He was sitting on the stone floor in the Hall of Prayer with his mind focused on the future and the worlds that he was going to create. He was about thirty-five, his head was shaved, and he was wearing a black kimono beneath black robes held shut in the front with a sash1. It was quite chilly for August, but his body did not feel the cool wind that was coming through the open windows of the ancient2 pagoda nor the coldness of the old stones he was sitting on. He could feel that soon he would be able to project his power to the real world around him. The monks in the temple knew better than3 to disturb him during his meditations. For the past five years, his power had been constantly enhancing4, and the monks could feel that too.
There were three steps in his process of achieving Control, where the power of his thought could make things move and bend5 other people’s ability to think and overpower6 their emotions. Before getting to Control, however, there were Calmness and Detachment7. He was in the process of getting calm when a bright lightning of a sharp emotion pierced8 through his mind. He saw the image of his father. He frowned9 at this unexpected occurrence10 and opened his eyes.
“He’s dead,” he whispered.
He sat in silence for another minute. His face relaxed and a smile appeared.
“At last.”