The Realization of Impermanence
That night, moonlight lay cold upon the mountain.
A slow wind passed through, turning over the grain of the leaves.
As always, Park Seong-jin sat in his place.
His breathing was calm.
His mind rested in stillness.
Yet in that moment, the familiar warmth—the gentle light that had long dwelled in his chest—was no longer there.
He steadied his breath and re-established his posture of mind.
He inhaled.
Nothing stirred within his body.
The circulation of qi had come to a halt, sinking into silence.
The single point of light had vanished, leaving only a trace of where it had been.
A cool sensation spread through the center of his chest.
Is this as far as the flow goes?
His mind wavered.
The moment he tried to grasp it, the texture blurred.
The instant he tried to recall it, sensation softened and faded.
He closed his eyes and remained where he was.
His heart pulsed slowly, resonating deep within his body.
Air brushed his skin.
The warmth of the rock supported his seated form.
From afar came the sound of water, time flowing like a quiet pattern.
The original light had never disappeared.
From the beginning, it had always been there—something transcendent, eternal.
He had seen it.
He had felt it.
And he had merged with it.
No—perhaps it was better to say he had become one with it.
It had never been something to possess.
How could the essential core of existence ever depart from itself to become mine?
It was the sense of ownership—mine and yours—that had obscured the flow.
He opened his eyes.
Below him, not far away, mist slowly rose.
Or perhaps it was cloud.
Though moonlight did not touch it, the entire mountain shimmered with silvery radiance.
It had always been like this.
I simply did not know.
He exhaled.
The sensation of light was gone, yet his entire body was open with luminous clarity.
The brightness within illuminated the grain of all things, revealing even the dust of the mind.
Yi Wol-gun's voice seeped in like a presence.
"Arising and vanishing are the same thing. They are not different."
Park Seong-jin lowered his head.
The inner elixir, once no larger than a mustard seed, had passed beyond form and color.
That place had widened, spreading evenly through mountain and breath alike.
In his heart, he settled the understanding.
"All things change.
Yet within change, the flow continues."
The wind passed.
He closed his eyes and remained seated.
Whether light appeared or submerged, the flow went on.
This too took its place as part of his study.
The Omen (奇異)
From that day on, the texture of the air changed whenever he entered meditation.
When he closed his eyes, a faint brightness first seeped into the edges of space.
It did not spread like fire, nor fix itself like a star.
It rested lightly between breaths, pushing back the weight of night.
The light arose not only within his body, but simultaneously from the rock beneath him, the air around him, and the shadows under the eaves.
It extended beyond the shell of his own existence—
to where his gaze reached, to where his breath touched.
It felt as though he might dissolve into water and become part of nature itself.
When he opened his eyes, it subsided briefly.
When he closed them, it returned.
He did not try to follow it.
Regardless of his thoughts, movements, or attention, it was always there—
like a quiet companion.
The less he approached it, the clearer it became.
The clearer it became, the less shape it had.
At some point, the light was joined by resonance.
Not sound, but vibration—
low, even, spreading broadly and gently through the surrounding space.
It resembled neither birdsong nor the friction of wind.
It was a directionless tone, a song without lyrics, rising and falling with the breath.
The resonance did not shake the mind.
Instead, it created a place where the mind could rest.
When thoughts arose, they dissolved into the vibration, releasing gentle ripples.
Without effort, awareness remained there.
At times, a single thought made the entire world appear different—
and yet it felt as though this song had always existed, only now becoming audible.
Perhaps it was best called a heavenly song.
A wondrous sound never heard on earth spread widely.
Then scent followed.
Without fire or herbs, a subtle fragrance permeated the air.
It was beyond flowers and trees—
a cool, clear breath carrying the purified essence of a long-washed heart.
The fragrance brushed the nose, dispersed, and left a sharper aftertaste.
That trace passed through the dantian, the chest, the throat, the brow—one by one.
More than the movement of qi, it was the dissolving of boundaries that came first.
At that moment, Park Seong-jin accepted it as a sign.
Light, sound, and scent were not proofs nor marks of attainment.
They were signals that the path had opened.
From now on, it was not about obtaining miracles,
but about forming a place where miracles could come and go on their own.
That night, the mountain was quiet and full—complete in itself.
Light seeped gently.
The song continued.
The fragrance lingered as an aftertaste.
None of these flows centered on him.
The world paused briefly in an emptied space.
And within that pause, another beginning quietly gathered its breath.
The Road Home (歸路) — Descending the Mountain
As always, dawn rose in the same way.
A faint light spread along the ridgeline of Mount Guwol, then unfolded like an open fan.
After sitting through the night, Park Seong-jin slowly opened his eyes.
The same—yet not the same.
Mist lifted.
From a distant valley came birdsong.
Yi Wol-gun approached and asked softly,
"Will you go down now?"
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"Yes, Master. My mind has grown still."
"When the mind grows still, one wishes to remain."
The words invited deeper thought.
They were not commands, but guidance—drawing him onward.
"Yes."
"Study that stays in place cannot last long.
Go down and walk the world again.
Study learned within the world hardens more firmly."
The words were gentle, seeping in like a warm breeze.
As his study deepened, the master's speech had shifted—from command to offering.
Yi Wol-gun sat upon a rock and continued.
"This mountain raised you.
The mountain remains; people stand upon the road.
They climb, remain, and descend again.
That flow is study.
That is living time itself."
Not all meanings unfolded at once, but the reason was clear.
Park Seong-jin bowed deeply.
The words echoed in his chest like the mountain's own resonance.
He had nothing to pack.
The robe he wore, the sword at his waist, and the water flask he always carried were enough.
After a deep bow to his master, he turned and bowed once more toward the hermitage.
He etched into his heart the pillars, the floorboards, the shadows, the rock where his master sat, the shape of the small pagoda.
Only then did he understand:
descending the mountain was another ascent.
As he stepped onto the mountain path, mist curled around his ankles.
Birds rose into the early light.
He moved forward slowly.
Dew sparkled on each stone.
Then his master's voice called from behind.
"The world is harsher than mountains,
and the human heart is deeper than water.
Still the shaking within, and study finally stands.
This is manhaeng—the ten thousand practices.
Learn from the world.
Keep profit at a distance.
What could possibly satisfy desire?
Now go."
When Park Seong-jin turned back, Yi Wol-gun was already far away.
He stood there for a long while, then smiled quietly.
How reluctant he must have been to let me go,
to call out even to my retreating back.
Cold and sparing with words, yet how deep his heart truly was—
he understood it again.
The wind blew.
He took one step, then another.
The mountain receded, and the light he had gained moved with him.
The time of secluded study folded into a single joint of his life.
Chapter 171 Summary Notes — Awakening of Impermanence (Concise Edition)
This chapter depicts the moment when even the "signs" of enlightenment dissolve.
The protagonist experiences the complete disappearance of the inner light and the flow of qi that he had relied on until now.
This is not a failure, but a stage where the desire to possess, reach, or preserve awakening itself falls away.
In Buddhist terms, this corresponds to the realization of impermanence (無常) and non-self (無我).
Even enlightenment is no longer treated as something to be grasped.
In Daoist terms, it marks a transition where the inner elixir (內丹) leaves form and expands into the world.
The practice moves from cultivating and accumulating qi to a state where qi comes and goes naturally.
Phenomena such as light, sound, and fragrance are presented not as proof of attainment, but merely as signs that the path has opened.
The protagonist does not pursue them, and through that restraint, his stillness deepens further.
The final decision to descend the mountain clearly states that
the end of cultivation is not seclusion, but a return to the world.
This is the point where the Bodhisattva path in Buddhism and the cyclical worldview of Daoism converge.
➡ Chapter 171 is not a declaration of "I have attained enlightenment,"
but the moment when attachment to enlightenment itself is completely released.