The greatest work of the Ashira is sculpture, to become monks and warriors.
The north wind blew relentlessly.
For six days, the Hoshigumo crossed the frozen plains,
crossed the frozen rivers, slept in the snow.
Their horses moved forward without neighing, their footsteps muffled by the ice.
Finally, before them stood the Mountains of a Thousand Buddhas.
Entire walls covered with faces.
Thousands of Buddhas carved into the rock,
lined up, kneeling, praying for eternity.
It was said that the monks had carved them themselves,
day after day, life after life,
until their bodies wore out and turned to dust,
leaving behind their last breath frozen in stone.
The wind passed between the statues as if through a choir of silent prayers.
Each gust seemed to whisper a syllable forgotten by the world.
The Hoshigumo dismounted.
They observed the silent faces, ravaged by cold and time.
Some still wept,
tears of frost frozen on their stone cheeks.
The leader, still masked, raised his head toward the mountain.
His fingers brushed the icy surface of a Buddha.
Beneath the thin layer of ice, he thought he felt a beating
as if the rock were still breathing.
"It's here," he said simply.
The temple is not far away.
The wind picked up.
And the Buddhas, in their eternal prayer,
seemed to close their eyes.
But still, they remained frozen.
Even the children of nothingness, trained to kill without flinching,
could not take their eyes off this living mountain.
Before them, stone faces stretched as far as the eye could see
monks, saints, kings, and penitents,
carved by hands long gone.
Each Buddha seemed to still breathe,
as if Ashir's breath had never left these rocks.
For generations, the monks had carved tirelessly,
uniting their flesh and faith with the mountain,
until the stone itself became prayer.
And now, the whole mountain prayed in unison,
in a silence so deep that it made the heart vibrate.
The Hoshigumo remained motionless,
small shadows lost at the foot of eternity.
They then understood what absolute devotion was.
Not the faith that is inherited,
but that which is shaped with one's own hands.
It was said that to become a monk of the Temple of Asira,
one had to carve a Buddha with one's bare hands.
Not with a chisel or a hammer,
but with flesh, skin, and blood,
until the stone recognized the heart of the one who struck it.
Some lost their fingers, others their lives.
But those who managed to complete their work
were given the title of "stone worshippers"
for they had united their souls with the mountain.
The Hoshigumo contemplated these frozen faces,
and for the first time,
they saw not fear,
nor duty,
but peace.
Absolute devotion
, the urge to go beyond their souls, the day they finish carving, they meet gods.