As soon as the man thought about it, the landscape around him began to change.
The clear blue sky gradually darkened, turning black, while the sun, hidden somewhere, scattered yellow and orange hues, signaling twilight. The clouds, tinged red like flowing lava, created a path, continuously shifting colors from orange to yellow to red, until they eventually mixed into an overwhelming darkness.
That darkness certainly seemed like white, but it was a murky white tainted by shadows.
When the background shifts, the impression of the objects placed there also changes.
The clouds remained white but transformed into shades of yellow, red, orange, and finally black, ultimately floating in the now completely dark sky like a bunch of scorched wool.
The grass was no exception.
Not long ago, the grass boasted its lively green hue, but under the cover of darkness, it turned into a dark line, moving with a strange fluidity, reminiscent of the submerged reeds shifting beneath dark water. The darkness obstructed sight, blocked light, and concealed their essence.
Thus, the grass, its essence buried in darkness, became a chilling cluster of hair, a threat, and a form that evoked unease in the heart of man.
As darkness enveloped everything, the man found himself isolated within it.
Just moments ago, he had been in a vast meadow.
Now, stripped of any sense of freedom he could feel in that open space, he was gripped by a rising fear of his isolation.
What does it mean that the essence remains unchanged, and only time and color have shifted, yet his heart perceives it all differently?
“That is precisely what the heart is for.”
As if sensing the man’s anxiety, a voice echoed from behind him.
A strange voice that evoked an image of a terrifying noise, as if metal were being scraped.
Startled by the voice, the man turned, only to find a peculiar beggar draped in rags.
The beggar.
He was wearing tattered, worn-out rags, so filthy it looked like they couldn’t even be used as a mop anymore.
Like a robe, the beggar wrapped the fabric around himself from head to toe, his tattered sleeves rolled up to reveal his arms. One arm drooped limply toward the ground, whether it belonged to him or not, while the other gripped a shabby wooden stick, hastily assembled into a staff, urging him forward.
The beggar slowly approached the man.
Stepping on the grass, parting it, tapping the ground with his staff, and pushing aside the grass, he walked toward the man.
As the beggar drew near, the man could see his features in greater detail.
The fabric the beggar wore was undeniably old.
Yet between the tatters and holes, he noticed what appeared to be a luxurious suit made from fine material, and there was something that looked remarkably like an expensive watch resting on the inside of the arm gripping the staff. Moreover, the shabby wooden stick, seemingly nothing special, had bits resembling obsidian embedded in it, and though the darkness prevented it from gleaming, its extravagance remained concealed within.
Additionally, hidden by the grass and shadows, the beggar’s feet were adorned in luxurious shoes.
Shoes that clearly looked expensive.
The beggar spoke to the man, who was observing his attire.
“What is essence?”
The beggar.
Jinseong approached the man and asked.
“When I was far away, I was buried in darkness and couldn’t see properly. When I escaped the darkness, I was but a beggar in rags. Up close, I became a man dressed in luxurious clothes with rags on top. So, I ask you: what is essence? What reveals essence? What judges essence?”
What truly is essence?
“If what we perceive is essence, then my essence has changed three times in a brief moment. If what we see is not the entirety of essence, then where, in the world, is that essence, and how does it manifest?”
Jinseong paused there and slowly lifted his staff.
As the staff was raised, the sky began to sparkle with a cold light, as if moonlight were seeping through. The light moved around until it settled upon the obsidian, swirling around it, casting a cold glow, which shimmered brightly before vanishing into thin air.
Thud!
Jinseong plunged the staff into the ground.
The staff struck the earth with an empty sound, and from behind him, soil began to rise.
The earth heaved, intertwining with grass, forming a backrest.
Thus, a splendid chair was created.
Thud!
With another strike of the staff, a chair appeared behind the man.
A chair made of soil and grass, identical to Jinseong’s.
Jinseong left the staff untouched and sat down in the chair.
He settled in with perfect comfort, almost annoyingly so.
The man gazed at Jinseong, who sat calmly and finally spoke.
“…You, it’s you, isn’t it?”
His words dripped with clear animosity.
Yet Jinseong simply nodded in calm acknowledgment, seeming unperturbed by the man’s palpable rage.
“Indeed.”
“And this is a dream?”
“That is correct.”
The man frowned at Jinseong’s nonchalant response.
“…What on earth were you thinking, bringing me here?”
He questioned, his animosity and suspicion undisguised.
Jinseong, however, revealed neither animosity nor suspicion, only a soothing stillness as he replied.
“Did I not say? Let’s share a story.”
Ha.
The man scoffed at Jinseong’s words.
“So, you brought me here to talk? You’ve pulled me into a dream and manifested an avatar in front of me?”
“Not an avatar. However, you are correct in the former part. Yes, I am projecting my consciousness into your dream to converse like this. One might say it’s a communication through dreams.”
Jinseong spoke, then paused.
As he fell silent, tranquility returned.
The man clenched his jaw, glaring at him, while the wind sweeping through the meadow made no sound, only yielding a ticklish feeling and a chill. Moreover, the grass, which should make noise as it rustled, merely swayed quietly, looking like a tuft of hair crushed into darkness.
And at the center of that stillness.
A sound emerged from the rags that cloaked Jinseong.
Rustle.
Rustle.
Small and firm, it was a sound like something moving.
Flutter.
As that rustling finally stopped, a tiny light burst forth from Jinseong’s sleeve.
A light smaller than a fingernail.
A diminutive, delicate light reminiscent of an ember.
It danced, sketching lines in the air as it soared, flitting like a firefly.
The firefly.
The firefly fluttered briefly before landing, burning brightly as it transformed into a handful of embers.
Whoosh.
That small ember quickly became a lighthouse, a North Star.
Rustle.
From Jinseong’s sleeve poured forth countless bugs toward that beacon.
A moth made of flames flew up, throwing itself into the ember to ignite it, while fireflies, unlike any ordinary ones, with embers at their tails, willingly gave themselves up as kindling.
Crackle.
Crackle.
As the bugs rushed forth, the fire grew larger, its flames spreading sideways and soaring upward, forming a campfire.
A campfire that thrived on flies for fuel, its body swelling and its roots spreading into the surrounding grass to sustain itself.
With the flickering campfire between them, Jinseong said to the man.
“This place is a dream. There is plenty of time. So let’s talk.”
*
The man remained cautious of Jinseong.
Yet no matter how wary and hostile he felt, Jinseong simply repeated his desire to share a story, expressing that he wouldn’t let him leave this dream until they had done so.
Thus, the man began to ‘share’ in accordance with Jinseong’s wishes.
With his heart firmly locked shut.
“What is your purpose in doing this?”
“To talk.”
“Why did you attack and kidnap me?”
“As I mentioned earlier, it is to talk.”
“What is the subject of this talk?”
“Ah, a story is simply that—a tale exchanged between two people, one speaking, one responding, a cycle repeating itself. Isn’t that a story?”
“Then let me ask you. Who are you?”
“I am merely your conversational partner. Nothing more.”
However, the conversation did not flow easily.
Whenever the man tried to pry into Jinseong’s identity or intentions, Jinseong sidestepped by saying, ‘The story itself is my purpose,’ ‘It is simply to talk,’ ‘That question is off-topic.’
If only he would throw a question back at him!
Jinseong was focused solely on providing answers to the man’s inquiries.
He had no intention of asking any questions at all.
Sensing something odd about this attitude, the man posed a question.
“Why do you never ask me anything?”
Jinseong answered.
“Because I wanted that question.”
