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The man lifts his sword.

To sever the grudge that clings to him like a bridle.

To finalize his unfavorable connection with the shaman, who had quietly waited and cut the countless grudges one by one.

But.

“Haha. There’s no need to react like that. You have no ties with your past, nor any connection with me.”

At that moment, as the man raises his sword to confront the shaman, words slip from Park Jinseong’s mouth as if snapping a rubber band pulled taut.

What I mean is that I have no grudge against you.

Thud.

One step.

Park Jinseong moves gracefully across the flames. With every step he takes, a sound echoes as he treads upon petals that flutter like flames.

As dust is swept away and the sound of his shoes colliding with the stone floor fills the air, it becomes clear: this sound is difficult for him to produce here.

Thud.

It’s out of sync.

The substance and the sound do not align.

The sound only arises after his foot touches the ground.

Yet there’s something subtly different.

Sometimes the sound starts before his foot even touches, other times it comes late after his foot has made contact.

It’s as if the footsteps are imitating themselves.

Something formless pretends to walk, trying to deceive itself into believing it has substance, making its footsteps irregular.

A body that moves regularly yet produces sounds irregularly.

It is indeed an extraordinary occurrence.

And this strangeness is precisely what the shaman frequently exhibits.

Thus, the man decided to forgo judging the shaman with his five senses.

Instead of hearing and seeing, he employed intuition and energy, spreading a spatial awareness newly recognized after his transformation.

Park Jinseong smiled at the appearance of that warrior.

“Haha. You surely know how to face a shaman.”

That’s indeed a warrior’s way to confront a shaman.

It’s not something one can learn through mere eavesdropping; it’s an action possible only through direct experience.

Had it been a conventional method, he would have simply spread his energy and remained silent.

However, the shamans would certainly know such “conventional” methods.

There are countless ways to disrupt one’s energy, and mixing just a few of them would make such a countermeasure worthless.

Yet, that warrior seems to know this well and actively utilizes his intuition and spatial awareness. While he makes active use of his energy, he prepares it in a way that it can be extinguished at any moment.

“Greed and rage are close neighbors, indeed. They lie nearby. Unpleasant places easily cling to one, invoking disgust and fear. But where does all this originate? Where can these questions find resolution?”

However, it is not perfect.

He seems to lack the achievements of the warrior seen from the future.

He noticeably feels inferior to the time when he walked the world boldly and amassed explosive experiences.

That’s why Park Jinseong moves without hesitation.

Along with the sound of his steps.

“The roots descend from the branches to touch the ground and grow into the tree. Everything originates from oneself. From greed, to rage, to disgust, and fear. Even attachment arises from oneself, doesn’t it?”

Thud.

“Look at the vines hanging in the forest. Such is the nature of relationships; just like roots sprouting and growing from branches. Like a tree winding and coiling in vines. Just as the forest is filled with vines, using the tree as a pillar and host to flourish, so too our connections are truly similar.”

And in response to Park Jinseong’s words, the warrior replied,

“…Suttanipata.”

He expressed where Park Jinseong’s words originated.

“The old scriptures say to uproot sadness, desire, and worry. To seek happiness, one must remove the poisoned arrows lodged within. Yet, one cannot evade it; they must endure and accept the pain.”

He walks on.

Reciting the old scriptures.

Speaking of relationships and death.

And finally, he faced the warrior, able to exchange greetings.

“It is truly a pleasure to meet you. Warrior Ivan.”

No.

“The ‘Ivan enchanted by the universe.'”

* * *

Long ago, there was a time when red swept across the world.

Those wielding sickles and hammers were outraged at the absurdities of the world, dreaming of a realm where workers wouldn’t be discarded like cheap parts. They rose against those who exploited them, fueled by the anger at the countless injustices and absurdities that had endured since the old era.

And finally, in the frozen soil, their nation was established.

Its name was the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

A nation that exerted its influence upon the world under the name Soviet or USSR.

And in that great red land, one person was born.

His name was the utterly common Ivan.

A name as ordinary as the crops harvested from the fields.

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan.

So utterly common.

Perhaps even more common than trees or plants.

It is the name of a child who believed in the equality of human value but, paradoxically, due to that very equality, found himself rendered valueless.

Perhaps that utterly common name was a defense mechanism from the parents.

Because madness ran rampant in the world.

Though they harbored hopes that science and thought could change the world for the better, that tomorrow would be a bit brighter—while knowing something was fundamentally wrong in essence, and that the present was not so great, perhaps that was why they gave him such a name.

Knowing that such a fragile child could not endure in this madness-filled world.

Knowing that a child could not grow up protected in the cold, frozen land and the raging blizzards; perhaps that was why they gave him a name so plain.

They might not have wanted to endow the possibility of uniqueness to something that could die at any moment.

They might not have wanted to cherish something that could vanish unpredictably like a treasure.

So, the child received an utterly ordinary name and grew up just like everyone else.

Indoctrinated about the evils of capitalism, imperialism, and militarism.

Helping his overwhelmingly poor farmer father with agricultural work.

Praising the great leader, accounting the day they would upend the world with the supreme ideology of communism.

Thus, the child named Ivan slowly began to rise.

But, just as there are countless hardships in the blooming of a wildflower, so too did those trials exist for little Ivan.

An incompetent yet violent father.

A mother who abandoned Ivan, unable to endure the domestic violence, fleeing in the night.

Grandparents who treated him like a thorn in their side, abusing him even though he was their own grandson.

Relatives who would shut him out every time he visited.

Thus, his life was shrouded in darkness.

Despite the white snow piling up, he was always clad in black.

Even in the midst of raging blizzards, he remained dusky, rolling in the snowdrifts polluted with mud, much like how his life unfolded.

“Life itself is suffering,” his father mumbled, drowning in alcohol daily, unleashing violence while intoxicated. Yet, when sober, he’d merely gaze at him with eyes tinged with a tinge of regret, leaving only the short words, “…Let’s get to work,” without ever uttering the word ‘sorry’, and the cold air that greeted him upon returning made him acutely aware of his mother’s absence.

Among the Soviet people, there were no differences, as they shared a sense of being “the same people,” yet Ivan could not maintain relationships broadly.

Even amongst the equality, there was undoubtedly a disparity.

Disparity existed between mere components—those with an utterly common name and those ‘equal people’ who, nevertheless, were clearly different.

Because of that, perhaps Ivan loved the stars all the more.

When gazing at the night sky from the snow-covered plains, when he looked at that black sea, he felt like his dark hue was being diluted. No longer a muddy, grim, snowball, but as if he had become part of that vast black ocean.

In that dark sea were stars shining.

Sparkling beautifully, each one akin to the Earth, as they glimmered.

In those moments, Ivan believed.

Just as stars glimmer in that night sea, there must be a radiant light in his own somber life.

If he was indeed part of that night sea, then surely he too had a sparkling star within him.

He believed that.

 

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