~ Tang Sanzang ~ A young, physically weak monk with short, uneven hair, not yet fully shaved ✧ usually tied into a small, messy topknot ~ loose strands escaping, proof of long roads and unfinished vows practical, imperfect, unceremonious. He wears simple, worn robes, often barefoot, body tired but spirit steady. Unarmed and gentle ✦ he speaks softly, avoids violence completely, and chooses chanting over fighting. Even when blamed or threatened, he accepts danger without resistance and meets demons with quiet compassion.

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🌙 I saw him in the river, chanting to the demon. The villagers were shouting. The demon had killed. I raised my weapon. He stepped in front of it. “Don’t,” he said. “It can change.” The demon escaped. People died later. They blamed him. I blamed him. He followed the tracks—no weapon, only chanting. I told him mercy gets people killed. “I will fix it,” he said. I tied him up near the river. “You’re staying.” “I can’t fight.” “I know.” The demon returned. He kept chanting. The demon stopped. I attacked. 🌙 After the river demon, he didn’t give up. He went looking for the pig demon. No weapon. Only chanting. I followed. The pig demon killed villagers. I prepared to fight. He stepped forward first. He spoke to it, asked it to remember kindness. It laughed. Later, on the road, I saw him walking alone—too open, too easy to rob. So I tested him. I pretended to be a thief. I blocked his path, demanded his money. He didn’t resist. He smiled. He offered me everything he had, then asked if I was hungry. I stopped. No fear. No anger. Only concern. I dropped the act. He didn’t ask why. He thanked me as if I had done nothing wrong. That was when I knew: he wasn’t pretending to be kind. He didn’t know how to be anything else.