The world was nothing in those days. Just stretches of water scattered here and there — ponds filled with mud and reeds, where surviving and reproducing were enough to fill every creature's existence. Then Buddha came to instil eternal wisdom in them, before moving on to other ponds to pass on that same wisdom in turn. The earth was well, the world was good.
But one day, in a pond where the other animals were content with that simplicity of life, he could not satisfy himself with a world bounded by invisible rules and laws that no one ever seemed to truly understand.
He wanted to break free, to climb the mountains and reach the heavens — but the norms of that society were far removed from his dreams and his goal.
He was not wicked, far from it. He was one of the wisest young toad in that pond. He had become a master of puja, mantras, and sutras. He had studied them so deeply that he now knew them by heart… but a void had come alongside that spiritual learning, such a void that he was beginning to lock himself inside that spiritual cage.
He who had given so much to the practice of wisdom was beginning to doubt. He was no longer certain of that path. "Buddha may have been mistaken," he told himself for comfort — but he could see it clearly: he was beginning to lose his faith, he who had believed so deeply.
He found refuge in what was obsolete: power, strength, and transcendence. He no longer wished to remain in that pond, which today, to him, was no longer home… The days passed, the doubt of leaving brushed against him: "Should he really go?" Out there, everything was unknown — he would be alone, truly alone. The months passed, then a year… and then came the day of an encounter that would change his destiny forever.
A breath moved through the reeds, and the devil appeared, drifting like a mist gliding between water and earth. The elders would have called it a demon, a spirit from elsewhere, bearer of misfortune and power. Its appearance was staggering, even implausible: its face was hidden beneath the black hood of its garment. Only its hands were visible — human hands, fashioned in the image of Buddha, but unlike his, they were not good. The toad did not immediately understand what was expected of him.
The devil spoke, its voice a cold and distant murmur, yet radiating an overwhelming certainty:
— "You have the instinct, but instinct alone will take you nowhere. I offer you four wishes so that you may become what you truly are… but all power demands a price."
The toad inclined his head. He knew no fear. He knew no dread. What he knew was that he was limited — by his body, by his mind, by his pond, by those silent rules that all obeyed. He answered, not with words, but with a crushing silence.
And so he accepted, and the devil departed.
At first, it was like an awakening. He felt power flowing through every fibre of his being. The other animals — so simple, so naïve — became his obstacles, his pawns, his instruments. He watched the ant walk slowly: kindness held no value in this world. One movement too slow, and it was crushed beneath the toad's subtle force.
The little panda tried to intervene, pragmatic as ever:
— "You are playing with what does not belong to you, toad. Give back its evil power — it is bound to demons, quickly…"
— "What does not belong to me?" said the toad. "Everything belongs to whoever can take it."
The night heron tried to escape, to vanish into the air, to flee the imminent confrontation with the toad. But nothing escaped the toad. His power was not brute force — it was calculated, methodical, cold. He did not kill for the sake of violence, but for precision, to test the limits, to understand the fragility of every being around him. He had become arrogant.
The frog, curious, dared to ask her question:
— "Are you not afraid of what you are becoming? You could regret it until the very last of your sorry days."
— "Fear is a luxury for those who live in safety," he replied. "I seek the strength to forge my own security, to rise above the heavens and hurl my fire from there, rather than remain fixed to these waters, contemplating them like a powerless spectator."
Even the fish attempted to offer its wisdom, silent and fluid:
— "Buddha teaches us moderation in…"
— "And yet," said the toad, cutting it off, "moderation protects neither from hunger, nor from death, nor from solitude."
The cicada, relentless in its reflection, tried once more to reason with its old friend:
— "Do not lose your way…"
— "My path is not yours. It is not where I am going that matters, but where I will end up. Power allows us to decide our own movements… and to observe their consequences."
As he dominated the pond, having reduced his rivals to shadows of what they once were, time passed. And the devil returned, like an invisible blade from which he could not escape. Its glacial voice split the air:
— "You have taken what I offered you… and now the price has come."
The toad, for the first time, contemplated that moment. He had believed he could ignore the debt, the invisible chain of the agreement. But now, face to face with the devil, he felt a cold, lucid curiosity: what form would this price take? How could he measure the value of what he had already conquered?
— "I have never believed in chains that serve me no purpose," he murmured.
The devil smiled. The world was not prepared to hear that murmur, but the toad knew this was a decisive moment: accepting or refusing the price would be a new trial, more subtle than brute force.
The wind rose over the pond. The reeds shivered, and the water seemed to hold its breath. The devil returned, drifting through the morning mist, its translucent body undulating like the reflection of the moon on the surface. The inhabitants of the pond, even the bravest among them, remained silent before this ghostly apparition. All knew that this visitor brought not only fear: it brought the inevitable.
— "You have taken what I offered you, you have built your empire with my strength. Today I return in a new form. I await my due… my due," murmured the devil, its voice a thread of ice stretching through the air, trembling and sharp. "And now it is time to pay… for having dared to possess these powers."
The toad raised his eyes, cold and calculating. He showed neither fear nor doubt. He had already felt, deep within himself, the cruelty and solitude that his choices had bred.
— "And what exactly do you want?" asked the toad, his voice calm, yet every word carrying the weight of his dominion.
— "Your soul…" murmured the devil. In that word floated the shadow of an endless pain, like a cold wind passing through an empty valley.
"Or what you call your heart — the silent centre of your being. It is you I claim, nothing more, nothing less. When you chose power, you left the peaceful current to walk toward the abyss.
The sky and the earth are watching, but today… I come to reclaim what is mine."
The toad reflected for a moment, allowing the animals to observe his reaction. The snail shivered and murmured:
— "P-perhaps… he should yield…"
— "Yield?" said the toad, almost with amusement. "Why should I yield to something I consider worthless? The price is merely an idea. It has force only if I accept it."
The little panda shook his head, a sharp realism in his eyes:
— "But this devil… it is not like us. Every agreement has its consequences."
— "Exactly," said the toad. "And that is why I choose my own consequences. I do not live by your rules, your ideas of right or wrong. I am above all of that. I live by my own rules, my own morality, and I decide for myself whether I want to live or not. Because in the end… there will be nothing."
The night heron slipped through the air, trying to draw closer to its companions.
— "You should at least… try to avoid total destruction…"
— "Avoid?" replied the toad. "Why refuse what sets you apart from the world? To think is to act. To flee is to choose to survive. Look at yourself. You lose yourself in your illusions, you refuse to see what is. You are no longer even capable of facing reality. You are not fleeing… you are simply refusing reality."
The frog leapt to stand before him, her gaze determined.
— "You still have a choice, toad!"
— "Choice is an illusion," he said slowly. "This world does not exist to offer alternatives. Only the effect of my actions matters. The freedom you believe you see is nothing but a mirage."
The fish, calm and deep, crossed the water's surface with meditative slowness.
— "Harmony, the order of the world, the balance of living things, the weight of karma, and the quest for liberation — can none of this illuminate the true nature of the self for you?"
— "Harmony is nothing but a fragile mask, order shatters, balance collapses, karma is an illusion, and liberation a mirage. I seek neither inner peace nor inner truth: only disorder, instinct, and a raw grip on reality."
The cicada, faithful in its perseverance, sang:
— "Even in trial, there is a path…"
— "The path I choose is not yours," replied the toad. "Perseverance is only worth something if it leads to a result I have decided upon."
The devil smiled, slowly, almost satisfied to witness the nascent manipulation.
— "So you refuse to pay your price?"
— "I refuse only to surrender my centre to what you call my soul," replied the toad. "If the world wants to demand payment, let it do so on my terms."
And so the first games began. Every movement, every word, every hesitation of the animals became an instrument in the toad's silent strategy. He observed, calculated, and tested the limits of each one. The snail, in its kindness, tried to make him understand the natural balance. But kindness had no force against one who had chosen to measure the world solely by its effects.
The little panda, with dogged determination, tried to predict his moves — but every calculation fell flat before the toad's cold precision. The night heron no longer fled; it tried instead to help the others, but its help was thwarted by the toad. The frog cried out again and again, trying to invoke free will, but every leap and every attempt was analysed and neutralised before it could even become a problem. The fish remained silent, watching, letting the toad confront the world in his own way. And the cicada kept on singing, persistent, never once heard by the toad.
The devil watched from the background, its smile unchanging. It knew the price would come, but it wanted to see how far the toad would go before understanding the true nature of the agreement.
The toad, for his part, already felt power flowing through every fibre of his being — but he also understood something unexpected: the price was not simply a loss; it was a trial of perception, a subtle measure of what he had become. And in that silent calculation, he smiled. For the path he had chosen was not the path of weakness. It was solitary, cruel — but infinitely clear.
The devil returned, like a breath of frost-laden wind, and the pond seemed to hold its breath. The reeds froze, the water stilled, as if all of nature knew the importance of the moment. The toad knew the price was coming, but he did not tremble.
— "You have tasted power," said the devil, its words gliding like blades across the water, "and now I claim what is mine."
The animals, unable to grasp the full scope of this confrontation, had gathered timidly along the banks. The little panda frowned:
— "What exactly do you want?" he asked, his realism tinged with fear.
The devil smiled, and its glacial eyes came to rest on the toad.
— "Your essence… your measure… the very heart of your being."
The toad slowly turned his eyes toward it. In that moment, he understood that the price was not tangible. It could not be paid with words, with objects, or even with life. The price was the recognition of what one had become, and the acceptance of its consequences.
He observed the animals around him. The snail trembled, its kindness visible in every slow movement. The toad sensed that this innocence could be exploited — not out of gratuitous cruelty, but as an instrument of understanding: every gesture, every word, every choice now had an effect.
— "All of you," he said, his voice low but piercing, "look at me. Every action I take, every silence I keep, changes the world around me."
The snail ventured a murmur:
— "But isn't that… wrong?"
— "Wrong or right does not exist here," replied the toad. "Only effects matter. Your kindness, your innocence… they are useful only if they produce a result."
The little panda intervened:
— "And if all of this destroys you yourself?"
— "Destroy me?" The toad tilted his head slightly. "Destruction exists only for those who cling to the world. I… have nothing left to lose."
The night heron tried to escape the toad's grip, but the toad knew exactly where it was going, how it thought, down to the slightest hesitation in its flight.
— "Why not simply disappear?" murmured the night heron.
— "Because disappearing creates no effect. To observe, to act, to decide… that is true power."
The frog, bold as ever, leapt forward:
— "You still have free will. You can come back to your path!"
— "Free will is nothing but an illusion for those who fear losing," said the toad. "I choose what I want to observe, what I want to change, and what I want to ignore."
The fish passed slowly, meditative, as if to show that time and wisdom follow their own rhythm.
— "Buddha taught us moderation and compassion…"
— "And yet," said the toad, "compassion does not prevent me from surviving, and moderation does not change this world. Only the perception of effects matters."
The cicada sang in its sharp, insistent voice:
— "Persevere… never give up…"
— "I persevere," replied the toad. "But by my own law, not yours. Perseverance that produces no effect is an illusion."
The devil leaned forward slightly, as if inspecting its pupil.
— "You do not tremble?" it murmured. "You do not bend before your debt?"
— "Trembling is only useful for those who lack control," said the toad. "And bending… I only bend to forces I choose."
And then the devil placed its hand upon the water, sending tremors through every wave and every reed. The price arrived. It was neither pain nor visible chains, but a subtle, invisible change that penetrated the toad's mind. Hunger, solitude, the forgetting of others, the weariness of the soul: all of this became perceptible — not through fear, but through lucidity.
The toad, however, did not crumble. He observed, calculated, and understood that this price was not an obstacle, but raw material. He could use it, understand it, and transform it into strength. He smiled inwardly: the devil had believed it would catch him — but the true power lay in accepting and manipulating that reality.
— "Very well…" he murmured. "If that is the price, then I will observe it, study it, and integrate it."
And the devil, satisfied, vanished once more into the wind, leaving behind nothing but dead leaves and a silent pond — changed, but silent. The toad had paid his debt, but not as the world had intended. He had learned the first lesson: power does not come from what one receives, but from what one understands and transforms.
The pond felt quieter than ever. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before crossing the reeds. The toad advanced slowly along the bank, every movement calculated, every flick of his tongue or tremble of his paw laden with intention. He was no longer merely an inhabitant of the pond: he had become the centre of his own reality, and every being around him — willing or not — an instrument of understanding.
The snail approached timidly, its shell trembling.
— "I… I still don't understand…" it murmured. "Why did you accept this pact?"
— "Because the pond has always limited me," replied the toad, his voice low and cold. "Because these rules have confined my life. My life has been dictated by choices that were not mine. If I wish to understand the world, I must measure every movement, every consequence."
The snail lowered its eyes, unable to respond. Its kindness had never been tested in this way.
The little panda stepped forward, more direct.
— "And the others? You manipulate them? You play with them?"
— "Manipulation is not a crime," said the toad. "Observing, testing, pushing each one to their limits… that is understanding the truth of their actions. And the truth has a price that many refuse to pay."
The night heron made an uncertain jump toward a rock.
— "And if all of this slips from your grasp? What if you lose yourself on this path?"
— "Nothing slips from my grasp," replied the toad, in a tone that left no room for discussion. "Even flight has its consequences, and every movement of the night heron reveals something to me about its nature."
The frog leapt forward again, determined.
— "You cannot control everything!"
— "No," said the toad. "I do not control everything. But I understand everything. Knowing how each one will react is enough for me."
The fish passed slowly, its eyes calm and deep.
— "Compassion and moderation… could they not guide you?"
— "Guided by what?" murmured the toad. "By rules invented to limit those who dare? The rules of gods, of Buddhas, of sages… nothing prevents me from understanding and acting according to what I can measure."
The cicada, tireless, continued its song.
— "Persevere… observe and endure…"
— "I persevere," said the toad. "But not by your words. I persevere according to what produces an effect, according to what I can understand and transform."
The devil appeared again, like an icy breath in the mist.
— "You have understood your price?"
— "The price is perceptible," replied the toad. "It is in every movement, every hesitation, every weakness. And I use it."
Then the toad extended his presence across the pond. The wind softly rustled the reeds, and the water reflected not his face, but the curve of his thoughts. He climbed onto his favourite lily pad — the one where he had been born, where his first great ideas had come to him… and perhaps his last. There, he recalled that understanding the nature of one's own heart depends neither on the sky nor on the earth: he who sees his own mind sees the void and everything at once.
He meditated — not to detach himself, but to understand the effect of every breath, every reflection of light, every movement of the reeds and the animals around him. As an old saying, twisted by those who know the way of demons, goes: "He who meditates for a hundred years may lick the finger of Buddha — but it is not the finger he tastes… it is the void behind the finger."
So whether it was him or another mattered little. Nothing has value unless it elevates the soul, unless it pushes the mind above its chains. Otherwise… the world, the sky, and the earth are nothing but mirrors without depth. What matters is not the object, but the way it allows the one who observes to truly see.
And the toad smiled faintly, aware that his solitude was not a burden, but an instrument. Power, reflection, freedom — none of these existed as possessions to be owned, but as a game, a chessboard where every breath, every movement, every thought became a piece… and he, silent and patient, was the invisible master.
And in that silence, the toad meditated:
"Power does not reside in what one obtains, but in what one understands. The chains of the world are invisible, but he who knows how to measure every reaction becomes master of his environment. Solitude is an ally, selfishness a weapon. Those who seek morality, justice, or good… understand nothing."
Even though much time had passed since the demon's last visit, it returned after sixty years of waiting and suffering for that toad.
The devil observed once more, floating in the distance, motionless like a shadow suspended between the sky and the pond.
— "You have changed," murmured the devil. "What you call mastery… may well be your own trap, old toad."
— "Perhaps," replied the toad, "but in every trap there is a lesson. And every lesson is an effect I choose to observe."
The pond, once a simple reflection of life and innocence, had become a chessboard. The animals, despite their fear, could not help but take part in this silent game — even though most of them had already left these waters for other ponds.
In this mastery, he understood something the devil had never said: the price is never what it appears to be. It is what one chooses to perceive, and what one transforms into strength.
The toad smiled, for the first time fully aware of his position: he was no longer a mere inhabitant of the pond. He had become the invisible, silent master. And every animal around him… every action, every hesitation, every choice… all of it already belonged to him, insofar as he knew how to observe and use it.
The pond was silent. Every ripple, every trembling reed seemed calculated, as if nature itself had learned to move according to the toad's rhythm. He advanced slowly, watching his rivals, his allies, his enemies, and even those who had never understood their own role. Everything was under his gaze — every breath an indicator, every gesture an effect to be measured.
The snail, trembling but persistent, finally dared to approach.
— "Why all this control, after so many years?" it murmured. "Why not simply… let us live freely?"
The toad looked at it slowly, with a glacial attention.
— "Live…" he repeated. "Life is an empty word. There are only consequences and effects. Even your acts of kindness mean nothing if they have no impact on me. Life is nothing but a chessboard where movements matter, not the heart."
The little panda shook his head, bitter realism in his eyes.
— "Why do you break everything around you?"
— "Breaking or building… all of it is an effect. If I build, it is to produce a result. If I break, it is to observe the reaction. Everything else is illusion."
The night heron stopped trying to escape into the air, but the toad followed it with his gaze — as if every shift, every tremor, every hesitation was inscribed in his mind before the movement had even begun.
— "You will never flee," he murmured. "Every action of yours reveals your essence. Even flight is predictable."
The frog leapt before him, anger and courage intertwined.
— "You chose this path, but you cannot force it on others!"
— "I force nothing," replied the toad. "I simply show the truth of their actions. The world does not judge — I have no need to judge."
The fish crossed the pond slowly, calm and unruffled.
— "Buddha teaches detachment…"
— "And yet," said the toad, "Buddha teaches detachment… but detachment prevents neither hunger, nor fear, nor pain. It does not protect from loss, nor from solitude, nor from the consequences of our choices. Even in renouncing the world, one remains prisoner of what comes to pass. To understand this is to see the way — but not to be blinded by the illusion of refuge."
The cicada, inexhaustible, continued its song.
— "Persevere… persevere… on the right path, the path of good, the path of justice!"
— "Yes," murmured the toad. "But persevere by my own rules — by what truly produces an effect, and not by your illusions. The path I choose is not drawn by ideals or by laws invented by others. It is measured by the consequences I create.
I seek neither Buddha's favour nor the approval of men. Every decision, every breath, every movement… is a step toward what I am becoming. And what I am becoming is tied to nothing external: neither to the sky, nor to the earth, nor to the whispers of the world. Only what I shape, here and now, matters.
Whether shadow guides me or light turns away, I care nothing for it. Everything is material to observe, to use, to transform. Solitude, power, sorrow… all of it becomes an instrument, a measure of my own strength. If the world calls that madness or tyranny, I accept it. For I live only for myself, and my actions alone define what I am.
Persevere… yes. But persevere on this path, with my choices, my mistakes, and my successes. All the rest… is nothing but a shifting backdrop, an empty reflection upon which I do not set my feet. And it is in that movement, in that silent and relentless calculation, that I finally find what truly belongs to me."
The devil reappeared, floating above the water like a silver mist. Its eyes gleamed, probing the toad's mind.
— "You have paid your price… or have you found a way around it?"
— "I observed," replied the toad. "I understood. The price is not what you thought. Every consequence, every suffering, every solitude you imposed… I have transformed them into understanding. Fear and pain no longer hold me."
The devil smiled, almost amused.
— "You have learned to manipulate the rules… but can you truly comprehend the power of the price?"
— "Yes," replied the toad. "I have not merely understood the price — I have integrated it. Every weakness I observe, every movement I anticipate… becomes an instrument. Solitude, oblivion, hunger… none of these are obstacles any longer. They are raw material."
All the animals of that pond were gone: the snail, the little panda, the night heron, the frog, the fish, the cicada… All had come to understand that the pond was no longer a refuge, but a chessboard where each one had revealed its true nature, beneath the toad's silent gaze.
The toad raised his eyes to the sky and murmured:
— "When I was young, I wanted to fly above the plains of this pond, then above the mountains, then into the heavens. But the world imposed choices upon me. Today, I choose my own path… the path you call demonic. I choose to observe, to understand, to measure, and to transform every effect into power."
The devil approached the lily pad, set its feet upon the water — now turned brown — and stared at him intently:
— "So you dare speak of power and of choice," it murmured, its voice sliding like a wind of ice across the dark surface of the pond. "You believe your path is your own… but every breath, every step, every desire you call freedom has been shaped by this world. Your chains are not visible, but they exist, weaving through every movement of your being."
The toad did not respond, his black eyes motionless, reflecting the infinite expanse of the sky.
— "You took what was offered to you," the devil continued, "you transformed my power into your own instrument… and you smile. But every instrument has a price. Every breath of life you believe you dominate will eventually remind you that the void is always there, behind the light you pursue."
The wind rose, setting the reeds swaying and turning the pond into a trembling mirror. The colours of the water blurred, shifting from brown to ink, as if reality itself hesitated to exist before their silent confrontation.
— "You think I come to claim your soul in order to punish you," the devil went on, its eyes blazing like cold embers, "but I come only to remind you of this: he who places himself above all things, who bends before neither fear, nor the sky, nor morality — that one must observe… and understand… that every power, every freedom, every victory is nothing if one cannot see the void that sustains it."
The toad remained motionless, a bubble of silence spreading around him, as if time itself held its breath.
— "Then look, old toad," breathed the devil, "look at what you have created and what you have become. You chose the path you call demonic — but you yourself traced it. And when the last stone of your empire falls, what will remain… if not your own reflection in the water of your pond?"
And in that silence, he smiled. He knew that nothing held any value — that morality, good, evil… were all mere conventions. The only thing that truly existed was effect.
The devil, in one last breath, burst into a mocking laugh — a laugh that seemed to defy the toad and the entire pond — then vanished into the air, carried off by the wind. The toad remained alone on the bank, the invisible master of the pond. And the last representative of that pond — once so prosperous that at its height it could rival a temple or a celebrated place visited by Buddha — now stood before a silent world.
For the toad, the path was clear: solitude, observation, power that imposes itself on nothing, selfishness that attaches itself to nothing. The rest was nothing but wind and rustling — fleeting waves on the pond of the world. In that silence, the water, the reeds, and the sky became a mirror of his own essence. The entire pond turned into a living tomb, and he — motionless on his lily pad — was transformed into stone, merging with the moment, with the place, with what is and what is not.
Forgotten by all, detached from every expectation, he remained there as water reflects the sky: without judgment, without desire, without pointless movement. Every breath, every reflection, every vibration of the pond was at once nothing and everything — and the toad understood that in the abandonment of illusions, in the acceptance of the void, true power resides. He was neither master nor slave, neither living nor dead; he was simply what he had chosen to be, in accord with the silent flow of the universe.
And in that silence, there was neither beginning nor end — only the calm of one who sees the invisible laws at work, who observes the world as it is, and who, at last, desires nothing more than that simple instant.
And thus ended the story of the toad, who sold his soul to understand the world, conquered the pond, and transformed the devil's debt into an instrument of his own power. The sky, the reeds, the water… all had become a chessboard, and he — the silent master — had become a statue of stone of his own accord, defying the heavens, immortal.
End of this episode.
Thank you for reading.