The Enlightenment of Pratnavahatdu
Pratnavahatdu was known as the Invincible Warrior. He knew all of the techniques and strategies of his enemies, and defeated them all with great ease. He traveled distant lands to gather the knowledge of the ancients, horded by the opponents who stood in his way. He mastered the arcane arts and sciences; he studied exotic philosophies. He endured and endeavored for many years, but alas, he was never able to attain the enlightenment exalted by the Old Masters.
Pratnavahatdu continued his travels, until one day, he met an unknown Outworlder warrior who had heard of his skills and who had challenged him to a duel. Pratnavahatdu, absolutely confident in his abilities, obliged the young man.
The Outworlder, wasting no time, brandished his sword and leapt forward in a simple, vigorous assault of blade-smacking and thrusts. Pratnavahatdu parried the thrusts effortlessly, but during his riposte, he was shocked to discover that his sword had struck only air as the Outworlder shifted his body to the side, parrying Pratnavahatdu’s blade, then circling his own blade under and over it to knock the weapon out of Pratnavahatdu’s hand. The Outworlder immediately ran him through.
Pratnavahatdu coughed blood out of his mouth, and mustered enough strength to ask, “I know every technique…” He gasped in pain, “How did you defeat me?”
The Outworlder grimaced in disappointment, “You have become hopelessly attached to techniques. There is no knowledge. There is only experience.”
Pratnavahatdu dropped to his knees as his strength left him, and shakily grasped the Outworlder by his arm. “Master,” he said, “Thank you.” And then he died.
Meditations of Archaeon the Cold
And to the west, the lonely Old Master sat quietly in contemplation on the wet dirt under the dead orchards. The brisk wind from its palace atop the low grey clouds greeted him with a howl. “It is impossible to meditate on a pillow,” the wind said, and its words were taken to heart when one by one, students of the art around the world left their serene forests and quiet music to meditate upon the darkness; upon the hate; upon the agony that they so prematurely avoided. The tourists left, his statues decayed and crumbled, and the sand gardens stood still. Archaeon thought about this and smiled. The wind whipped by again, chilling his bones, “And sometimes it’s ok to smile. When you are happy, be happy. And when you are angry, be angered, because attachments to emptiness are as poisonous as attachments to things and ideas.”
Archaeon breathed slowly and deeply through his abdomen, and with his eyes still closed, stood up into the posture of the Void, his shoulders and arms dropped. The old, burn-scarred body moved on its own accord as the building chi could not be contained any longer, and the leathery arms whipped in dizzying circles as he gathered the clouds into his hands.
“You and I are one and the same!” hissed the wind. Archaeon thrust out the whip; his palm snapped. “There is nothing to distinguish us but the artifice you created in your mind that I am the wind and you are man.”
“I am the wind,” Archaeon recited to himself. Parry and punch. Sweep the stone giant – again, and again. “I am the air; the clouds. I am weightless.” Archaeon kicks the sky repeatedly, and stomps the ground into a squat. He pops up, and slaps his fist into his palm violently with another stomp.
The wind chortled, “Clearly, you are not the wind at all but a rock! Exert your mighty strength, build your great mountains, and hurl your boulders all you want. I will just pass through you; around you; under you, and slowly whittle you away like my brother the water. Why should I punch you when you will punch for me? I will grab your strength and throw you and smash you into another rock! You defeat yourself, proud, stupid rock. Your muscles are too tense. Relax. And remember to pace yourself.”