"He gave up flesh. Then gave up truth. In the end, he forgot which one mattered more."
---
The far shore of the River Saṃsāra was quiet—too quiet.
No birds. No insects. No wind. Only the sound of ash falling like soft snow from the sky.
Asma-Ra walked alone again, though something in him had changed. The serpent's tongue was gone. In its place, silence grew—not emptiness, but awareness. He could now hear the weight of things. The silence of the land whispered sorrow.
The ash-trail led him into a forest of stone monks, each carved in meditation posture—yet broken, crumbling, their faces frozen in agony. Some were missing their heads. Others held their own skulls like begging bowls.
And then he saw it.
A figure sitting perfectly still beneath a dead Bodhi tree, no flesh, no skin—only robes wrapped around polished white bones, sitting cross-legged in eternal zazen.
But it breathed.
A faint movement, like the wind through dry grass.
Asma-Ra approached.
> "Who are you?" he asked.
The figure spoke, voice like dry leaves.
> "I was the disciple of Dharma. I sought Nirvana. I walked the Eightfold Path until my feet bled. I gave up pleasure, hunger, speech, and name. Finally, I gave up my body."
It lifted its skull.
> "But when the world ended, I remained."
Asma-Ra circled him. "You are cursed."
"No," said the monk. "I am forgotten. Even the gods moved on. Only the Tree remains."
The wind shifted.
Suddenly, the other stone monks cracked open. Hollow bodies, once real men, once pilgrims—now screaming wraiths, clawing toward Asma-Ra in fury.
The skeletal monk raised a bony hand.
> "These were my students. They followed me, thinking I knew the way. I led them into emptiness… and left them there."
Asma-Ra fought.
But not with blade.
He sat. Cross-legged. And listened.
The wraiths froze. For the first time, someone did not fear them—he heard their regret. Their desperate longing to be remembered.
One wraith spoke with the voice of a child:
> "Master said if we forgot our names, we'd be free. But we died nameless…"
Asma-Ra stood.
He turned to the Monk Without Bones.
"You tried to free them from pain," he said. "But you cut away their hope too."
The monk was silent.
Then he said:
> "You carry the burden I threw away. You remember what I erased."
A moment passed.
Then the monk reached into his chest and tore free his own rib, offering it to Asma-Ra. It burned with the symbols of the Dharma Wheel, incomplete—six spokes broken.
> "Take this. The Six-Spoked Bone. With it, you may rebuild what I destroyed. Or shatter what still remains."
Asma-Ra accepted it.
The skeletal monk smiled.
> "Tell the Tree I remember. Even if it doesn't."
Then he crumbled into white dust.
And the Bodhi tree, though dead, gave one golden leaf—falling gently into Asma-Ra's hand.
He looked toward the mountain.
The Ashvattha waited.
But now, it knew he was coming.
---
END OF CHAPTER VII
Next: Chapter VIII – "The Asura Who Cried"