723.
Return to the Origin — The Myth of Eternal Recurrence
Song I-sul suddenly asked,
"Has anything changed?"
Park Seong-jin thought for a moment before answering.
"Nothing has changed. I've only returned."
Returned—though he had never left.
It sounded strange.
That was how he described banbonhwawon(返本還源).
It was the limit of language.
To return to the root and return to the source.
To go back to one's original nature, one's true mind, or the origin of the universe.
Song I-sul tilted his head briefly.
Then his eyes widened.
Something had aligned in his mind.
He lightly struck his knee.
"…You've gone beyond Hwagyeong. This is Hyeongyeong."
Park Seong-jin did not answer.
He only smiled faintly.
It was neither affirmation nor denial.
"Don't tell anyone else."
At those words, Song I-sul swallowed.
Even a master of Hwagyeong was rare in this world.
And this one was barely twenty years old.
Without realizing it, Song I-sul pressed both palms to the floor.
This was close to a miracle.
No—
it was closer to the natural outcome
of daily life carried to its very end.
He bowed deeply.
An elder among seekers bowing
to a young man.
"…Congratulations on your attainment."
Park Seong-jin gave no reply.
He did not consider it something to be congratulated for.
He had already reached a place
where speech was unnecessary.
He only smiled.
The First Thing He Did
The first thing he did upon reaching Hyeongyeong
was not to swing a sword.
He picked up the rolling pin.
He brought out dough that had rested overnight.
He dusted flour evenly across the wide board,
coated the dough lightly,
and began to roll.
His hands were no different from yesterday.
No more force.
No less.
The sound of wood passing over dough—
the feel of it stretching—
all the same.
Song I-sul sat waiting for his bowl,
licking his lips without meaning to.
Perhaps he expected something different.
If the realm had changed,
should not the flavor change as well?
The noodles came.
The broth was clear.
The strands were even.
The toppings familiar.
Song I-sul lifted a bite and slowed his chewing.
Nothing had changed.
It tasted as it always had.
No deeper.
No lighter.
Neither improved nor altered.
He set down his chopsticks and thought.
Then realization came.
Perhaps advancement in realm
meant preserving what was before
without the slightest distortion.
If power had shifted,
the flavor would have trembled.
If intention had intruded,
the strands would have carried a faint unrest.
That there was no such tremor
meant this work had already stood
in a completed place.
Park Seong-jin said nothing.
He simply lifted the rolling pin again
and brought out the next piece of dough.
Hyeongyeong was not a realm
that created something new.
It was the place
from which what already exists
is presented
without disturbance.
The bowl of noodles
said this quietly.
Noticing Song I-sul's unusual concentration,
Park Seong-jin muttered,
"If staring at it could change the taste,
that would make me an immortal.
It's the same.
Knowing that it is not different—that's what matters."
Song I-sul kept chewing.
"That's harder."
"It is,"
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"Enjoy it."
Song I-sul laughed like a sigh.
"Should I just make noodles too?
Would that bring me to Hwagyeong?"
A sigh slipped out.
If I copy what another does,
can I become as he is?
Half right.
Half wrong.
If one could replicate it perfectly,
the result would be the same.
But no two people are identical.
The strength of the hand,
the length of breath,
the patience in waiting—
all differ.
So no matter how hard one tries,
it is never completely the same.
One must do something.
And sometimes,
doing nothing
is also a method.
No one has the authority
to declare what is best.
To beginners, one can say:
Practice hard.
Swing the sword hundreds, thousands of times.
Gather internal force with breathing.
But when guiding one already accomplished
toward another realm,
those words often lose their power.
Then what should be said?
No—
How do we advise
when someone sincerely asks for direction?
On a path I barely know myself,
what can I tell another to do?
Park Seong-jin said no more.
He placed the next dough on the board.
Perhaps this conversation itself
was already closest to the answer.
The Non-Doing of Hyeongyeong
"This has never happened in history.
Hwagyeong is rare enough—Hyeongyeong?
Will you now become an immortal and fly into the sky?"
Instead of answering,
Park Seong-jin looked up.
The sky was unusually blue,
white spring light filling it.
The sunlight spread softly.
Sleep threatened for no reason.
He spoke.
"A life like dust and grit.
What more could I seek?"
Was it truth?
Or did he truly think so?
Song I-sul's eyes widened.
"They say a human life is the most precious thing in the world—
and now you call it dust?"
It was a statement that stood outside debate.
Song I-sul searched within it
for right and wrong.
"Indeed,"
Park Seong-jin nodded.
At that moment, the door opened.
Three customers entered—
men from Gaegyeong, neatly dressed.
The shop was quiet enough.
Song I-sul naturally asked,
as though he were staff himself.
"Three warm noodle bowls?"
"Yes. Please prepare them well."
Song I-sul leaned toward the kitchen.
Park Seong-jin smiled faintly.
"I heard."
"I know."
Before the words had fully settled,
he lifted the dough again.
He tore it cleanly,
dusted it lightly—
no hesitation,
no flourish.
Who would believe
this man to be master of Hwagyeong—
no, of Hyeongyeong?
When he lifted the knife,
a bright staccato rang out.
Almost percussive.
Though merely flour dough,
each cut left a precise cross-section.
Nearly square.
"They cook evenly that way,"
he would sometimes say.
He dropped the strands into boiling water,
lifted them once,
returned them briefly—
his eye measuring doneness in an instant.
He rinsed them in cold water,
lifted them before the chill settled,
bathed them in hot broth,
laid the toppings—
scattering them casually.
Each settled exactly
at the center of the bowl's small peak.
A pinch of salt.
The bowl was set down.
Song I-sul had been staring,
entranced,
then startled himself
and hurried to carry the bowls out.
"Three noodle bowls. Enjoy."
"Thank you."
Returning, he saw Park Seong-jin
dust his hands
and wipe them with cloth.
Truly, it had been done well.
There was nothing strange.
Nothing majestic.
Only that everything
was so precisely in place
that the one watching
found himself
unconsciously
steadying his own breath.