Ripples stirred across the water mirror again.
The scene shifted to the towering gates of the Wuji Kingdom's capital.
An ascetic monk in plain robes walked slowly through the gates. His face was lean, his gaze clear. He neither sought an audience at the palace nor courted the powerful, but walked only among the common people.
He taught the people how to find water beneath dry riverbeds, how to draw moisture from the roots of withered trees, which wild greens could still fill their bellies, and which valleys still held springs that had not dried up. He pointed east, saying there were rivers there that still flowed; he pointed north, saying the mountain forests there could still sustain life.
The people followed him, bringing their families, heading east and north.
Word reached the palace, and the Wuji Kingdom Ruler flew into a rage.
He stood on a high terrace, watching the scattered specks of people fleeing beyond the city walls, his face livid.
"Wicked lies to deceive the masses!" He pointed toward the monk and shouted fiercely,
"You bewitch the people and shake the foundations of the kingdom! Drive him out! Never let him enter the city again! And forbid the people from abandoning their homes and fleeing! I have already opened the granaries and distributed grain, and fasted to pray for rain!"
The guards rushed out through the gates, dispersed the people gathered around the monk, and shoved him out of the city.
The monk did not look back. His figure vanished at the end of the official road, his plain robes billowing in the wind like a withered leaf.
Bodhisattva Manjushri's voice rang out across the square, without reproach, carrying only a faint compassion. "During those three years of drought, I came many times. Every time, you drove