The Game That Leaped Through Time

“Go on then.”

“Once upon a time, there was a woodcutter who went to a barren mountain to forage wood. At the mountaintop, he saw two people playing a board game (TN: the game in question is an ancient version of Chinese Go with similar rules). Most days, the woodcutter enjoyed such matches, so he went over to watch them. Immediately, he became engrossed. By the time the match had finished, the two players told him to hurry home, lest he be unable to see his wife again. The woodcutter froze, not understanding what they meant. Only when he turned his head did he notice that the wooden handle of his ax had already rotted away.”

“I’ve heard of this ancient folktale regarding a man who had leaped through time before.”

The old monk said, “Then you would know that this mountain was the barren mountain where that match was played. This is the ninth peak of Mount Meru. Although the two celestials have left, they imbued this board with tremendous spiritual power. The moment a match begins, the player will be so immersed that they will experience the game personally and feel what they had experienced. One will be unable to extricate themselves and the match will seem to last a lifetime. Those without great perseverance and wisdom will not be able to play this game. Despite all this, do you still wish to play?”

Xia Ji asked, “How is it played? Do each of us pick a color and take turns?”

“No.” the old monk’s brows sunk as he closed his eyes. “This match is a precious obscurity and also a bitter sea.”

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Xia Ji laughed before asking bluntly, “Is it a matter of life and death?”

The old monk elaborated, “The bitter sea is endless, and the shore will be behind you… I see that you have a great desire, but I advise you—all who live toil; many others suffer, tire and hurt more than you do. Will you not put an end to your worries and obsessions? After all, the world of mortals is but a dream.”

Xia Ji answered with a question of his own, “Why should I put an end to them?”

The old monk spat, “Seek yourself.”

Xia Ji took a step forward and sat beside the gameboard that lingered with celestial energy without hesitation. He calmly asked, “What if I already sought myself and saw that my calling is not to turn back to shore?”

Only at this point did the old monk open his eyes to size up the young man in front of him. Either way, he had already sat down and made his choice. In that case, this was his fated karma.

The old monk put his palms together and said “Amitabha.” Regardless of the outcome, the Seventh Imperial Prince’s courage was truly commendable. As he sat down, he was ready to start.

At this moment, the trial of Zen began.

The old monk asked, “What do you see?”

Xia Ji did not answer, focusing solely on the board in front of him.

Clearly, this involved immediate action and not strategic planning.

The setup was, in truth, rather simple. Black and white were like two dragons that were interlocked in battle, both surrounded by other pieces from all sides …

Seeing that he did not answer, the old monk did not ask further, but simply stated, “Once you have decided, take the black piece. That is when the match truly begins.”

Xia Ji immediately reached out, his fingers clasping the black piece. He still had to hurry back to the Imperial Palace after the match.

However, the moment he lifted the black piece, a mysterious and abstract thought rushed into his mind, evoking a complete change in his surroundings.

In an instant, he was a traveler wandering the barren plains. At present, he was urgently on his way home.

His identity as Seventh Imperial Prince of the Dashang Dynasty, the recent climb to Mount Meru’s peak, and the game that leaped through time had all become an absurd dream from last night’s sleep. They bore no relation to his current situation.

In the air, a hungry eagle was hunting a poor dove.

In an instant, the dove dived into Xia Ji’s arms.

Above Xia Ji, the eagle circled.

The dove suddenly spoke in human tongue, “Please let me go. If you release me you can still find other food, but I only have this one life.”

The eagle also spoke. “I’m starving. If I don’t eat you now, I will surely die.”

Two tremendous notions abruptly sprung into Xia Ji’s mind.

I am willing.

Or am I unwilling?

Viewing the predicament, the eagle reasoned, “If you protect the dove and save its life, would you have me starve to death?”

Following those words, the two impulses grew more intense, becoming a powerful psychological attack that impacted Xia Ji’s thoughts.

He compulsively shook his head, seeking clarity.

With a shake, the dove in his arms transformed into a rabbit, and the eagle that hovered in the sky turned into a gaunt tiger.

With another shake, the entire scene began to change continuously. With every alteration, the desires in his mind grew even stronger.

The intensity continued to compound, eventually turning into two cries, demanding his choice.

Was he willing?

Or was he unwilling?

Slowly, the barren plains disappeared. Everything had disappeared.

All that was left in this world was him and those two creatures.

The only solution was for him to carve off a portion of his flesh equal to the weight of the prey and give it to the predator. By doing this, he would be sacrificing himself to save the only two lives of this world. This was an immeasurable degree of altruism.

To cut?

Or not to cut?

The two cries intensified until they became white noise.

On the ninth peak of Mount Meru, the old monk sat watching the imperial prince—eyes closed, brows twitching uncontrollably. The black piece in his right hand was slowly descending.

The struggle of this match was not where the piece fell.

But whether one was capable of placing it in the first place.

If one was willing, that would put oneself to death by the cleaving of three pounds of one’s flesh.

If one was unwilling, that simply delayed the inevitable by several intervals. Still, it would ultimately result in complete failure and a loss that one would regret.

Most importantly, this piece was not played by one’s hand, but by one’s meditative mind. No one could cheat, for the celestials did not regard technique, but Zen.

What is Zen?

Zen is what appears simple but is in truth arduous; it seems to be right in front of oneself but is actually far on the horizon.

The piece Xia Ji held was but a foot away from the board.

However, this mere foot spanned the ends of the earth.

This stretch was the bitter sea that the old monk had referred to.

Only those who could persevere through this bitter sea were qualified to read the Leiyin Temple’s secret Buddhist manuscript—the Past Dipankara Sutra.

The old monk did not feel that the imperial prince would succeed, as he had already been around for twenty years. The imperial prince was not the first person to come here. The many others before him were well-renowned, possessing wisdom, courage, and strength beyond him, but none succeeded. All of them knew the move that had to be played, but the moment they entered the match, they were unable to place it.

Was this not life?

Although you knew that there were simple, trivial things that ought to be done, they were things you simply cannot do.

This showed the need for Zen.

The ordinary.

That is Zen.

To be willing.

That is Zen.

You know.

But can you do it?

You understand.

But are you truly willing?

Suddenly, the old monk’s expression shifted, because the Seventh Imperial Prince by the name of Xia Ji had carved off three pounds of his flesh, feeding it to the predator. His eyes flew open as his hair danced wildly. With a clack, the piece landed where it was supposed to.

The old monk looked into the imperial prince’s eyes.

However, he did not see the compassion he wanted to see.

How was this possible?

Then how was he able to do it?

The old monk was stunned. He asked, “You were willing to cut your flesh to feed the eagle and sacrificed your body to sustain the tiger. This was a journey to compassion, but why is there no compassion in you?”

Xia Ji calmly replied, “Because I had none to begin with.”

“Are you not willing to feed the eagle with your flesh?”

“Then who will feed me?”

“But you did it.”

Xia Ji concluded, “When I was close to death, I understood the meaning of life. I survived with the belief that even if I had died, I would return from the netherworld.”

After saying this, Xia Ji suddenly exuded a grand Buddhist aura. Although he had not meant to use it, the Dhyana of the Present protected him from the mental onslaught that had occurred earlier. If it had not been activated, he would not have passed the trial. The moment this happened, the old monk remarked in horror, “But you have been enlightened. How did you do that?”

Xia Ji did not reply, but asked in return, “Is the trial over?

The old monk was silent for a while, after which he replied, “It is over. But I would like to ask, if you knew yourself and saw that it was not to turn back to shore, what did you see?”

“I saw the Buddha smiling as he held a flower, but that is not who I am.”

“Then who are you?”

“If I fancy it, I would have no flowers bloom at all.”

“You… are a demon of the Buddha.”

“Then will you still lend me the sutra?”

“Yes.”