.
If he saw a temple while traveling, he went in.
He bowed to the Buddha.
Prayed for a little while.
Then went back on the road.
If the prayer happened to work and something good came of it, all the better.
If not, so be it.
It was not as though he could chase after the Buddha and demand his offering back.
If he had money, he made a donation.
If someone invited him to stay and eat, he accepted temple food with gratitude.
That was what a temple meant to Youngwoo.
Less a house of faith than a quiet shelter where a tired man could stop, catch his breath, and then continue on his way.