"This world does not wait for you to become strong. It only waits for you to be silent."
The last words of the old wandering master.
The sky looked like a wound yet to heal.
Reddish-purple, burned by the never-ending roar of Qi. The wind hissed through sharp stones, carrying the remnants of war cries from not long ago. Beneath that restless sky, a man walked slowly, one hand gripping a wooden staff, the other holding an old sack on his back.
His name was Heng Zhen.
Not a warrior. Not a leader.
He was just he said "someone who doesn't know where to go."
He once came from a small northern tribe, the Gu tribe, the makers of medicine, healers of wounds, and breath watchers. But his tribe was no more, burned by another tribe that had fallen into the madness of Chaosqi. Purple flames burned the night, and the healers could not save anyone when the body was destroyed not by wounds, but by Qi raging from within.
Heng Zhen survived, but not with power. He survived because no one considered him important. He held no weapon, did not know how to slash, and could not shout like other warriors.
But he remembered everything. Too clearly. Too calmly.
Five years had passed since that destruction.
Now he wandered from ruin to ruin, trying to help whoever was alive. But the further he walked, the more he saw a deep truth:
Chaos cannot be stopped by strength.
Chaosqi ran rampant, piercing the sky, seeping into blood. Tribes turned into hunters, and Heng Zhen's medicines only prolonged suffering. Every time he soothed one body, ten others were crushed by the storm.
Then, one night, Heng Zhen stood on a red rock peak, facing a vast empty valley.
He exhaled.
"Walking brings no answers."
"Fighting does not either."
"Maybe… it's time to stop."
He climbed down the rock, tracing a crevice untouched by any creature.
The sky above him was silent. The air grew heavy, but not oppressive.
He arrived at a narrow, quiet valley: no wind, no Qi sounds, just pale earth and still water. No life, but no death either. Silence.
He stuck his wooden staff into the ground. Removed his medicine sack.
Then sat down.
Back straight. Breath slow.
Not to meditate.
Not to fight.
Not to gain power.
Just… to be still.
"If I cannot save the world," he said softly, "then at least I will not add to its wounds."
Time passed. Days unknown. Years unknown.
The sky did not speak. The earth did not move.
But one thing began to change: in that stillness, Heng Zhen started to feel... a rhythm.
Not a sound, not a whisper. But a gentle vibration that did not force itself.
Like a breath not coming from him, but from the world itself.
And from the deepest point within his body,
something began to glow.
Not burning. Not exploding. But… flowing.
Qi, but not like the Qi he knew.
It did not tear, did not push, did not roar.
It simply was. Warming. Soothing.
That was the first Yuanqi.
Qi born not from desire, but from acceptance.
The cloudy sky stopped changing colors for the first time.
The earth no longer trembled.
And a wild beast, which usually howled at night, simply sat at a distance… silently.
In that unnamed valley,
the first human who did not chase power
had found the first Qi that did not destroy.
"The world only needs one person who truly does not resist,
for Qi to stop attacking."
Whispers of Yuanqi, Book of Dew, Word 1