Twenty-four years had passed since 1392, when the thunderous roar of a new dynasty’s founding shook the Korean Peninsula.

  In the land of Hanyang (Today SEOUL), the teachings of Confucianism had become a sharpened blade,

  systematically carving away the ancient traces of Buddhism.

  They restricted the faith, regulated the number of monks, and seized temple lands and slaves.

  There was a man.

  He had first crossed the threshold of Heungcheonsa—a temple whose magnificent sarira hall pierced the heavens within the walls of Hanyang—when he was a mere child of six.

  Fifteen years passed. The innocent, bright smile of the novice acolyte had transformed into the deep, contemplative gaze of a twenty-one-year-old monk.

  Yet, living as a true monk under the Joseon sky was a trial more arduous than attaining enlightenment.

  In this new era, a monk had to be "authorized by the state" before they could be a "disciple of the Buddha."

  "Those without a Docheop (official certificate) are frauds! Seize all who have shaven their heads merely to evade military service!"

  Ruthless government decrees were plastered throughout the capital.

  The King, making Confucianism the bedrock of his rule, adamantly blocked the expansion of temples.

  He believed that as temples grew, the nation’s labor force withered, and their land and slaves would eventually challenge the royal authority.

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  When the man had just turned twenty, he was forced to take the state monk examination.

  But he was not a man of books. He failed, time and again.

  Though his body was strong and healthy, he could not master the scriptures.

  It brought him a crushing sense of self-loathing and sorrow.

  To obtain the Docheop—that single sheet of paper that served as both a divine identification and a symbolic shackle—one had to recite the scriptures flawlessly.

  The man had a family.

  He had been sent to the temple by parents too impoverished to raise him.

  Joseon was a harsh environment for human life.

  For commoners, life was a relentless cycle of farming.

  Many perished from disease in their thirties; marriage came in the early twenties, followed quickly by children.

  Life for the common man was miserable.

  His family was no different, and thus he had lived in the temple, assisting with every chore like a slave. But at twenty,

  when he should have become a "real" monk, he found himself stuck. Frustrated and despairing, he felt as though he wanted to die.

  He sat by a stream near the road, staring blankly at the flowing water.

  It was then that a group of people heading toward the temple entrance passed by.

  One of them called out to him.

  "Monk... why are you sitting there like that?"

  He lifted his head. It was a high-ranking state official who frequently visited the temple.

  An elder over sixty years of age, his face was familiar.

  "Hello. It is nothing. I am heading back to the temple now."

  The man brushed the dirt from his clothes and stepped toward the road.

  "Monk, are you busy today? If you have time, perhaps we could share a cup of tea at the temple?"

  "Ah... yes. I would be honored."

  The man was startled.

  Though they had seen each other often, a private conversation over tea was unheard of.

  For a lowly young monk like him, speaking with someone of such high status was nearly impossible.

  The elder’s body, over sixty years old, was withered like dry firewood. A constant, hollow cough escaped his gaunt chest.

  His breath was shallow, as if it might flicker out at any moment.

  The name of that frail old man was Jun-ho.

  One month later.

  Beneath the massive Iljumun Gate of Heungcheonsa, a man stood with an entirely different aura.

  He quietly felt the Docheop tucked inside his robe.

  In an era where the suppression of Buddhism was fierce, this single piece of paper was his ticket to freedom.

  While aimless wandering was strictly forbidden, the title of 'Disciple of Buddha' was the only gateway to the world outside the capital.

  As a traveler, there was no better guise than that of a monk.

  His footsteps as he exited the gate were light yet firm.

  The frailty of old age was gone; in its place was a youthful, robust body of twenty-one.

  Inside the bundle slung over his shoulder, he carried heavy needle cases and neatly dried medicinal herbs instead of scriptures.

  Beside him, a silver sphere—invisible to human eyes—hovered like a shadow, resonating quietly.

  The past Jun-ho, who had endured sixty years of time, was now dead.

  Shedding that old skin, the newly born Jun-ho took his first step onto the dirt roads of Joseon.