"Men make their own history, but they do not make it as they please; they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already, given and transmitted from the past."
- Karl Marx (1818-1883).
The Three Religions:
"The world before my eyes is wan and wasted, just like me. The earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered. ... The tree was barren of leaves but you brought a new spring. Long green sprouts, verdant flowers, fresh promise."
On a crisp morning beneath the high blue vault of heaven, three figures met at the edge of the world—where the sky curved like a bowl and the earth breathed silence. The first was Confucius, tall and still as a pine, eyes steady, face carved with the patience of centuries. The second was Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, crouched on a rock, his golden staff across his back, his eyes bright with mischief and fire. The third walked with a whirl of robes and dust: Rumi the devout Muhammadan, the wandering mystic, his gaze both distant and intimate, like a man who had seen the soul of stars.
They met on Mount Heng in Hunan, China, summoned not by war or politics, but by a riddle inscribed into the wind by no known hand:
"Only when the East, the Middle, and the West speak as one
Will the gate to the Silent Garden open."
Sun Wukong was the first to scoff. "I don't speak in riddles. Old Monkey had others like the Tang Monk decipher riddles for him like when I traveled to retrieve the Buddhist scriptures in the west." He spun his staff. "Besides, what's a garden to a monkey who's seen Heaven?" Rumi smiled gently. "Even Heaven has weeds, my friend. Sometimes, a garden shows you what your heart has neglected." Confucius said nothing at first. He was studying the rock beneath his feet, as if it held a forgotten truth. Finally, he looked up. "The question is not what the garden is. The question is what we must agree on to enter it." The Handsome Monkey King rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. You want us to follow rules. Write poetry. Drink tea. Things that the sages and sagacious men consider interesting as the martial arts." Confucius didn't blink. "No. I want you to speak honestly." Rumi turned to Wukong. "You once defied Heaven, yes?""I kicked it in the teeth and brought the Gods into submission," Wukong said proudly."And what did you find after all your rebellions?"
Wukong's grin faltered for a second. "A cage. A mountain. A monk." Rumi nodded slowly. "We all find our own mountains. But perhaps the garden waits for those who learn to sit with them. You shattered the Gods like idols much as the same when on the Day of Victory the Holy Prophet smashed the idols of the Meccan Polytheists. But you still worshipped the idol of the heart." Confucius now spoke with the quiet weight of stone. "The sage does not fight storms. He becomes their stillness. Tell me, Wukong: do you still fight the sky, or do you now fight yourself?" Sun Wukong stood, fur bristling slightly. But something old stirred behind his grin—weariness. Regret.
"Maybe both," he said. "Maybe neither." They sat. The wind quieted. A bird flew overhead, silent as an answer. Confucius offered a phrase. "Order without compassion is tyranny." Rumi followed. "Love without discipline is chaos." Wukong finally added: "Mercy without justice is anarchy." The air shifted. A soundless chime rang out across the peak. And then, just over the ridge, the mountain split open—not with violence, but like a curtain being drawn aside. The Silent Garden revealed itself: still water, stone bridges, cherry blossoms, and in the center, a mirror that did not reflect faces, but truths. None of them moved to enter it. Rumi bowed. "Not every gate is meant to be walked through. Some are only meant to be understood." Confucius gave a rare smile. "Wisdom does not demand arrival. Only alignment." Wukong laughed, not bitter this time, but free. "Fine. I'll let the next monkey find it. I need to continue to spread the Sutras to the ignorant." And with that, he vanished in a blur of wind and laughter. The other two remained a moment longer. Then Rumi turned and began to walk down the mountain, spinning a verse in the dust with his feet. Confucius, ever measured, followed—not behind, not ahead, but beside him.
三大宗教:
我眼前的世界蒼白而荒蕪,正如我本人一樣.大地衰敗,天空暴風雨肆虐,所有的草都枯萎了...樹木光禿禿的,但你帶來了新的春天.長長的綠芽,翠綠的花朵,新鮮的希望.
在一個清爽的早晨,在高聳的藍色天空之下,三個身影在世界的邊緣相遇——那裡的天空像碗一樣彎曲,大地一片寂靜.第一位是孔子,他身材高大,如松樹般穩重,目光堅定,臉上雕刻著幾個世紀以來的耐心.第二個是孫悟空,美猴王,蹲在一塊岩石上,金杖斜背在背上,雙眼閃爍著惡作劇和火焰.第三個人走來,長袍和塵土飛揚:虔誠的穆罕默德教徒魯米,流浪的神秘主義者,他的目光既遙遠又親切,就像一個見過星星靈魂的人.
他們在中國湖南衡山相遇,召喚他們的並非戰爭或政治,而是一道不知何人所寫,刻在風中的謎語:
「只有當東方,中東和西方齊聲發聲
寂靜花園的大門會打開嗎? 」
孫悟空第一個嗤笑道. 「我不說謎語,像我西天取經的時候,老猴子都找唐僧之類的人給他猜謎語.」他旋轉著他的手杖. 「此外,對於一隻見過天堂的猴子來說,花園又算什麼呢?」魯米溫柔地笑了. 「朋友,天上也有雜草.有時候,花園會讓你看到你內心忽略的東西.」孔子起初什麼也沒說.他正在研究腳下的岩石,彷彿它蘊藏著被遺忘的真理.最後,他抬起了頭. 「問題不在於花園是什麼.問題在於我們必須同意什麼才能進入它.」美猴王翻了個白眼. 「讓我猜猜.你想讓我們遵守規則.寫詩.喝茶.聖賢們認為有趣的事情,例如武術.」孔子沒有眨眼. 「不.我希望你說實話.」魯米轉向悟空. 「你曾經違抗上天,是嗎?」 「我痛擊了天庭,讓天神屈服了,」悟空驕傲地說. "那麼在你反抗了這一切之後,你發現了什麼?"
悟空的笑容僵住了. 「一個籠子.一座山.一個僧侶.」魯米慢慢地點了點頭.我們每個人都找到了屬於自己的山峰.但或許花園在等待那些學會與之共處的人.你們粉碎了眾神,如同粉碎偶像一樣,就像勝利日先知穆罕默德摧毀麥加多神教徒的偶像一樣.但你們仍然崇拜著心中的偶像.孔子現在說話的聲音如同石頭般沉靜.聖人不與風暴對抗,而是化為風暴的寧靜.悟空,你告訴我,你還在跟天鬥,還是在跟自己打架?孫悟空站在那裡,渾身毛髮微微豎起.但在他的笑容背後,卻湧現出一種舊日的情感──疲倦.後悔.
"也許兩者都有,"他說. 「也許都不是.」他們坐下了.風停了.一隻鳥從頭頂飛過,無聲地回答.孔子有言. 「沒有同情心的秩序就是暴政.」魯米緊跟在後. 「沒有紀律的愛是混亂的.」悟空最後補充說:「沒有正義的仁慈就是無政府主義.」空氣發生了變化.峰頂響起一陣無聲的鐘聲.然後,就在山脊的另一邊,山裂開了——不是猛烈的裂開,而是像窗簾被拉開一樣.寂靜花園顯露出原貌:靜水,石橋,櫻花,而中心有一面鏡子,它反映的不是面孔,而是真理.他們誰也沒有進去.魯米鞠躬. 「並非每一道門都值得你走過.有些門,只值得你去理解.」孔子難得地露出了笑容. 「智慧不求到達,只求一致.」悟空笑了,這次不是苦笑,而是自由. 「好吧.我就讓下一隻猴子去找吧.我得繼續給那些無知的人傳播經文.」說完,他就消失在風聲和笑聲中.另外兩人又停留了一會兒.然後魯米轉身下山,用腳在塵土中吟誦詩句.孔子始終緊跟在後──不是在他之後,也不是在他之前,而是在他身邊.
سه دین:
«جهان پیش چشمانم رنگپریده و فرسوده است، درست مثل خودم. زمین فرتوت، آسمان طوفانی، تمام علفها پژمرده. ... درخت بیبرگ بود، اما تو بهاری نو آوردی. جوانههای سبز بلند، گلهای سرسبز، نوید تازه.»
در یک صبح دلانگیز زیر طاق آبی بلند آسمان، سه چهره در لبه جهان به هم رسیدند - جایی که آسمان مانند کاسهای خمیده بود و زمین سکوت را نفس میکشید. اولی کنفوسیوس بود، قد بلند و آرام مانند کاج، چشمانی ثابت، صورتی تراشیده از صبر قرنها. دومی سان ووکونگ، پادشاه میمون، بر سنگی چمباتمه زده بود، عصای طلاییاش بر پشتش، چشمانش از شیطنت و آتش میدرخشید. سومی با گردابی از ردا و غبار راه میرفت: رومی، محمدیِ مؤمن، عارفِ سرگردان، نگاهش هم دور و هم صمیمی، مانند مردی که روح ستارگان را دیده بود.
آنها در کوه هنگ در هونان چین ملاقات کردند، نه به خاطر جنگ یا سیاست، بلکه به خاطر معمایی که توسط دست ناشناسی در باد حک شده بود:
"تنها زمانی که شرق، میانه و غرب به عنوان یک نفر صحبت کنند
آیا دروازه باغ خاموش باز خواهد شد؟"
سان ووکونگ اولین کسی بود که مسخره کرد. "من با معما صحبت نمیکنم. میمون پیر دیگران را مانند راهب تانگ داشت که معماها را برایش رمزگشایی میکردند، مانند زمانی که من برای بازیابی متون مقدس بودایی به غرب سفر کردم." او عصایش را چرخاند. "علاوه بر این، برای میمونی که بهشت را دیده است، باغ چیست؟" رومی به آرامی لبخند زد. "حتی بهشت هم علفهای هرز دارد، دوست من. گاهی اوقات، یک باغ به شما نشان میدهد که قلبتان چه چیزی را نادیده گرفته است." کنفوسیوس در ابتدا چیزی نگفت. او در حال بررسی سنگ زیر پایش بود، گویی حقیقتی فراموش شده را در خود جای داده بود. سرانجام، سرش را بالا آورد. "سوال این نیست که باغ چیست. سوال این است که برای ورود به آن باید روی چه چیزی توافق کنیم." پادشاه میمون خوش تیپ چشمانش را چرخاند. «بگذار حدس بزنم. میخواهی از قوانین پیروی کنیم. شعر بنویسیم. چای بنوشیم. چیزهایی که فرزانگان و خردمندان آنها را به عنوان هنرهای رزمی جالب میدانند.» کنفوسیوس پلک نزد. «نه. میخواهم صادقانه صحبت کنی.» رومی رو به ووکونگ کرد. «تو یک بار از بهشت سرپیچی کردی، بله؟» ووکونگ با افتخار گفت: «من به آن لگد زدم و خدایان را مطیع خود کردم.» «و بعد از همه شورشهایت چه چیزی پیدا کردی؟»
لبخند ووکونگ برای لحظهای لرزید. «یک قفس. یک کوه. یک راهب.» رومی به آرامی سر تکان داد. «همه ما کوههای خودمان را پیدا میکنیم. اما شاید باغ منتظر کسانی باشد که یاد میگیرند با آنها بنشینند. تو خدایان را مانند بتها خرد کردی، همانطور که در روز پیروزی، پیامبر اکرم بتهای مشرکان مکه را خرد کرد. اما تو هنوز بت قلب را میپرستیدی.» کنفوسیوس حالا با وزن آرام سنگ صحبت میکرد. «حکیم با طوفانها نمیجنگد. او به سکون آنها تبدیل میشود. ووکونگ، به من بگو: آیا هنوز با آسمان میجنگی، یا حالا با خودت میجنگی؟» سان ووکونگ ایستاد، در حالی که موهایش کمی سیخ شده بود. اما چیزی قدیمی پشت لبخندش موج میزد - خستگی. پشیمانی.
«شاید هر دو،» گفت. «شاید هیچکدام.» آنها نشستند. باد آرام گرفت. پرندهای در بالای سر، بیصدا، به عنوان پاسخ، پرواز کرد. کنفوسیوس عبارتی را بیان کرد. «نظم بدون شفقت، استبداد است.» رومی به دنبالش آمد. «عشق بدون نظم، هرج و مرج است.» ووکونگ سرانجام اضافه کرد: «رحمت بدون عدالت، هرج و مرج است.» هوا تغییر کرد. صدای زنگ بیصدایی در سراسر قله پیچید. و سپس، درست بالای خط الراس، کوه شکافته شد - نه با خشونت، بلکه مانند پردهای که کنار میرود. باغ خاموش خود را آشکار کرد: آب ساکن، پلهای سنگی، شکوفههای گیلاس، و در مرکز، آینهای که چهرهها را منعکس نمیکرد، بلکه حقایق را. هیچکدام از آنها برای ورود به آن حرکت نکردند. رومی تعظیم کرد. «قرار نیست از هر دروازهای عبور کرد. بعضی از دروازهها فقط برای فهمیدن ساخته شدهاند.» کنفوسیوس لبخندی نادر زد. «حکمت نیازی به رسیدن ندارد. فقط همترازی لازم است.» ووکونگ این بار نه تلخ، بلکه آزادانه خندید. «بسیار خب. میگذارم میمون بعدی آن را پیدا کند. من باید به گسترش سوتراها به نادانان ادامه دهم.» و با این حرف، در هالهای از باد و خنده ناپدید شد. آن دو نفر دیگر لحظهای بیشتر ماندند. سپس رومی برگشت و شروع به پایین رفتن از کوه کرد و با پاهایش بیتی را روی گرد و غبار چرخاند. کنفوسیوس، همیشه سنجیده، دنبالش میرفت - نه پشت سر، نه جلو، بلکه در کنارش.
Hermes met with Mark on a playground outside a nearby school. "Why'd you wanna speak with me Mark?" said Hermes. "It's just… I really need to talk to someone about something," said Mark. Hermes pricked up: "Don't be afraid to tell me, I'm all ears." Mark: (takes a deep breath, not meeting her eyes)
"I'm trans, Hermes. I'm a woman. I know it might be weird for some people but… I need you to know that." Then the wind paused as everything fell silent but Hermes let out a deep sigh. Hermes replied quietly: "Mark…" Hermes said softly with conviction: "Okay." Mark, who finally looked up, said: "Okay?" Hermes: "You're Mark. That's enough for me. That's who you are, right? Then that's who I see." Mark's face loosened like a dam cracking. Relief washed over him, though he hid it with a quick smirk. Mark: "You're cooler than you act, you know that?" Hermes smirked back:
"Don't get used to it."
There was a pause. The metal creaks in the wind. Mark's tone shift. Mark: "There's one more thing I need you to accept… and this one's gonna sting." Hermes raised her eyebrows: "Try me." Mark said firmly:
"You gotta accept Scott Greer." Silence fell over the playground. Hermes tightened her fists. "He's said horrible things. You don't understand, he's an animal." Hermes: "You don't understand, he said stuff I can't forgive. Stuff that makes my blood boil. You know what he's like." Mark: "I'm not asking you to forget. But we can't keep picking and choosing who gets to be redeemed. You want people to accept me for who I really am? Then we've gotta give that same shot to everyone. Even him. It doesn't matter if he changes completely a little, a lot or not at all, he deserves mercy like everyone else." Hermes clenched her fists again: "He's a racist."
Mark: "And you're very brave. You don't run from hard fights. I'm telling you this is one of 'em." Hermes turned away. The sun hit her face, casting a shadow across her expression. Her jaw tightens. Then—very quietly:] Hermes: "He's still the best choice for manager. He knows the brackets. He knows our opponents. We'd be weaker without him." Mark nodded. Silence fell over them again: "It isn't about that. But if it helps you accept him. I understand." Hermes to herself said: "He doesn't deserve this team. But maybe… he could earn it." Flashbacks went through her mind, Scott Greer spouting his various political views, grand-standing on his 187 IQ and his highly respected physique. She thinks of all the terrible things Scott has said. Things that she hates.
Hermes said to herself:
I swore I'd never let someone like him close. But every time I look at him, I feel the ground shift. This isn't part of the plan. I can't tell anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But… dammit… Why does my heart race like this? The quiet between Mark and Hermes stretched long and thin, tension simmering just under the surface—until it was snapped clean in half by a sudden yell, echoing across the playground like a thunderclap.
Kazan shouted and ran towards them: "YO! YOU TWO WANNA TRAIN OR WHAT?!" A gust of wind kicked up dust as a blur of motion rocketed toward them. It was Kazan, shirt half-buttoned, tank top underneath, gym bag swinging like a wrecking ball, a crooked grin splitting his face like a strike of lightning. Kazan grinned like a maniac: "I knew I'd find you out here sulking, Hermes. And you—Mark, right? You're gonna need to toughen up too if you're rolling with us. So what's it gonna be? Sit here and talk about feelings, or come bleed with me on the court?!" Mark blinked. "Court?" Kazan (already yanking open his bag, pulling out weights, resistance bands, and a beat-up volleyball): "Mixed combat drills. Core endurance. Serve-receive under pressure. Think 'volleyball,' but if you mess up, you might get decked." Hermes raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. Hermes: "You mean like the last time? When you broke two cones and a rib? Kazan laughed: "Exactly! I leveled up! What about you, huh? Still playing scared? Or are you ready to stop running from the hard stuff?"
Hermes tensed. That cut deep. She hated how Kazan could read her—like he saw all the cracks she tried to hide. She took a breath, stepped forward. Hermes: "Fine. But we're not going easy. And we're not stopping till I say so." Kazan's grin widened like he'd just been handed a challenge on a silver platter. He slammed his hands together with a clap that echoed through the empty playground. Kazan: "YES! That's what I'm talkin' about!" Then he turned to Mark. Kazan (with a surprisingly serious glint in his eye):
"You're part of this team, that means you sweat with us. You fall, we pick you up. You push back, we push harder. That sound fair?" Mark hesitated—but only for a second. Then she stepped forward, tying her hair back with a thin elastic band, a glint of determination sparking in her eyes. Mark: "Yeah. Let's go."
Two days later, Mark dressed up as a girl for the first time in his life, he looked beautiful for a man. It was shocking Hermes, Kazan and the others could hardly believe it. "Wow you look great," said Hermes. Mark began to blush and wonder if they were serious. They were at a mall trying on clothes for Mark. The mall buzzed with weekend noise—kids laughing, parents arguing over food courts, and music pulsing from clothing store speakers. Mark stood near the fitting room mirrors, turning slightly from side to side, inspecting herself in a light blue top and high-waisted jeans. Hermes adjusted the collar, nodding in approval. Hermes didn't know this but Mark, who identified as a Lesbian actually had a crush on Hermes, something he wasn't willing to tell her at the moment.
"You look legit," she said. "Like… shockingly good." Mark laughed, cheeks red. "Seriously?" Khadija chimed in with a warm smile. "Very serious. Confidence is everything—you wear that better than half the influencers out there." Then it happened. A voice cut through the moment like a rusty blade. "Well, well, look what the cultural tide dragged in." Scott Greer. He was dressed like he always was: tactical boots, athletic hoodie that looked like it hadn't seen sweat in weeks, sunglasses indoors. His tone was loud enough for strangers to hear, sharp enough to ruin the mood instantly. "Mark," he said with a performative grin. "Sorry—'Marcia' now, right? Or is it something else? Doesn't matter. This right here—another tragic example of another causality claimed by the… good man shortage." Hermes stiffened. "Don't start." But Scott was already in motion, eyes scanning the group. He landed on one of Hermes's friends, a Black girl named Rayna, who stood silently next to Khadija, arms folded, unimpressed. Scott nodded toward her. "Let me guess. You're the sassy friend, right? The Sheniqua of the group. Every group's got one. Good for you."
Rayna didn't flinch. "You think you're clever, but all I see is a walking Twitter thread that thinks it's people." Then Scott turned to Khadija, eyeing her hijab with a faux-polite squint. "And you—you're obviously Muslim, but are you from one of the white Muslim ethnic groups? Chechnyan or Bosniak maybe? If so, that would be great." Khadija blinked. "No. I'm Pakistani." Scott gave a theatrical shrug. "Ah, so brown. Got it. DEI at its finest." He clapped once, mock applause. "This team's like a brochure for a failed social experiment. Something that would say: "Diversity is our Strength," or some other horse-shit." Hermes didn't speak. Not yet. Her eyes burned holes into Scott's chest. Her fingers flexed like they were looking for something to hit. The rage rose in waves—but she kept it down, held it back, barely. Scott smirked at the silence. "What? Too real?"
That's when Hermes stepped forward. "You shut your mouth," she growled. Scott rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go." "No," Hermes said. "You don't get to speak to them like that. Not here. Not to them." He waved her off, smug. "C'mon, Hermes. Free speech, right? Besides, if we're gonna act like Mark's a girl now, I think I get to ask questions." Hermes's foot hit the tiled floor with a stomp so sharp it startled a toddler nearby. "You say one more thing like that, and I swear to God, I will make you regret opening your mouth." Scott lifted his hands, still grinning. "Easy, champ. Remember I don't know what it's like to interact with people in the real world, I'm one of those extremely online men." But Hermes wasn't done. "You act like you're the smartest guy in the room because you read forums and quote studies no one asked for. You think a high IQ excuses being cruel. It doesn't. It just makes you an intelligent jackass. You think you're better than everyone else? Prove it. Be better. Or get the hell out of the way."
For the first time, Scott's grin cracked—just a twitch. Something in Hermes's voice shook him. Mark, still quiet, stepped beside her. "Hermes…" Hermes turned, eyes still on fire. "No. He needed to hear that." Scott finally exhaled, adjusting his sleeves. "You all take this too seriously." Rayna stepped forward. "No, you don't take us seriously. And we're done pretending you deserve a seat at the table just because you're loud." Mark replied: "Guys don't treat him like that, even if you think low of him." Scott scoffed. "Guess I'm the villain now, huh?" "No," said Hermes with a grin. "Villains at least have style." Scott miled: "Oh I like that, I guess you can take the heat, can't complain about that. Anyway have a great day girls I'll see you at the dojo tomorrow. Ciao." Hermes looked around: "Is everyone okay?" Khadija nodded, expression calm but tight. "I've had worse. But thanks."
Hermes turned to Mark. "Are you sure about giving him a chance?" Mark gave a sad smile. "A chance. Give him mercy and compassion regardless of anything. That's what I hope you'll do." Hermes muttered, "Hope's expensive." Mark replied, "So is bitterness." The moment hung there for a second, like a thread about to snap. But Kazan appeared suddenly, slamming down a smoothie tray like a hero entering from stage left. "Is it weird I missed something terrible again? I swear, every time I'm gone for five minutes, y'all turn the food court into a therapy session crossed with a UFC weigh-in." Hermes smirked. "You missed Scott." Kazan raised an eyebrow. "Guess I should thank God. So—who's ready to wreck their legs on the escalator sprint challenge?" Hermes gave a half-grin. "Only if Mark wears heels." Mark laughed. "You wish." And with that, the tension gave way to motion. They walked forward, stronger together—even if cracks still showed beneath the surface.
Back at the trial in the Guild World all of our heroes: Professor Amadeus, Xerxes, Xenos, Seregrin, Farabius, Zelanius, Kaisho and the others began their trial each fighting off the other opponents. But the good doctor 'Amadeus,' noticed something strange, a girl in a black hoodie, with white hair and pink eyes, ran by in a flash. Flashbacks raced through his mind, of him spending time with a young girl living with her, starting a life with her, fighting demons alongside her and a final image of him holding the woman in his arms as blood dripped all over the soft snow in the forest. Tears streamed down Amadeus's face. Amadeus uttered a single statement: "Maria. Maria, is that you? Maria?"
TO BE CONTINUED [read the next part in Part VII].