Wheel-Turning Sage Kings

When a kalpa is about to come into being, the disaster of water arises first, destroying the second dhyāna heaven; then the disaster of wind blows, and the world condenses and comes into being. When the beings of the Ābhāsvara heaven, the "Light-Sound" devas, have exhausted their own store of merit and lifespan there, they are spontaneously reborn as the first humans, delighting in themselves as their only sustenance, their own bodies radiant with light, moving through the air by their own spiritual power, with no distinction at all between male and female, noble and lowly.

It is said that these beings then found a spontaneous savor arising from the earth itself, like clarified butter in richness, like fresh cream in color, sweeter than honey to the taste. Taking it up in their own hands to sample it, they grew attached to its flavor; those who ate a great deal grew coarse and haggard in appearance, while those who ate only a little kept a smooth, radiant complexion — and so there arose, for the first time, a sense of superiority and inferiority among them, mutual comparison and dispute.

The earth's own savor then vanished, and in its place arose an earthen skin, like a thin cake, fragrant and delicious in color and flavor, which they ate together in turn — yet, growing careless and contemptuous of one another over it as well, this earthen skin too vanished, and an earthen flesh arose in its place (the Ekottara Āgama and the Lokaprajñapti Sūtra both call this "earth-fat"). Because of how much or how little each one ate of this, various unwholesome patterns of conduct arose among them.

The earth then produced unhusked rice, which they all ate together; distinct male and female forms then arose among them, and, in time, the institution of kingship itself was established (this matter is already recorded in the section on the world's formation and destruction).

The world, in this age, was rich and joyful, and green grass grew from the earth, spreading gradually outward like a peacock's own tail; there were eighty thousand kingdoms, their villages so close together that a rooster's crow could be heard from one to the next. There was, throughout the world, no illness, no extreme heat, no extreme cold; rulers governed by the Dharma, upholding the ten wholesome actions, cherishing all beings as a father cherishes his own children, and human life was long. In time, as later kings' own virtue gradually thinned, human lifespans grew shorter and shorter in turn, falling to ten thousand years, and now, in our own age, to a mere hundred. When a king dies, his son succeeds him; his name was Precious Treasure (Source: Dīrgha Āgama, fascicle 22).

As for how a wheel-turning sage king obtains the golden wheel: Śakra regularly commands the Four Heavenly Kings to survey the world six days of every month, observing the good and evil deeds of humankind. Should the Four Heavenly Kings and their own envoys find a great king governing his own realm through the ten wholesome actions and the four boundless states of mind, caring for his own people with a devotion surpassing even a loving father's, they report this to Śakra. Śakra, hearing of it, rejoices at such a king's own excellence, and commands Viśvakarman to grant him the golden wheel; it is brought forth and entrusted to Vaiśravaṇa, who in turn entrusts it to a flying yakṣa, who carries it to the great king himself. Vaiśravaṇa commands this yakṣa: you shall always hold this golden wheel above the king's own head for the whole of his life, never once setting it aside partway. And so this yakṣa constantly holds it, moving and resting according to the sage king's own will, for the whole span of his life — and, once that life has ended, returns it to Vaiśravaṇa, who returns it in turn to Viśvakarman, who places it back within the heavenly treasury (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, fascicle 6).

A king whose own roots of virtue are already firmly planted rides the golden wheel, and rules over all four continents; a king of merely inherent good nature rides the silver wheel, and rules three continents; a king still only in training rides the copper wheel, and rules two continents; and one who attains kingship through the ten wholesome actions alone, without these deeper roots, rides the iron wheel, and rules a single continent (Source: Sūtra of Benevolent Kings' Perfection of Wisdom).

A wheel-turning sage king possesses the seven treasures, which carry four kinds of spiritual virtue: first, the golden wheel treasure; second, the white elephant treasure; third, the deep-blue horse treasure; fourth, the divine pearl treasure; fifth, the jewel-woman treasure; sixth, the householder treasure; and seventh, the general treasure.

When a wheel-turning king first emerges in Jambudvīpa, the kṣatriyas anoint his head with water; at the time of the full moon, he bathes in fragrant water, ascends to a high hall, and gathers musicians and performers there. The heavenly golden wheel suddenly appears before him — its thousand spokes complete, its light and color perfect, made of heavenly gold found nowhere in this ordinary world, its own diameter fourteen feet across. Seeing it, the king thinks to himself: I have heard, from those who came before me, that such a wheel might appear — could this truly be it? Let me now test this wheel treasure for myself.

The king then summons his own four divisions of troops, and, before the golden wheel, bares his right arm and kneels upon his right knee, and, touching the wheel with his own right hand, says: turn now toward the east, in accordance with the proper way, and do not depart from the constant rule. The wheel at once turns eastward, and the king, with his own troops, follows behind it; four spirits lead the wheel wherever it goes. The king halts his own procession wherever the wheel stops.

The small kingdoms of the east come to the king bearing silver millet in golden bowls and golden millet in silver bowls, bow their heads, and say: excellent, great king — this eastern land is rich and fertile, abundant in every treasure, its people thriving; we beg the great king to remain here and govern us. The great king answers: you need only govern your own people by the true Dharma, showing no partiality, and allow no unlawful conduct within your own realm — refrain from killing yourselves, and teach others to refrain from killing, stealing, sexual misconduct, divisive speech, harsh speech, false speech, and idle chatter, and from greed, malice, and wrong view. This alone is what I mean by my own governance.

The lesser kings then follow the great king in touring every kingdom, east, south, west, and north, wherever the wheel leads; every king they meet offers up level, open portions of their own land, which the wheel then measures and marks out — twelve yojanas east to west, seven yojanas north to south — and the devas themselves raise a city wall there, seven-layered, with sevenfold balustrades, sevenfold netting, and sevenfold rows of trees adorning it all around, made of the seven treasures, countless birds singing in harmony throughout. Within the city, palace halls are likewise built, their own walls sevenfold, made of the seven treasures; the golden wheel treasure rests suspended in the open air above the palace itself.

At dawn, as the king sits in his own main hall, the elephant treasure appears spontaneously before him — its coat pure white, its seven points of contact with the ground level and firm, capable of flight, its head marked with varied colors, its six tusks slender and even, inlaid with true gold. The king, seeing it, thinks: this elephant is fine and worthy — if well trained, it could serve as my own mount — and, testing it, finds every capacity already complete. Wishing to test the elephant himself, the wheel-turning king mounts it, and, at dawn, rides out from the city, circling the four seas, and returns by mealtime.

At dawn another day, as the king sits in his own hall, the horse treasure appears spontaneously before him — deep blue-black in color, its mane and tail a vivid red, its head held high, capable of flight. The king, seeing it, thinks: this horse is fine and worthy — if well trained, it could serve as my own mount — and, testing it, finds every capacity complete. He rides it out at dawn, circling the four seas, and returns by mealtime.

At dawn another day, the divine pearl treasure appears spontaneously before him, its substance and color pure and clear, without the slightest flaw. The king, seeing it, thinks: this pearl is exquisite — its own light might well illuminate the whole palace. Wishing to test it, he summons his own four divisions of troops, places the pearl atop a tall banner, and carries the banner out of the city in the dark of night; the pearl's own light illuminates a full yojana around it, and the people of the city, seeing this, rise to their own tasks, believing it to be daylight already.

The jewel-woman treasure then appears of her own accord — her manner composed, her countenance dignified: neither too tall nor too short, neither too coarse nor too delicate, neither too pale nor too dark, neither too hard nor too soft in bearing; in winter her own body is warm, and in summer cool; from every pore of her skin comes the scent of sandalwood, and from her mouth the fragrance of the blue lotus; her speech is gentle, her every movement composed and dignified, rising before others and sitting only after them, never once departing from proper decorum. The king holds no attachment toward her, not even the slightest thought of desire, let alone any wish for intimacy.

The householder treasure then appears spontaneously — his own treasury holding wealth beyond measure, his eyes, through past merit, able to see through solid ground itself, discerning every buried hoard, whether it has an owner or not; those with owners he protects, and those without he supplies for the king's own use. This householder treasure comes before the king and says: great king, whatever you need to give away, there is no cause for concern — I myself can provide it in full.

The king, wishing to test this householder treasure, orders a boat prepared for pleasure on the water, and tells the householder: I require gold and treasure — bring it to me at once. The householder answers: great king, wait only a moment, until I reach the shore. The king presses him further: I require this treasure now — and, at this, reaches his own right hand into the water, and jeweled vessels rise up from the water to meet his hand of their own accord, like insects climbing a tree. The king, seeing this, tells the householder: enough, enough — I have no true need of this; I only meant to test you — and casts the treasure back into the water at once.

The general treasure then appears spontaneously — wise in strategy, bold and mighty, decisive beyond all others, and comes before the king, saying: great king, whatever campaign you must undertake, there is no cause for concern — I myself can accomplish it in full. The king, wishing to test this general treasure, gathers his own four divisions of troops and tells him: deploy the troops now — those not yet assembled, assemble; those already assembled, disperse; those not yet armed, arm; those already armed, disarm; those not yet departed, depart; those already stationed, remain. The general treasure carries out every one of the king's own commands exactly.

The king, overjoyed at this, exclaims: I am now truly a wheel-turning sage king! First, my own long life, free of any untimely death, is unmatched; second, my own bodily strength, free of any affliction, is unmatched; third, my own dignified countenance is unmatched; fourth, my own overflowing treasury is unmatched — these four virtues together mark the true sage king.

Beyond the far shore of the great ocean lie the lotus pools Padma, Kumuda, and Puṇḍarīka; beyond these lies open, empty ground, within which stands a great sea called Uccalana. Beneath this water lies the wheel-turning sage king's own road, twelve yojanas wide, flanked on both sides by sevenfold walls, sevenfold balustrades, sevenfold netting, and sevenfold rows of trees, all made of the seven treasures. When a wheel-turning sage king appears in Jambudvīpa, this water withdraws of its own accord, leaving the road level and clear.

The wheel-turning sage king, riding out to the rear garden, tells his own charioteer: drive well and steadily, for I wish to observe closely whether the people of this land live in peace and free of trouble. The people of the kingdom, gathered along the road to watch him pass, likewise tell their own attendants: go slowly now, that we might look closely upon the sage king's own majestic countenance. The king, in his own compassion, nurtures his people as a father loves his children, and the people, in turn, look up to the king as a child looks up to its own father, offering up every rare treasure they own, hoping he will accept it. The king answers them: enough, all of you — I already have treasure enough of my own; keep what is yours.

While this king governs Jambudvīpa, the whole land grows level and even, free of thorns, pits, or mounds, free too of mosquitoes, gnats, wasps, flies, snakes, vipers, or any harmful creature; stone, sand, and rubble sink beneath the surface of their own accord, and gold, silver, and precious jade rise up to the surface in their place. The four seasons grow mild and balanced, neither too cold nor too hot; the very ground turns soft and clean, free of dust, glossy and lustrous as though coated in oil. Clear springs flow from the earth, never running dry; trees grow thick with fruit and flower alike; soft grass grows evergreen through winter and summer, colored like a peacock's own plumage; unhusked rice grows of itself, free of any chaff, every flavor already present within it.

There are fragrant trees, thick with flower and fruit, whose fruit, when ripe, splits open of itself, releasing a rich, fragrant scent; there are clothing trees, whose fruit, when ripe, splits its own husk to release every kind of garment; there are adornment trees, whose fruit releases every kind of ornament; there are garland trees, whose fruit releases every kind of garland; there are vessel trees, whose fruit releases every kind of vessel; there are further fruit trees, thick with flower and fruit, whose fruit splits its husk to release every kind of fruit; and there are musical-instrument trees, whose fruit releases every kind of musical instrument.

While the wheel-turning sage king governs the world, the dragon king Anavatapta, in the latter part of each night, raises great, dense clouds that fill the whole world, and lets fall a great rain, gentle as the time it takes to milk a cow, its water carrying all eight excellent qualities, moistening the earth everywhere evenly, so that no standing water or mud remains, yet the ground is thoroughly soaked through. In the latter part of the night, the sky itself grows clear and bright, free of cloud or haze; a cool wind rises from the sea, pure and gentle, bringing pleasure to the body at its touch.

The sage king governs his realm rightly, with no injustice at all, cultivating the ten wholesome actions himself; the people, in turn, hold right view, and likewise cultivate the ten wholesome deeds. In time, the king, much as one who has simply eaten food slightly disagreeable to him, grows faintly unwell, and, his life ending, is reborn in the Brahmā heaven. At that moment, the golden wheel, the white elephant, the deep-blue horse, and the bright pearl all vanish together.

The jewel-woman, the householder, and the general treasures, together with the whole nation's own people, then perform music, bathe the king's own body in fragrant water, and wrap it in five hundred lengths of fine cotton cloth, layer upon layer; they lift the king's own body and place it within a golden coffin, pour fragrant oil over it, and place that coffin within an iron one in turn, and this again within an outer wooden casing, dressed and layered further still, and piled high with fragrant wood, and cremate it there. At the crossroads of the four directions they raise a stūpa of the seven treasures, a full yojana across, its many colors interwoven throughout; the jewel-woman, the householder, the general, and the whole nation's own people come to make offerings at this stūpa, giving to the poor and needy — food to those who need food, clothing to those who need clothing, the elephant and horse treasures themselves, and every other thing needed, given freely according to each person's own wish (Source: Lokaprajñapti Sūtra, fascicle 1; the same account, called the "Lokaprajñapti" there, is also found in the Dīrgha Āgama).

In a past age, beyond all measure and boundless in its own countless kalpas, there was a world named Sun-Moon-Thunder, which likewise passed through an age of the five defilements. I myself, at that time, was a wheel-turning king, ruling Jambudvīpa, named King Lamplight, and taught countless beings to abide in wholesome ways.

I once saw a man bound in restraints, and asked: what has this man done? My own minister answered: of the grain and wheat produced by his own farming, one part in six is owed to the royal treasury — this man did not comply with the royal law, and so has been bound. I ordered him released at once, but my minister answered: your own sons, your own inner palace and its attendants, everything they now use, has all been forcibly seized from others in just this way — there is not a single person who has given any of it with a truly pure heart.

I was struck with great sorrow at this, and divided this whole land into five hundred equal portions, giving one to each of my own sons, and went forth myself as a renunciant. I went to a grove of udumbara trees by the southern sea, and, eating only the trees' own fruit, gradually cultivated the path, and attained the five supernormal powers.

At that time, five hundred merchants of Jambudvīpa went out to sea in search of treasure; their own chief merchant, named Full Moon, obtained everything he had wished for, and made ready to return. A certain dragon, its own heart filled with rage, wished to harm the merchants — but another dragon king, named Horse-Firm, who was in truth a great bodhisattva, reborn among dragons through his own past vow, gave rise to a heart of compassion, and saved the merchants, guiding them safely across the great sea to the far shore, before returning to his own dwelling.

At that time, however, a great and malicious rākṣasa followed the merchants like a shadow follows its own form, intending them harm, and, on that very day, unleashed a great and terrible wind. The merchants, confused and losing their own way, were struck with great terror, crying out and weeping without restraint, calling upon every deva, upon Maheśvara, the water spirits, earth spirits, fire spirits, and wind spirits, and upon their own parents, wives, children, and kin, begging to be saved.

Good man: at that time, I, with my own purified heavenly ear, heard their own cries, and went to them at once, and, with a gentle voice, consoled and reassured them: do not be afraid — I shall show you the way, and bring you safely back to Jambudvīpa. Good man: at that time, I wrapped my own arm in white cotton cloth, poured oil over it, and lit it as a wick, and spoke this true declaration: I have, in the udumbara grove, for thirty years, single-mindedly cultivated the four immeasurable states of mind, sustaining myself on nothing but the trees' own fruit for the sake of all beings, and have guided eighty-four thousand dragons, yakṣas, and spirits toward never turning back from unsurpassed, perfect enlightenment — by this very root of goodness, I now set this arm ablaze, that I might show these merchants the way, and bring them safely back to Jambudvīpa.

My arm burned in this way for seven days and seven nights, and the merchants, guided by its light, found their way safely back to Jambudvīpa at last.

Good man: at that time, I made a further wholesome vow: should Jambudvīpa ever lack for treasure, and should I indeed attain unsurpassed, perfect enlightenment, and gain true benefit for myself, I would become a merchant-guide, causing treasure to rain down seven times over upon every world, and would enter the great sea myself to obtain a wish-fulfilling pearl, causing every manner of varied treasure to rain down likewise upon every world, continuing in this way across this whole world-system, and even throughout every world in the ten directions, boundless and beyond counting.

Good man: every vow I made in ages past has since been fulfilled. Across kalpas as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, I have constantly served as the unsurpassed guide of merchant caravans, causing every kind of treasure to rain down upon worlds of the five defilements as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, seven times within a single day, that all might be satisfied — and, only then, guiding them further to abide within the three vehicles (Source: Sūtra of the Past World of the Buddha Fragrant Lotus Flower).

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there were four great rivers, controlled by two great kings. One, named King Brahmadeva ("Brahmā" in the language of Liang), held three of these rivers alone; his own people were numerous but weak in spirit. The other, named King Vajra-Heap ("Diamond-Accumulation" in the language of Liang), held only a single river; his own people were fewer, but every one of them bold and strong.

King Vajra-Heap, seated in his own main hall, thought to himself: my own troops are bold and fierce, yet what I control is only a small share of water, while that weaker kingdom holds three rivers all to itself — I shall now send an envoy to request one of these rivers. Should they grant it, we shall become close allies, exchanging our own kingdoms' finest goods, and coming to each other's aid in times of hardship; should they refuse, I shall simply take it by force.

He sent an envoy to the kingdom of Brahmā, and made his own intent known in full. King Brahmā said: my own kingdom is rich and its people numerous, and this land besides was granted to me by my own father — as for a contest of strength, I shall not yield to him. The envoy answered: this land was likewise granted to my own king by his father, and my own king's strength is no less than yours — should you wish to settle this by force, we do not fear it.

The envoy returned and reported this in full to his own king, who at once gathered his army and attacked the kingdom of Brahmā. In a single engagement, Brahmā's own army was broken; pursuing them closely, King Vajra-Heap's forces reached all the way to the city walls, and the people there, in terror, shrank back and dared not come out.

The ministers gathered together and went before King Brahmā, saying: the other kingdom's own troops are strong, while ours are weak — it is for the sake of a single river that we now face this defeat, and, before long, we fear the loss of the whole kingdom. We ask only that you set your own heart at ease, and grant them this one river — an alliance secured this way would ensure our own true safety. The king sent an envoy to grant them the river, and further offered his own daughter in marriage as a consort, that the two kingdoms might exchange rare treasures with one another, and come to each other's aid in any dire crisis.

King Vajra-Heap then received this daughter, and made her his own consort; the two kings, now reconciled, withdrew their own armies and returned to their respective kingdoms.

Some days later, the king's own consort found herself with child; from the moment of her conception, a great, naturally arising canopy of the seven treasures hovered constantly above her own body, never once leaving her side whether she sat, lay down, walked, or stood. When the ten months were complete, she bore a son, his own body the color of purple gold, his hair a deep blue-black, his radiant form without equal in this world; the moment the child emerged from the womb, the canopy remained hovering above him.

Physiognomists were summoned to examine the child, and told the king: this prince's own auspicious marks are rare indeed in this world. The king and all his ministers were overjoyed beyond measure, and gave the child the name Kṣatriya-gali ("Canopy-Born Affair" in the language of Liang).

When the prince reached adulthood, both his parents passed away, and the ministers and people together installed Canopy-Born as their own king. Having governed for several years, he went out on an excursion, and saw the people laboring hard at their own farming, and asked his attendants: what are these people doing? They answered: a kingdom takes its own people as its foundation, and the people take grain as their own life — without grain, the people cannot survive, and, without the people, the kingdom itself would perish.

The king then said: if my own merit is truly sufficient to justify my kingship, let my own people obtain grain spontaneously. No sooner had he spoken than the people's own granaries and baskets filled with every kind of grain, appearing however each one wished.

Later, going out again, he saw people drawing water, pounding, and grinding grain in hard labor, and asked his ministers: why do these people work so? They answered: through the king's own gracious favor, they have obtained grain spontaneously, but it still must be cooked before it can be eaten — this is why the common people must still labor to prepare their own meals. The king said again: if my own merit is truly sufficient to justify my kingship, let every person within my own kingdom have food already prepared, spontaneously. No sooner had he spoken than the whole realm obtained food already prepared, spontaneously.

Later, going out again, he saw people weaving to make their own clothing, and asked: why do these people labor so? His ministers answered: they are making their own garments. The king said: if my own merit is truly sufficient to justify my kingship, let every tree within my own kingdom produce clothing spontaneously. No sooner had he spoken than every tree in the kingdom produced fine garments of its own accord, exceedingly soft and fine, in blue, yellow, red, and white, according to each person's own preference.

Later still, going out again, he saw the people busily crafting musical instruments, and asked his ministers why. They answered: they are making instruments for music and entertainment. The king said: if my own merit is truly sufficient to justify my kingship, let the trees of my own kingdom bear musical instruments, of every kind desired, spontaneously.

Not long after this, the various lesser kings and their own officials all came to pay him homage, and happened to arrive at the king's own mealtime, and were given food to share. Tasting the king's own meal, complete with a hundred flavors, they all said to him: our own household meals are thin and meager in flavor by comparison — this food of yours, my king, is extraordinarily delicious. The king told them: my own officials and subjects, should you wish always to obtain food such as mine, need only eat at the very same hour that I myself eat, and you shall obtain food just like it. He then commanded his own officers: whenever my own mealtime arrives, sound the great drum, that all the people might hear and know of it — whoever eats at that same hour shall receive a supreme offering of a hundred flavors. From that day forward, the drum was sounded at every mealtime, and all the people, hearing its sound, thought of their own meal, and a supreme feast of a hundred flavors appeared spontaneously before them; the people lived in ease and joy because of this.

King Brahmā then sent an envoy to King Canopy-Born's own kingdom, telling him: while your own father lived, I granted him the use of this river's water — now that your father has passed, it should rightly be returned to me. King Canopy-Born answered the envoy: the very land and river I now hold were never taken from you through my own force in the first place — yet, as king, I have no wish to burden my own people or resources over this matter; let us wait, and I shall meet with your own king in person later.

The envoy returned and reported this to his king, who agreed to the proposal, and the two kings fixed a day to meet, each advancing with his own army surrounding him, each setting up a great camp on one side of the river; the two kings then met by boat upon the river itself.

King Brahmā, seeing Canopy-Born for the first time — his own body radiant like a mountain of purple gold, his hair gleaming like deep-blue lapis lazuli, his eyes wide and long, rarely seen among ordinary people — felt a reverence rise within him, believing this to be Brahmā himself in person. They greeted one another and sat down together, discussing the affairs of their two kingdoms and the matter of the disputed river.

Canopy-Born answered him: whatever my own people desire arises spontaneously in my kingdom — there is no burden of taxation or forced labor at all. Before he had even finished speaking, the mealtime hour arrived, and Canopy-Born's own army sounded its drum, preparing to eat. King Brahmā, believing this to signal his own execution, rose in terror and begged forgiveness, prostrating himself flat upon the ground like an unrolled sheepskin. Canopy-Born rose himself and drew him back to his own seat, saying: great king, why are you so frightened? My own army simply sounds the drum at every mealtime — for whoever eats at that hour receives a supreme feast of a hundred flavors.

King Brahmā then rose again and said to Canopy-Born: I beg only that the great king extend his own protection over both myself and my people — we wish entirely to submit to you, that all our own subjects might receive your gracious favor.

And so Canopy-Born came to govern the whole of Jambudvīpa, and all its people obtained peace and happiness. Once he had ascended the throne, and sat in his own main hall, his ministers and officials standing in attendance around him, the golden wheel treasure appeared from the east at the first light of dawn, and, in this way, all seven treasures arrived in succession, and he came to rule all four continents. Every being received the king's own gracious benefit, their every wish freely fulfilled; the king taught them all, in turn, to practice the ten wholesome actions, and, when their own lives ended, all were reborn in heaven.

The Buddha told Ānanda: could King Kṣatriya-gali of that time be anyone other than myself? King Vajra-Heap is my own father, the king, now; and his consort was Māyā (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 8).

There was once a wheel-turning sage king who, seeking the Buddha's own Dharma, inquired throughout all of Jambudvīpa: who understands the Buddha's teaching? For the great wheel-turning king wished to study and practice it himself. He was told: in a distant, small kingdom, there is a brahmin who understands the Buddha's own teaching — and so the king invited him into his own palace, saying: teach it to me.

The brahmin said: you are truly foolish, great king. I myself studied the Buddha's teaching only through long years of hardship before I came to understand it — how can you now expect simply to hear it, just like that? The king asked his teacher: what is it you require, then? The brahmin answered: give me an offering. The king asked: what offering do you require? The brahmin answered: if you can carve a thousand wounds into your own body, fill each one with oil, and set a lamp-wick within it as an offering, then I shall explain the Buddha's own teaching to you.

Before the king could even answer, the brahmin rose at once to leave his high seat — and the great king rushed forward and embraced him, saying: wait a little longer — let me reflect on this myself, and I shall surely make this very offering.

The great king then went into his own palace, and told his consorts: I must now take leave of you all — I intend to carve my own body to make a thousand lamps, as an offering to my own great teacher. His consorts said: nothing in this whole world is held more dear than one's own body — how could you wish to destroy and harm it so? The king said: I seek the Buddha's own teaching for the sake of all beings — to light a lamp of wisdom within this great dark chamber, to illuminate the black darkness of ignorance in the cycle of birth and death, and cut off every entangling bond, that all beings might reach nirvāṇa. Why, then, do all of you now oppose my own heart's wish? His consorts fell silent, unable to answer, their hearts filled with a grief too deep for words.

The king then took his leave of everyone, within the palace and without, and returned to the hall where his own teacher awaited. Removing his own jeweled ornaments, he sat upright, and announced to the assembly: who can carve a thousand wounds into my own body? They all answered together: we would sooner carve out our own two eyes than raise a hand to carve the king's own body.

There was, however, a caṇḍāla, vicious by nature, who, hearing this, went at once to the crown princes, and told them: do not be troubled — I have a plan that can prevent the great king's own scheme from ever succeeding, so that the kingdom might remain exactly as it was before. The princes, hearing this, were delighted. The caṇḍāla then said: I myself am able to carve the king's own body. The king told him: you are now my own unsurpassed companion on the path.

The caṇḍāla then took up a knife shaped like an ox's tongue, and, upon the king's own body, swiftly, in the blink of an eye, carved a full thousand wounds — for he had thought the king's own resolve would surely falter partway, and meant to drop the knife and flee at the first sign of it. He then filled each wound with oil, and used fine cotton thread as a wick.

The brahmin then told the king: such diligence, so difficult to achieve, and yet you have achieved it — undertaking this austerity solely to hear the Buddha's own teaching. He then spoke this half-verse:

"All that is born must, in time, die; / it is this very cessation that is true bliss."

The king said: whoever holds compassion for me should keep this teaching in mind, and proclaim my own command throughout every kingdom where people dwell — let all people know that the great wheel-turning king, seeing all beings sunk in the sea of suffering, unable yet to find their own way out, gave rise to a heart of great compassion, and carved his own body into a thousand lamps in search of this half-verse alone. Let all people now write down this verse, recite it, study it, and reflect on its own meaning, and practice according to what it teaches.

The people, with one voice, praised the great king: how excellent, great king — a true father of compassion, undertaking this very austerity for the sake of all beings! Let us go at once and write it down — on paper, on silk, on stone, on wood, on tile and rubble, on grass and leaves, along every mountain path and busy road where people travel — let it be written everywhere, that all who see or hear it might give rise to the resolve for the path.

The king then lit his own thousand lamps in offering to his teacher, their light illuminating the ten directions of the world; and, from within the light of each lamp, a voice arose, speaking this same half-verse, so that all who heard it gave rise to the resolve for the path. The light rose upward, reaching all the way to the palace of Trāyastriṃśa, outshining even the light of heaven itself.

The lord of Trāyastriṃśa thought to himself: by what cause does such radiance arise? — and, with his own divine eye, surveyed the world below, and saw the wheel-turning king, his own heart steeped in great compassion, carving his own body into a thousand lamps for the sake of all beings, offering them to his teacher in order to deliver every being. Thinking, we ourselves should go and encourage and assist him, he descended into the world, transformed into an ordinary man, and went before the king, asking: you have undertaken this austerity, carving your own body into a thousand lamps, to seek a mere half-verse — to what end?

The king answered: good man, I do this for the sake of all beings, that they might give rise to the resolve for the path. The transformed man then released his own disguise, and said: in making this offering, do you seek to become a heavenly king, a Māra king, or a Brahmā king? The king said: I seek none of these — I seek only enlightenment itself, for the sake of all beings, that the unsettled might find peace, that the confused might find understanding, that the undelivered might be delivered, and that those who have not yet attained the path might attain it.

Śakra, the heavenly king, said: great king, are you not being foolish now? One who seeks enlightenment must endure hardship across a long span of time before it can be achieved — how could you hope to attain the unsurpassed path in this way? The king answered Śakra: even were a burning iron wheel set spinning upon my own head, I would never, because of such suffering, turn back from my own resolve toward the unsurpassed path. Though you say this now, I still do not believe you.

The wheel-turning king then made this vow before Śakra: if I have not truly sought the threefold enlightenment, and have deceived Śakra with false words, then let these thousand wounds of mine never heal at all; but if this is not so, let my own blood turn to milk, and these thousand wounds be healed at once. As he spoke these words, his wounds were healed instantly, exactly as they had been before.

Śakra said: how excellent, great king — this is truly great compassion. Through such austerity as this, you shall attain the unsurpassed enlightenment before long — and, when you attain it, you must deliver me first of all.

Śakra then released a great radiance, illuminating the king's own body entirely, and a hundred thousand devas gave rise to the resolve for enlightenment along with him. The five hundred crown princes, seeing their own father's wounds healed, rejoiced beyond measure, and likewise gave rise to the resolve for enlightenment; the twenty thousand consorts and hundred thousand attendant women did the same (Source: Sūtra of the Great Skillful Means and the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness, fascicle 3).

Long ago there was a king named Mandhātā, called at that time the wheel-turning king, who ruled all four continents, governing his own people by the true Dharma, never wronging them, and always acting with a heart of loving-kindness, regarding his own subjects as his newborn children. Human life then spanned eighty thousand years; the king possessed the seven treasures, and had a thousand sons besides. No whip or rod was ever used, the people brought no lawsuits against one another, and all things were transformed for the better by his own presence. Whenever the king wished to travel anywhere in the four directions, he arrived there simply by wishing it, tens of millions of people flying along behind him, with no weapon carried at all; the people and spirits alike rejoiced in his own presence.

He told his own attendants: when you see white hair growing on my own head or beard, tell me at once. In time, his attendants told him it had appeared. The king summoned his crown prince, and told him: white hairs have grown upon my head — old age is now drawing near. I now establish you as king; all four continents shall belong to you. In time, you too should grow weary of worldly pleasure, and go in search of the path. The king then abandoned his own kingdom, shaved his head, and went to study the path; his ministers and people all wept bitterly at this.

Mandhātā's own descendants passed the kingdom down from one to the next, generation after generation; one thousand and eighty-four kings in this line, in turn, saw their own hair turn white, and went to study the path. After these one thousand and eighty-four generations, Mandhātā himself was reborn once more as a human being, and continued the royal succession anew, under the name Nán, upholding the true Dharma once again.

He commanded the women of his own inner palace and all persons of rank to keep the eight precepts, and observe the six monthly fast-days; his ministers and subjects, men and women alike, upheld this as well. Śramaṇas and renunciants who lacked clothing or food were given everything they needed, even medicine.

Śakra, king of the devas, spoke to him: would you like to see the various heavenly kings of Trāyastriṃśa? King Nán said: I would indeed like to see them. Śakra said: I shall send a chariot drawn by a thousand horses to receive you, named Vaijayanta. King Nán's own renown had spread far, reaching even to Trāyastriṃśa heaven, and the devas there, holding him in reverence, wished to meet him in person.

Seeing the chariot, the king cried out in astonishment: this is nothing of this world! — for his own king had sent this fine heavenly chariot to receive him. King Nán boarded the chariot, and chariot and horses together flew into the sky. He then told the charioteer: take me past two roads — I wish to see the path of the wicked, and I wish to see the path of the good as well. The charioteer said, very well, and led him first past the hell realms, where he saw the places where the wicked suffer torment and punishment for their own past deeds, and then rose up to Trāyastriṃśa, where he beheld the pleasures of heaven.

When the king arrived at Śakra's own palace, Śakra said: the heavenly kings all greatly wish to see you — King Nán is constantly spoken of for his own virtue. He came forward, took the king's own arm, and sat him down beside himself. King Nán's own body transformed to resemble a heavenly form, no longer bearing the ordinary stench of the mortal world; music and heavenly entertainment were performed, flowers scattered, and incense burned.

Śakra told King Nán: do not be troubled — you may join freely in all the entertainments here, and forget your own cares entirely. But King Nán would not take pleasure in the heavenly music and entertainment offered him, and told Śakra: as one who has only borrowed something must, in time, return it, so too — because of my own original vow — I cannot take these heavenly pleasures as my own true joy. That King Nán of that time is myself now (Source: Sūtra of King Mandhātā).

In a past kalpa of the bodhisattva's own history, this buddha-world was named Nàtílán, and the kalpa itself was named Shàntí. There was a wheel-turning king named Araṇemin, who ruled all four continents. He had a minister named Ocean-Treasure, of brahmin lineage, skilled in reading auspicious signs.

A son was born to this minister, bearing the thirty-two marks and eighty minor signs of excellence, his form perfected by a hundred kinds of merit, a halo of light constantly surrounding him to the length of a full fathom; a hundred thousand devas came together to make offerings to him. He was given the name Ratnagarbha. When he grew to maturity, he shaved his own head and beard, put on monastic robes, and, going forth, attained the threefold enlightenment, and was known thereafter as Ratnagarbha, complete with all ten epithets of a buddha. He turned the wheel of the Dharma, causing all beings to be reborn in heaven, and bringing liberation and benefit to devas and humans alike, his assembly of śrāvaka disciples reverently surrounding him at the city of Anurādha, which was the very seat of the sage king's own governance.

Not far from this city was a grove named Jambu; the Buddha, together with his śrāvaka assembly, came to stay there. The king, hearing of this, went with a boundless multitude of his own people to the Buddha, bowed at his feet, circled him three times to his right, and sat to one side. The Buddha then taught the king the true Dharma, guiding, instructing, and delighting him through every kind of skillful means.

The king said to the Buddha: I beg only that the Tathāgata and all the noble assembly accept my own offerings of robes, food and drink, bedding, and medicine for three full months. The Buddha assented in silence. The king bowed, circled the Buddha three times, and returned, ordering the lesser kings and his own ministers, subjects, and household to prepare every offering required.

The treasurer-minister then laid pure gold as the very ground of the Jambu grove, and, upon it, built towers of the seven treasures, their four gates likewise made of the seven treasures, with rows of jeweled trees hung with jeweled robes and necklaces, every kind of pearl-canopy and jeweled vessel, scattered fragrant flowers and jeweled blossoms, and fine woven cushions and quilts laid out as seating; banners of silk were hung, together with the king's own golden wheel treasure, suspended seven feet above the ground before the towers. The jewel-woman treasure held a canopy, and set a maṇi pearl before the Buddha, whose own twin lights, from wheel and pearl alike, illuminated the whole grove constantly, day and night alike. Couches of ox-head sandalwood were laid out, with tables, benches, and white elephants, and jeweled trees of every kind of ornament arranged before and behind the Buddha and the Saṅgha. The jewel-woman treasure held seven maṇi-jeweled canopies before the Buddha, scattering ox-head sandalwood and black aloeswood incense as an offering, while music was performed; and, at the edge of the grove, the four divisions of the general treasure's own troops stood guard all around.

The king, coming before the Buddha, bowed and circled him three times to the right, and personally poured water for washing and served him with his own hands, offering the Buddha and the Saṅgha the finest food and drink; once the meal was finished, he collected the bowls, brought water, and had them rinse their mouths. The king himself held a jeweled fan, fanning the Tathāgata and each of the śrāvakas in turn. At that time, the king's own thousand sons, and the eighty-four thousand lesser kings beneath him, each in turn made offerings to every one of the śrāvakas, exactly as the wheel-turning king himself had done.

After the meal, a boundless multitude entered the grove to hear the Dharma taught; the devas scattered flowers and performed heavenly music in offering to the Buddha, and, in the open sky, heavenly robes, necklaces, and every kind of jeweled canopy revolved of their own accord. Forty thousand blue-robed yakṣas prepared food for the whole assembly using ox-head sandalwood.

At night, the wheel-turning king lit a hundred thousand times ten thousand million lamps before the assembly — a single lamp balanced upon his own crown, two upon his shoulders, four held in his own two hands, one placed upon each of his two knees, and one upon each of his own two feet — and made this offering day and night without ceasing. Through the Buddha's own spiritual power, his body knew no fatigue at all, as though he had entered the third dhyāna; and the wheel-turning sage king's own attendants experienced this same untiring joy as well.

When the full three months had passed, the treasurer-minister presented offerings to the Tathāgata: eighty-four thousand dragon-head necklaces of Jambu-river gold, the finest golden wheel treasure, white elephant, deep-blue horse, maṇi pearl, and fine fire-pearl treasures; the treasurer-minister treasure and the general treasure; every lesser king; and the small cities and towns surrounding Anurādha itself. He offered garments of the seven treasures, jeweled flowers, gathered treasures, jeweled canopies, fine robes, garlands and necklaces, jeweled carriages and weapons, headdresses and eye-ornaments of the seven treasures strung together, and jeweled netting; gold chains and strings of true pearls from the Jambu river; the finest sandals, cushions and mattresses; exquisite tables and benches and vessels of the seven treasures; bells, drums, musical instruments, jeweled bells, conch shells; garden banners, vases, jars, lamps, and candles; birds and beasts of the seven treasures interspersed with fine fans; and every kind of medicine — each of these offered in the number of eighty-four thousand, all given to the Buddha and the Saṅgha.

Having made these offerings, he said to the Buddha: World-Honored One, my own kingdom's affairs are many, and there is much I have failed to attend to properly — I now repent of this. I beg only that the Tathāgata remain long in this grove, that I might come again and again to pay my own respects.

The king's own sons each likewise invited the Buddha and the Saṅgha to receive their own offerings for a further three months, and the Tathāgata assented in silence each time.

Good man: among the king's thousand sons, the eldest, named Not-Blinking, made offerings for a full three months just as his own father had, lacking only the wheel and the other treasures.

The great minister, the brahmin Ocean-Treasure, then proclaimed throughout all of Jambudvīpa, to every man and woman: whoever wishes to ask for anything must first take refuge in the Three Jewels and arouse the resolve for enlightenment, and only then may they receive what is given. And so there was not a single person in all of Jambudvīpa who did not, through this brahmin, take the threefold refuge and arouse the resolve for enlightenment before receiving what was offered to them.

The king's own sons each, in turn, made their own particular vows — some wishing to become a heavenly king of Trāyastriṃśa, some a Brahmā king, some a Māra king, some a wheel-turning sage king, some wishing only for great wealth, some seeking to become śrāvakas — and each, in turn, confessed before the Buddha and the Saṅgha. And it is because of this very act of giving in a past life that the wheel-turning sage king now seeks to remain in this world still (Source: Karuṇāpuṇḍarīka Sūtra, fascicle 2; also found in the Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Praśāntamati's Questions on the Five Defilements).

In a past age, there was a king named Dṛḍha, possessed of the four divisions of troops, a wheel-turning king who governed the whole world by the true Dharma, together with the seven treasures and the four excellent qualities of human life.

In time, the king lost his own heavenly wheel. He told his crown prince, Dǐnglái: I have heard, from those who came before me, that should a wheel-turning king ever lose his heavenly wheel, he is not fated to live long after. My son — I have already tasted the pleasures of this human world, and now wish to seek the pleasures of heaven instead. I wish to shave my own head, don monastic robes, and go forth in faith. I now give you this whole land, bounded by the great sea; you must govern by the true Dharma, and command that no unlawful conduct be permitted. Should the heavenly wheel ever be restored to you, it too will one day move on to another place in turn.

King Dṛḍha then studied the path, and, after seven days, the heavenly wheel vanished from sight in broad daylight. King Dǐnglái said to his father: what am I to do, now that I must be king? His father answered: cultivate the very conduct that earns the wheel, and it may yet come to you.

At the fortnightly precept-recitation on the fifteenth day, having bathed his own head, and ascended to the hall, a heavenly wheel came from the east — made by no craftsman's hand at all, its own radiance exceedingly fine. On that fast-day, having bathed and ascended the eastern side of the hall, King Dṛḍha told his son: you must observe and practice the true Dharma toward men and women, wives and children, and all your own ministers and subjects alike — not toward any single śramaṇa or brahmin alone, but down even to the birds and deer. You must keep the fast on the eighth, fourteenth, and fifteenth days of each month, and give to śramaṇas, brahmins, the poor, the solitary elderly, and beggars — offering them food and drink, clothing, garlands, fragrant incense, and beds and dwellings, that this might serve as clear proof of your own conduct. Should there be any śramaṇa or brahmin known within your own realm, you should go to them at any time, and ask them: what is wholesome and what is unwholesome, and what retribution, bright or dark, follows each? What is the meaning of this present life, and what is the meaning of the life to come? What conduct brings a wholesome result, and what avoids an unwholesome one? You must come to understand these things in just this way. Should there be poor people within your own realm, you must give them wealth. This is the very conduct by which the wheel is obtained — should your own conduct accord with it, you shall obtain it.

At the fortnightly precept-recitation on the fifteenth day, having bathed his head and ascended the eastern side of the hall, the heavenly wheel duly came to him as well, and, in succession, King Dǐnglái governed by the true Dharma, giving wealth to those within his own realm, and, as a wheel-turning king, held the seven treasures together with the four excellent qualities of human life — the same seven treasures, and the same four excellent qualities, described above.

In time, however, that heavenly wheel too moved on from him, vanishing from sight — yet King Dǐnglái, at first, felt no grief or concern over this at all, given over instead to lustful pleasure, unaware of his own decline. Ruling the world by mere force, his own people grew fewer day by day rather than more, whereas the former king, governing by the true Dharma, had seen only increase, never decline.

A brahmin named Bright-Star told him: heavenly king, you should know that ruling your people through mere desire brings only decline, never increase — just as, in the wheel-turning kings of the past, whoever accorded with the wheel's own proper conduct saw only increase, never decline. The king said: what, then, should I do? He answered: heavenly king, there is, within your own realm, a clear method of reckoning, and, among your own ministers, some skilled in mantra and incantation who understand the wheel's own proper conduct — you, heavenly king, should bring your conduct into accord with it. Should you do so, it may well be possible, and the wheel may yet be regained.

At the fortnightly precept-recitation on the fifteenth day, having bathed and ascended the high hall to its eastern side, he was to obtain the heavenly wheel once more. The king asked: what is the wheel's own proper conduct, that I might bring my own conduct into accord with it? He was told: you must, in accordance with the Dharma, extend right conduct even to your own wife and children, down to the very act of giving in charity — this is the heavenly king's own proper conduct for the heavenly wheel. Should your conduct accord with this, it may well be possible, and the wheel may yet be obtained.

King Dǐnglái, in time, extended right conduct toward his wife and children, but, when it came to the poor, begrudged his own wealth and would not give — and so, growing destitute and having nothing left, they turned to theft instead. Brought before the king for punishment, he asked one of them: is it true, my subject, that you have taken what was not given to you? The man answered: it is true — had I not stolen, I could not have sustained my own life. The king then simply gave him goods, and told him: go now, and do this no more.

Yet other poor people, hearing that a thief, upon being caught, had received a gift from the king rather than punishment, thought: we too might as well take what is not given, and turn to theft ourselves. And so theft grew ever more widespread, and human lifespans grew shorter and shorter in turn, from an original eighty-four thousand years down, in the end, to a mere hundred.

When, at last, another offender was caught, the king declared: should anyone else steal within my own realm from now on, they shall be bound beneath a tree and beheaded by the sword. The Buddha told the monks: in the age to come, human lifespan shall fall to a mere ten years (Source: Āgama Sūtra, fascicle 14).

Long ago there was a king named Mandhātā, who emerged from his own mother's crown, and, in time, became a wheel-turning king, ruling everywhere east, west, south, and north, complete with the seven treasures. The king had a thousand sons, and ruled all four continents for several thousand years.

He thought to himself: I hold all four continents, my own people thriving, grain and rice cheap and plentiful, my thousand sons handsome, talented, and strong — should I not have heaven itself rain down gold and silver for seven days and nights, for my own delight? And heaven did just this for the king, raining down coins of gold and silver for seven full days and nights. The king's own heart was overjoyed.

Hearing that the people of every other land were thriving as well, the king took up his own seven treasures and four divisions of troops, and, flying together with his whole host, went in turn to every other kingdom, subduing them all, and governing the world by the true Dharma. And so it continued, several thousand years in each land.

The king then thought again: I hold Jambudvīpa, two hundred and eighty thousand li across; I hold Godānīya, three hundred and twenty thousand li across; I hold Pūrvavideha, three hundred and sixty thousand li across. Yet the king had only heard of Uttarakuru, to the north, where the whole world lived in great happiness and the people thrived — there, it was said, there was no poverty, no distinction between the wealthy and the destitute, the strong and the weak, no servants or masters, no noble or lowly rank at all, but everyone equal alike, feeding together on rice that grew spontaneously, and clothed in garments and adornments of every treasure that likewise arose of themselves. The king wished to go there.

He flew there together with his whole host, and entered Uttarakuru. Its own ground was as green as jade; going further still, he saw white rice, spontaneous as snow, and was told, you may eat of this. Going further still, he saw trees hung with every treasure — a hundred kinds of garment-trees, gold, silver, and jeweled necklaces all hanging from the branches. The king asked his own attendant ministers: have you all seen this? They answered: indeed, we have — and, entering that land, its people all submitted to him at once. The king governed the land of Uttarakuru, four hundred thousand li across, for several thousand years more.

He thought again: I hold all four continents now. His heart then wished to ascend Mount Sumeru, the jeweled mountain, to the very dwelling place of Śakra, king of the devas, in Trāyastriṃśa heaven; and so, taking up his own seven treasures and hundred officials, he flew together with them all to Mount Sumeru, and entered the palace of Śakra, king of the devas.

Śakra, seeing him approach from a distance, went out to welcome him, saying: I have heard often of your own merit, and have long wished to meet you — how excellent that you, benevolent one, have come. He drew the king to sit beside him, and gave him half of his own seat.

No sooner had Mandhātā sat down than, glancing about him, he saw the heavenly maidens there, and thought to himself: I already hold all four continents, and everything heaven itself rains down as treasure — could I not simply kill Śakra, king of the devas, and take his own place instead, governing heaven exactly as I have governed the earth?

The very moment this thought arose, he felt himself falling away, and found himself back on earth, stricken at once with a grave illness, and confined to his own bed. His ministers asked him: did some thought arise in you, of wishing to take Śakra's own place? He answered that such a thought had indeed just arisen in him — and it was at that very moment that he had fallen back down to the earth, and been struck with this illness.

The king, repenting within his own heart, said: a person's own desire truly knows no limit — how few there are who know when they have enough! That Mandhātā of that time was myself (Source: Sūtra of King Mandhātā).

In a past age, when human life spanned an immeasurable span, there was a king named Well-Settled, who, as crown prince, governed for eighty-four thousand years, and, after ascending the throne, reigned a further eighty-four thousand years. During his reign, a soft swelling arose upon his own crown, gentle to the touch, as fine and soft as kapok down or cotton wool, and grew larger and larger over time, though he took no alarm at it. When ten full months had passed, the swelling split open, and a young boy emerged from it, his form dignified, foremost among men. The king, his father, rejoiced, and named him Mandhātā ("Head-Born").

King Well-Settled then entrusted the affairs of his own kingdom to this son, and, abandoning his own wife and children, went into the mountains to study the path, where he remained a full eighty-four thousand years.

Mandhātā, on the fifteenth day of the month, bathed and kept the fast atop a high tower, and, from the east, a golden wheel treasure arrived, its thousand spokes, hub, and rim all complete, formed by no craftsman's hand, but arriving of itself in answer to his own observance. The king thought to himself: I have heard, from a sage of the five powers, that should a kṣatriya king bathe and keep the fast atop a high tower on the fifteenth day, and a golden wheel should come in answer, this is a sign that he shall become a wheel-turning sage emperor.

He tested this by lifting the wheel with his own left hand, holding an incense burner in his right, and, kneeling on his right knee, made this vow: if this golden wheel treasure is truly no falsehood, may it act exactly as it did for the wheel-turning sage kings of the past. At once it flew up into the open sky, circling through the ten directions, and returned to rest in the king's own left hand; the king knew in his own heart that he had become a wheel-turning sage king.

Not long after this, the elephant treasure appeared as well, white as a lotus flower, its seven points of contact firmly planted on the ground. The king, recalling the sage's own words once more, bathed and kept the fast atop the high tower on the fifteenth day, and, testing it, held his incense burner and knelt on his right knee, making this vow: if this white elephant treasure is truly no falsehood, may it perform exactly as the elephants of the wheel-turning sage kings of the past. At once, from dawn to dusk, it circled the eight directions, reaching to the very edge of the great ocean, before returning to its own place. The king, overjoyed, declared: I am now truly a wheel-turning sage king.

Not long after, the horse treasure appeared in turn, and the king tested it just as before. Then the jewel-woman treasure appeared, her form dignified and exquisite beyond compare, who, the moment her hand touched the king's own robe, could sense at once whether his body felt pain or ease, and knew even what occupied his own mind. A maṇi pearl treasure then arose spontaneously, pure as blue lapis lazuli, as large as a chariot wheel, illuminating a full yojana around it; should heaven let fall rain as thick as a chariot's own axle, this pearl's own power could form a great canopy, covering a full yojana, and hold back the rain entirely, letting none of it pass through.

The king reflected as before, and the treasurer-minister treasure then arose spontaneously as well, abundant in wealth beyond any lack, his eyes able to see every buried treasure, fulfilling whatever the king thought of. The king boarded a ship with him and went out onto the great ocean, and told the treasurer: I now wish to obtain rare and wondrous treasure. The minister, hearing this, stirred the great ocean's own water with his two hands, and, from the tips of his own ten fingers, ten treasure-hoards emerged, which he offered to the sage king, saying: great king, use whatever you need as you wish — what remains shall sink back into the great sea. The king was overjoyed.

The general treasure then arose spontaneously as well, brave and bold, foremost in strategy, well versed in the four divisions of troops, able to subdue any enemy, and, once subdued, to guard and protect what had been won.

The king told his ministers: know this — Jambudvīpa now lives in peace and abundance; I hold the seven treasures complete, and my thousand sons are all accomplished — what more is there left to do? His ministers answered: indeed, great king — yet Pūrvavideha to the east, Godānīya to the west, and Uttarakuru to the north have not yet submitted to your own virtue; you should go there now. The king then went, together with his seven treasures and his whole retinue, flying through the sky, and the people of all four directions rejoiced and submitted to his own virtuous rule.

He told his ministers further: my own four continents now live in peace and abundance, the people thriving, and all have already submitted and been transformed — what more is there left to do? His ministers answered: indeed, sage king — yet the Trāyastriṃśa devas, with their own long lifespan and heavenly ease, relying on their own heavenly merit, have not yet come to submit — you should go now, and subdue them as well.

The king then flew up once more into the sky, ascending to Trāyastriṃśa heaven, and saw there a tree of deep green color, and asked his ministers: what is this? They answered: this is the Pārijāta tree, beneath which the devas of Trāyastriṃśa constantly take their own ease and pleasure throughout the three months of summer. He saw too something white, like a white cloud, and asked again: what is this? They answered: this is Sudharma Hall, where the devas of Trāyastriṃśa constantly gather to discuss matters concerning gods and men.

At this, Śakra, lord of the devas, knowing the king had arrived outside, came out to greet him, and, taking his own hand, brought him up into Sudharma Hall, and shared his own seat with him. The two kings, at that moment, were so alike in form and appearance that nothing at all distinguished them but the movement of their own eyes (the Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish says: in a still earlier life, he had scattered four grains of beans upon the Buddha Puṣya, one of which fell into the Buddha's own bowl, and it was this that earned him rule over the four continents; one grain landed upon the Buddha's own crown, and it was this that earned him a share of pleasure equal to that of the two heavens).

The king thought: might I now remain here, and become a heavenly king myself? At that time, Śakra was receiving, reciting, and expounding to others a Mahāyāna scripture, yet had not fully penetrated its own profound meaning. The king, observing this in Śakra, gave rise to a malicious thought toward him — and, at once, fell back down to Jambudvīpa, parted forever from the beloved devas and humans he had known, and, overwhelmed with great suffering at this separation, soon after fell ill, and died.

That Śakra was Kāśyapa Buddha; and that wheel-turning sage king was myself (Source: Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 11).

In the country of Pāṭaliputra (the Saṃyukta Āgama calls it Pāṭaliputra-town), there was a king of the Maurya clan named Bindusāra (his own father was named Sun-Moon-Protector), who had a son named Aśoka ("Sorrowless" in the language of Liang; also called King Aśoka. In an earlier life he was named Jaya, and, as a young boy, at the time the Buddha entered Rājagṛha, his own heart moved with devotion, he took sand from the roadside and shaped it into a rice-cake, placing it in the Buddha's own bowl as an offering, and made this vow: in a future life, may I become a king ruling a golden land, and spread offerings widely. The Buddha at once prophesied of him: one hundred years after my own entry into nirvāṇa, he shall be born in the city of Pāṭaliputra, of the Maurya clan, named Aśoka, a wheel-turning king ruling one quarter of the world, who shall raise eighty-four thousand stūpas to honor the relics — Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 1).

Aśoka's own skin was rough and coarse, and his father held little affection for him. Later, the king had a skilled physiognomist examine all his sons, to determine which of them was fit to become king, and secretly sent word to Aśoka's own mother: you should prepare yourself in turn for this. Aśoka asked his mother about this, saying his father held no fondness for him; his mother told him only, go anyway.

The great minister Chénghù asked him: where are you going now? Aśoka answered him truthfully. Chénghù then provided him with the finest elephant to ride, while the meals prepared for the other princes were all served in jeweled vessels — all but Aśoka's own. His mother secretly arranged instead that his own food and vessels should surpass all the others'.

The physiognomist declared: Aśoka is the most excellent of all — he alone is fit to be king. But the great king said: he is the one I hold least dear — he would surely be killed by his own brothers; examine this matter again. The physiognomist answered again: the one riding the finest mount, eating the finest food, from the finest vessels, is the one fit to be king — none among them surpasses him.

Later, a small kingdom within the realm, named Takṣaśilā, rose in rebellion. The king commanded Aśoka: gather the four divisions of troops, and seize back that kingdom — yet I shall provide you with no weapons, armor, or supplies at all. Aśoka, receiving this command, reflected to himself: if I truly possess the merit fit for kingship, may weapons rise up from the earth itself — and, at that very moment, the ground split open, and weapons and provisions beyond counting emerged from it.

The kingdom of Takṣaśilā, hearing that Aśoka was coming, adorned its own roads and welcomed him from afar, every person there vying to make offerings to him, without the slightest resistance.

A second rebellion arose, and envoys were sent to the kingdom of Qiéshī, seeking two mighty warriors capable of crushing mountains and overturning peaks. The devas themselves then spoke to these two men, telling them: this wheel-turning king, ruler of one quarter of Jambudvīpa, cannot be opposed — every hero and worthy throughout the land submits to him without exception. The devas then placed heavenly jeweled crowns upon their own heads.

The great king, hearing of this, sent his own eldest son, Susīma, with a great force of troops, yet he was unable to subdue the rebellion at all. The great king, already suffering a grave illness, grew doubly enraged at this, and, hearing further that the campaign had failed, spat hot blood from his own mouth, and died at once.

Aśoka then ascended the throne, and appointed Chénghù as his own chief minister, to oversee the affairs of the kingdom. Susīma and the other princes, hearing that their father had died and that Aśoka had been installed as king in defiance of their own claim, could not bear this, and gathered their own troops to attack Aśoka.

Two mighty warriors, together with Chénghù, each guarded one gate of the city; the king himself took position at the eastern gate, where a great pit of fire had been dug and covered over, giving off neither smoke nor flame, and mechanical wooden figures had been set up there. The king himself rode a great wooden elephant, advancing slowly, feigning weakness. Susīma, leading his own elite troops, meaning to kill Aśoka, saw the wooden figures moving clumsily and weakly, and, pressing his own troops forward directly, fell into the great pit of fire, and was burned to death there.

Two hundred and eighty thousand li of land submitted to Aśoka's own rule; every dragon and yakṣa of the land submitted as well — save for a single dragon, whose own domain, three hundred li across, held the very first stūpa raised over the Buddha's relics, at the village of Rāmagrāma, itself of great merit, and this dragon alone would not submit to his transformation.

Aśoka then recruited a caṇḍāla servant, named Girika, capable of carrying out executions, and had a prison built to punish those who would not submit, its own gate adorned to appear extraordinarily beautiful, so that whoever saw it would be drawn to enter, yet none who entered could ever leave again.

At that time, a monk at the Cock Monastery was reciting a sūtra that described the torments of hell; Girika, hearing this, set about constructing boiling cauldrons, furnaces of burning coals, mountains of blades, and forests of swords accordingly.

There was a monk named Sāgaramati who, rising early, robed himself, took up his bowl, and entered the city to beg for alms, and happened to pass by the gate of this very prison-hell. Girika seized him. The monk wept, and told him: a human birth is hard to obtain, and going forth as a renunciant harder still to encounter — I have already attained the fruit of the path; I beg only a month's reprieve. Girika answered: I serve under the king's own command, and can never grant this — but he allowed him seven days instead.

The monk applied himself with diligence day and night. He happened, too, to witness the king's own son speaking privately with a woman of the inner palace, and, because of this, was ordered handed over to the prison regardless. Girika at once crushed him with an iron mortar and pestle. The monk's own heart, though filled with fear at this, on the night of the seventh day, in deep contemplation, attained the fruit of arhatship.

The next day, Girika placed the monk within a great iron cauldron, filled with boiling excrement, urine, and every kind of filth, pus, and blood, and cooked him over a fierce fire — yet, though a long time passed, his body would not decay at all, and the monk sat there, undisturbed, upon a lotus flower.

The king, hearing of this, went with all his own people to see it for himself. The monk then, through his own spiritual power, rose bodily into the open sky, displaying the eighteen transformations. The king, overjoyed, said: your own body is like any human body, yet your power surpasses any human power — you must let me understand this, and I shall build a stūpa in your honor for your own spiritual attainment.

The monk answered: should the king proclaim the Buddha's own teaching, and build stūpas and shrines widely to honor his relics, this would benefit the Dharma greatly; the Buddha, before his own final nirvāṇa, whose compassion has no equal, foremost in refuting every false teacher, prophesied of me, his own disciple, that a wheel-turning king would take up my relics and raise eighty-four thousand stūpas, and undertake many further works for the Buddha's own sake. Yet the king has, before this, built this very hell, and killed beyond all counting — he must now remove this whole burden of transgression, and grant fearlessness to all instead.

The king at once joined his palms together, and, before this monk, confessed and repented of his own past deeds, and went himself into the hell to bring everyone there out of it. Girika said: I have only ever carried out the king's own command — none who enters may ever leave. The king said: do you mean to kill me, then? He answered, yes, just so. The king asked: who was the very first person ever placed in this prison? He answered: Girika himself was the first to enter it.

The king then told the jailers: place Girika within the very furnace built for boiling pitch, and burn him there with fire — and, only after this, destroy the whole hell and abandon it entirely.

The king then made offerings to the five divisions of the Saṅgha, using a thousand vessels of gold, silver, and lapis lazuli filled with fragrant water, and every kind of food, drink, incense, and flower. Having received the eight precepts, he took up an incense burner in his own hand, ascended a high hall, and invited the Saṅgha from all four directions, proclaiming: let every disciple of the World-Honored One, wherever they may be in the four directions, come here now, that they might receive me — and spoke this verse:

"Let every arhat / now come and receive me — / I invite the arhats; / let them all gather in this very place."

Three hundred thousand monks gathered: a hundred thousand arhats, two hundred thousand still in training, and countless ordinary monks besides. Yet the topmost seat remained empty, with no one seated there at all. The king asked the monk Yaśas: why does no one occupy this first seat? He answered: the Buddha taught that, among his own disciples, one capable of a lion's own roar is named Piṇḍola, and he alone holds this foremost seat.

The king, hearing this, felt his own hair stand on end, as rare a thing as the udumbara flower itself blooming, and asked further: is there truly one still living who once saw the Buddha with his own eyes, before his final nirvāṇa? He was told: it is Piṇḍola himself. The king asked again: might I, then, see this person now? He was told: he shall come presently. The king, hearing this, was overjoyed, and at once spoke a verse of praise, his palms joined, gazing up into the open sky without once looking away.

Piṇḍola then descended from the sky, surrounded by countless arhats following behind him, and took the very first seat. The whole assembly rose at once. Seeing Piṇḍola — his own hair and beard entirely white, his brow and eyebrows so long they covered his own face, his form like that of a pratyekabuddha — the king threw his whole body to the ground in homage, and, licking the arhat's own feet with his tongue, wept and spoke a verse in praise of him.

Piṇḍola, raising his own eyebrows with both hands, told Aśoka: I have seen the Tathāgata many times — and spoke further in praise of the Buddha's own virtue. Aśoka asked him: where did you see the Buddha? He answered: the Buddha, together with five hundred arhats, once kept the rains retreat in Rājagṛha, and I myself was among that assembly. And, in Śrāvastī, the Buddha displayed every kind of spiritual power to overcome the heretical teachers. And he kept the rains retreat in Trāyastriṃśa heaven as well, teaching the Dharma to his own mother before descending again, and afterward went to the country of Āsēngkēshē. And when Sumāgadhā, a solitary laywoman, invited the Buddha and five hundred arhats to a meal, the Buddha, through his own spiritual power, traveled to the country of Fēntuóbátuó, and I too, through my own spiritual power, lifted a whole mountain and traveled through the open sky to that same country. And it was then that the Tathāgata commanded me: you shall not enter final nirvāṇa, but shall remain to uphold my own teaching in the world.

Aśoka asked further: great venerable Piṇḍola, how many followers accompany you? He answered in verse:

"Sixty thousand arhats, / every affliction's poison entirely exhausted in them — / great king, why do you still doubt? / Quickly offer food to the assembled Saṅgha."

Once the assembled Saṅgha had finished eating, they would speak with the king further; he agreed to this. As they were each about to depart, all received offerings.

The king then told a monk named Yíqièzhī: I shall offer the Saṅgha a hundred thousand pieces of gold, and a thousand vessels of silver and lapis lazuli — proclaim my own name before the great assembly as the donor. Aśoka's own son, named Kunāla, went to his father's side, and, too fearful of him to speak aloud, simply held up two fingers, indicating a doubling of the offering. The monk understood this to mean that his own accumulated merit should be doubled beyond even his father's, and the whole assembly burst into laughter.

The king, seeing the assembly laugh, said to his minister Chénghù: what you have done is not what an old and trusted friend should do, to make the people laugh so. Chénghù answered: many people, wishing to make merit, naturally wish to double what came before. Aśoka then said: I shall then offer three hundred thousand pieces of gold to the assembled Saṅgha, and three thousand vessels filled with fragrant water. The king then said further: great one, I shall now make my whole treasury of the seven treasures, every official and minister of my own realm, and even my own body, together with Kunāla's, an offering to the Saṅgha entirely (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 1).