Śūnyatā

In the spring of 659, a traveling warrior monk by the name of Ajinkya (अजिंक्य) wandered the eastern lands of Bharat with sword and spear in hand. Once a great general of a defeated army, Ajinkya forsook his worldly position in favor of enlightenment, longing for but a single answer.

“What is the nature of war? Of strength?”

He had slain no less than 1,000 men in his time, many weak, few strong, yet the answer to his conundrum eluded him so. In his failure, he approached warriors from across the land, challenging each, and with his inevitable victory, demanding his opponent’s answer.

“Love,” said the nobleman, his life taken with a swift decapitation.

“Vengeance,” said the rebel, cold steel embedded in his chest.

“Fame,” said the Nagaraka, his limbs severed and bones crushed.

One swings, two swings, a thousand swings, two thousand swings—no matter the refinement of his blade, an answer worthy of his search had not appeared. He would never know paradise.

“Absurd,” his voice bellowed with rage. “How Absurd! Love, you say? The nobleman who sits atop the heavens and watches the ailing folk below— You would lecture me about love? The rebel who slays in the name of vengeance knows no meaning in power, for he is but an ant gnawing at the elephant’s flesh. The city-dwelling Nagaraka indulges in worldly pleasures, yet dares to know the worth of battle? Worthless, you lot! May you freeze and shatter in the interminable Avīci!”

Bereft of any path to enlightenment, the man erupted with infernal wrath, his heart burning with the flames of Aṣṭa Uṣṇa Naraka. From village to village, monastery to monastery, empire to empire, the world came to know his misery, and mankind perished as insects.

None were spared from his slaughter. None would know hope.

“Fear me. Tremble before my presence. Offer thy lives as recompense, for I am the great demon of Bharat.”

If Ajinkya would be denied his truth, then he would slay the Buddha and spit at his corpse. Let virtue perish beneath his feet. Let delusion flow from his tongue.

At long last, he would arrive at Bodh Gaya, its destruction his final act of defilement. One man, however, stood between him and his conquest. Beneath a lone Bodhi tree sat a frail old man, no fewer than a hundred years of age, his countenance undisturbed by the raging demon.

The demonic warrior struck the old man without hesitation, bringing down his thunderous might to split the sky and sunder the earth. It was the single most powerful strike he had unleashed. With this, the Dharma would perish, and the light of day would be expunged.

“...!”

And yet—an unthinkable phenomenon occurred. The old man, with but a pinky, stopped Ajinkya’s sword in its tracks.

Had he lacked strength? No, far from it. Ajinkya was overflowing with vigor. Perhaps it was but a fluke, a whim of fate?

Unwilling to abandon his conquest, he struck with all manner of wickedness. The sharpness of blade failed. The weight of his fists dissolved. The speed of his speed vanished.

Every strike met that single raised finger, as though Trāyastriṃśa itself had granted the man its blessing, declaring him immutable.

“Why?!” roared the demon king. “Why do you deny me my truth? What is the meaning of this blade, which skewers flesh and crushes bone? What use is my strength? What use is will? Answer me, Buddha!”

“...” The old man offered no reply, instead returning to his lotus position, his hands invoking the Bhumisparsha mudra.

“I…”

Try as he might, Ajinkya could not arouse his anger. His misery and turmoil alike dissolved before this man. The tranquil man’s very presence urged him to kneel in shame, to apologize for his wrongdoings, and repent on the path of enlightenment.

The strength that he had once flaunted as his greatest ally had never been strength at all. Before this man, all manner of worldly delusions vanished, leaving nothing but the whole and final truth.

"...Śūnyatā..."

His sword slipped from trembling fingers.

"...So this is strength..."

At that moment, the old man stood, offering his hand to the demon. It offered neither forgiveness nor command, but a choice, nothing more.

This man would later be remembered as Tathagata , founder of Dharma , Bharat’s greatest spiritual movement that has persisted over 400 years.

In the centuries that followed, monks of the Dharmic faith spread their teachings across the stars, eventually reaching Wisteria, the largest human bastion in the universe. District 8, known locally as Zhōngtǔ (中土) , received the strongest influence from Tathagata’s teachings.

Of the many Dharma, one teaching in particular was elevated above all others. Wúxiǎng (無相), formlessness , was reinterpreted as the highest ideal of the warrior. To perceive without labels, thought, or judgment—to dissolve all distinctions—was to give birth to the perfect blade, one guided by instinct alone. Yet for more than 200 years, none came close to realizing such a state. Many dismissed it as little more than myth. Others abandoned the pursuit altogether, ushering in an era later remembered as the Era of Despondency , a period marked by the stagnation of Wisterian spiritual advancement.

This cultural malaise would come to an end in the spring of 1026, when Wén Mài (文麦), a seventeen-year-old student of the Wisterian Technical School, attained the fabled state. Thus, the Faceless Monster had been born.

After just 2 years, she would inherit the Third Seat of the Divine Generals, remembered by history under the Wisterian name, "Mai'wen."

———

「凡所有相，皆是虛妄。若見諸相非相，即見如來。」

(All that has a form is illusive and unreal. If you see all forms as no-forms, you see the Tathagata)

「外離一切相，名為無相。能離於相，則法體清淨。此是以無相為體。」

(To be externally free from all signs is called 'formlessness.' If you can be free from signs, the essence of reality is pure. This is taking formlessness as our core essence.)

“Invocation—release: Śūnyatā .”

The fundamental principle of Wisterian Dharma was the rejection of the independent self. All things—be they objects, thoughts, or phenomena—were understood as fundamentally interconnected. The distinction between "the self" and "the universe" was therefore an illusion. Mai'wen's Uniqueness merely granted her a heightened realization of this truth, a mode of perception that neither imposed upon reality nor diminished it.

In other words, the concept of “Mai’wen” had disappeared entirely, becoming but a single wave in the being known as “everything.”

Mang poured from Mai'wen in great waves, flooding the battlefield with overwhelming pressure. Then the impossible occurred. The tide folded back upon itself. Every current, every ripple, every droplet was drawn toward her center as though seized by an invisible gravity. If Ereth's Mang resembled an endless flood, Mai'wen's was an abyss whose hunger knew no end.

“Barim!”

“Understood.”

The General Commanders of Urr took notice of this enormous power, attempting to prevent its emanation with a well-timed strike. A one-hit kill.

And yet…

“—?!”

Their attacks landed, yet the "intention" behind them did not. Momentum unraveled before reaching its destination, dissolving into the surrounding world as though "defense" and "offense" were one in the same. The brief hesitation was all Mai'wen needed. Her blade traced a sweeping arc through empty space, forcing Catherine backwards while Barim met the attack head-on. Neither Commander got out unscathed.

“The hell?!” exclaimed Catherine. “Her strength just spiked like crazy, but her Mang is barely even present now!”

Barim interjected. “Its presence has neither increased nor decreased. The boundary between her Mang and the surrounding world appears to have collapsed. She is likely a cognition-type, manipulating her own senses to the highest extent.”

“So she’s like, super skilled?”

“You’re quite underselling it, but if that interpretation works for you, then yes, she is ‘super skilled.’”

“In that case, we’ll overwhelm her! Let the bots crush the backline while we deal with the bitch up front!”

“Affirmative.”

With Mai’wen occupied with 2 high-level combatants in the frontline, a few battalions of combat androids could be sent to intercept the human backline. The battle had become a race for time, a test of attrition between humans and shura.