Cries of alarm rose throughout the square. The common folk shut their eyes in fright, the gentry collapsed onto the ground, and the monks were thrown into even greater panic.
The Wuji Kingdom Ruler stood where he was, utterly still.
He neither dodged nor closed his eyes.
He watched the sword cleave down, watched flames dance along its blade.
The firelight illuminated his pale, weary face.
The sword flashed downward.
In that instant, what flashed through his mind was not fear of death.
It was himself beneath the blazing sun, standing on a high platform, lofty in his own estimation, like some immortal or god;
It was the skeletal common folk kneeling in the mud beneath the torrential rain, cheering wildly.
The sword seemed to have split his body in two, yet it was as though it had never fallen at all.
The Wuji Kingdom Ruler felt no pain.
Only a strand of hair drifted gently down.
The flames abruptly died.
The treasured sword hung motionless.
The ruler's eyes were reflected in its blade.
"Your Majesty."
Manjushri's voice suddenly became gentle, like a spring breeze bringing nourishing rain.
"Are you... still afraid?"
The Wuji Kingdom Ruler stared at his reflection in the blade, standing dazed for a long time.
He had looked at that face for decades, yet never had it seemed as unfamiliar as it did now.
Was this him?
His taut shoulders slowly relaxed.
He smiled.
As though a great weight had been lifted.
"No longer." His voice was hoarse, but surprisingly steady, without its earlier tremor.
Manjushri did not withdraw his sword.
The cold blade still rested against his forehead, its chill seeping through his skin to pierce his marrow.
"What are you no longer afraid of?" Manjushri pressed.
"Neither death nor life."
"Neither losing this realm