"Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida..."
The chant resonated through the quiet morning, a deep, steady rhythm that blended with the birdsong and the wind brushing against the treetops. Gyomei sat cross-legged at the edge of the Takoyoru garden, his massive chest rising and falling with the cadence of his breath.
Sitting a few feet away, Sakime watched him with wide, curious eyes. Her small face was frozen in an expression of awe and amusement, lips slightly parted as though trying to mouth the words with him. The sight was so unexpectedly endearing that Gyomei nearly faltered in his meditation.
Years had passed since he first stepped into this village, and in that time, his body had transformed into something bordering on mythical. Constant training and the endless labor of woodcutting had honed his physique beyond recognition. He was no longer simply tall—he was towering, fifteen feet of pure, unyielding muscle. His strength had evolved beyond the laws of his old world.
In his past life, he had believed himself to have reached the peak of physical potential. His blows shattered stone, his body absorbed attacks that would crumble small hills. But here, in this strange, mysterious land, he had ascended to something else entirely. What once could only break boulders now stopped cannon fire. What once deflected blades now repelled avalanches.
He was no longer just a stone that could be ground away by weather and wind.
He had become a volcano.
He exhaled slowly, calming the heat that simmered just beneath his skin.
His thoughts wandered. He thought of Kokushibo—the flawless swordsman, the moon-eyed demon whose every motion carried the weight of centuries. Unlike others, Kokushibo had not reeked of rot and violence. His aura, while unmistakably demonic, held an eerie grace.
Gyomei remembered the first time he'd faced him. The very air around Kokushibo had screamed at him to surrender. His footwork was so precise, his sword so refined, that every vibration returning to Gyomei told him of absolute perfection.
If not for his faith—if not for the teachings of Buddha and his sacred vow to save demons—he might have done so.
But that was then.
Now, he could stand against him.
Perhaps not win, but endure. Fight to a draw. He had become something that nature itself recognized as immovable.
And yet, nature never rests. Neither could he.
He glanced toward the sea, where shadows had begun to gather in recent years. Pirates. Men with bounties earned through death and ambition. They came not for justice, but for plunder—for violence and fear and greed.
They came to his village.
He met them like a force of nature.
Every step they took echoed with sins. His feet told him of their pasts—of burning villages, of crying children, of shattered homes. He heard it all. He felt it all.
They were demons, not in flesh, but in soul.
And demons had only one path to salvation: through him.
Sometimes they came in waves, like storms brewing over the ocean. Ships would appear like shadows, flags high and cannons ready, thinking the village an easy mark. But they never expected Gyomei. They never expected the guardian monk, standing barefoot on the beach, chanting prayers as their ships approached.
He did not yell. He did not threaten. He simply stood there, still as stone, until the moment they landed. Then he moved like thunder.
Wood shattered. Steel bent. Men cried. Some tried to run back to the sea, only to be caught by the tremors of his steps, the ground itself betraying them. He did not relish the violence—but neither did he hesitate. Each blow was a prayer. Each crushed weapon, a scripture.
Villagers watched from behind shuttered windows, peeking through cracks with hope and awe. Children believed him a spirit sent by the gods, a guardian with the strength of ten armies. Mothers whispered blessings in his name.
And through it all, Gyomei remained the same. Steadfast. Quiet. Alone.
Yet not truly alone. Not anymore.
Sakime's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Gyomei-niisan, what are you thinking about?" she asked innocently, tilting her head.
He opened his eyes and smiled, the morning light glinting off the tears he hadn't realized had formed.
"I was thinking about how strong you've gotten," he replied. "Stronger than pirates. Stronger than demons."
Sakime giggled. "I can't even lift a bucket!"
"Strength isn't always in the arms," he murmured, looking out over the sea. "Sometimes it lives in the heart."
He returned to his chant, voice a little steadier now. The sun rose higher behind him, golden rays spilling across the garden.
"Namu Amida Butsu."