In the timeless depths, Li Yuan let his mind flow like a river finding its way back after a long-standing dam had broken.
Thirty years.
The number echoed in his consciousness. Thirty years as a human being first. Before his physical body was destroyed. Before he became a pure soul.
He remembered the faces from that time. The small village at the foot of the mountains. The people who saw him as a strange child who stared at the empty sky for too long. Who sat by the river for hours doing nothing.
"What do you see there, Yuan-er?" an elder once asked, with eyes full of curiosity.
"I don't know," he answered at the time with a child's honesty. "But there is something I want to understand."
Something. Not someone. Not a power. Just... something.
One hundred eighty years.
After his physical body was destroyed—not by age, but by a comprehension too profound to be supported by flesh and bone—Li Yuan spent his time as a pure soul.
In that state, he had no form. No breath. No heartbeat. All that existed was a consciousness floating in a meaningful void.
It was there that he first understood that existence does not depend on a body. That consciousness is something more fundamental than matter.
"If I don't have a body, why do I still exist?"
The question echoed for decades in the void. And the answer came not as words, but as a direct understanding that touched the core of his consciousness:
Because "to exist" does not require form.
Two hundred ten years.
When he decided to return, Li Yuan did not seek a new physical body. He formed it from understanding. A body of consciousness—something that looked and felt like flesh, but was actually made of manifested meaning.
Li Qingshan. The name he chose when he descended to Hexin village. Green Mountain. A simple name for a not-so-simple existence.
Another thirty years as a human. Teaching children. Tending to the sick. Listening to the complaints of the elders. Living like an ordinary human, even though the soul within him contained an understanding that surpassed everything that had ever existed in the world.
Why did I choose to return?
The answer was still warm in his memory. Because understanding without compassion is empty. Because wisdom without human connection is cold. Because he needed to learn what it means to be human to understand what it means to transcend humanity.
The Eldest Breath.
The understanding that changed everything. The understanding that made his fifteen other comprehensions merge into one harmonious cosmic resonance.
Li Yuan remembered the moment he achieved it. After formulating the fundamental laws and rules of the Daojing. After understanding that true cultivation is not about adding, but about realizing what already exists.
The Eldest Breath was not about breathing. It was about the first vibration that created everything. The primordial rhythm that underlies all existence.
And when he understood it...
Six thousand years.
The time spent in the Ganjing realm, deepening the resonance with that cosmic vibration. Six thousand years that felt like a blink of an eye and at the same time like an eternity.
In that meditation, Li Yuan did not just understand the Eldest Breath—he became part of that vibration. A note in the cosmic symphony that never stops playing.
And then I opened my eyes.
The memory came with a painful clarity. His fifteen comprehensions—all except the Eldest Breath and the Soul Comprehension—broke free from his control and enveloped the entire world.
Five seconds. Just five seconds.
But in those five seconds, every living creature in the world was touched by the resonance of his understanding. Water that taught flexibility. Silence that gave peace. Doubt that opened the mind. The sky that showed boundless freedom.
That resonance was so profound that it changed the souls it touched. Not physically, but spiritually. Giving them a potential for cultivation that had not existed before.
And I realized my mistake too late.
In a panic, Li Yuan wrapped his comprehensions back with the Comprehension of Wrapping. But it was too late. The seeds had already been sown.
Four thousand years in silence.
After realizing what he had done, Li Yuan closed himself off from the world. Not seeing. Not hearing. Not feeling. Just sinking into absolute silence.
In that silence, he tried to understand the consequences of his actions. Trying to accept responsibility for the change he had begun in the world.
Ten thousand years.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed. And even more surprisingly—the resonance of his comprehension was still there. Still affecting the souls in the world. Not just for five seconds, but for five thousand years.
Because the Eldest Breath is a vibration that knows no time. Once released, it becomes part of the cosmic rhythm itself.
Millions of souls.
Humans who suddenly had strange dreams about flowing water. Animals that began to behave with unnatural wisdom. Plants that grew in patterns reflecting cosmic harmony. Even rivers and mountains that began to have their own souls.
All because they were touched by his resonance.
And I was responsible for all of it.
Li Yuan remembered the weight that gripped his soul when he realized that. Five million souls that were affected. That were changed by his actions. That might never be able to live a normal life again.
The Sea of Souls.
To contain his responsibility, Li Yuan expanded his Zhenjing. Creating a spiritual space as vast as an ocean to store and protect the souls that had been touched by his resonance.
The Sea of Souls was not a prison. It was a sanctuary. A place where those souls could exist in harmony, protected from the chaos of the outside world that might not be ready to accept their change.
The Universal Consciousness.
Occasionally, from the harmony of those millions of souls, a collective consciousness emerged. Like a child born from the meeting of different souls but with the same resonance.
"Who am I?" that consciousness asked in a voice that was a combination of millions of voices.
"You are what is born when various souls learn to sing with the same harmony," Li Yuan replied.
"And who are you?"
The question silenced Li Yuan. Was he still Li Yuan? Or had he become something else—a vessel for millions of souls, an anchor for cosmic resonance?
Yuan. Root. Source.
The meaning of his name finally became clear. He was not the destination. He was the beginning. The foundation from which others grow.
A thousand years of cultivation.
After completing the gathering of those souls, Li Yuan spent a thousand years to understand his new position. No longer a single individual, but an existence that carried cosmic responsibility.
In that period, he learned how to be a foundation without losing his identity. How to be a source without being depleted. How to love millions of souls without losing the ability to love an individual.
And then I descended again.
Eleven thousand three hundred years. That was his age when he decided to return to the world as a human.
Millbrook Village. Thomas and Anna. Marcus and Elena. Sweet Lila with eyes as blue as the morning sky.
Four years with them. Four years where he learned again what it means to be a human who loves and is loved. Who worries about small things and is happy because of simple things.
Eleven thousand three hundred four years.
That is his age now. At the bottom of the dark sea, with a soul that is cracked but beginning to heal.
Of those eleven thousand years, less than a hundred were spent as a human. The rest... cultivation. Comprehension. Cosmic responsibility.
But those last four years...
Four years as part of a small family in a remote village. Four years where he didn't have to think about cosmic resonance or millions of souls or responsibility to the world.
Four years where he only needed to think about whether Lila had eaten well, whether Anna was happy, whether Thomas could sleep soundly after a long day.
The most precious four years of the long eleven thousand years.
Li Yuan felt a warmth spreading in his soul. The cracks in his Zhenjing were not gone—but they began to glow with a golden light, like kintsugi that turns damage into beauty.
He still carried millions of souls in his Sea of Souls. Still had an inescapable cosmic responsibility. Still was a singular anomaly in a world that did not understand cultivation.
But now he also understood why all of that was important.
Not because of power. Not because of spiritual achievement. But because of love. Because of connection. Because of the simple moments where a cosmic existence met a warm humanity.
I am Li Yuan, he thought with a newfound serenity. Eleven thousand three hundred four years old. Carrying millions of souls. Understanding seventeen aspects of the Dao. And still someone who can cry from loss and smile from a beautiful memory.
His inner self had recovered. Not returning to its original state—but recovering in a deeper way. Like a broken bone that heals stronger at the fracture point.
Li Yuan began to move in the dark seawater. His body of consciousness, although still fragile, was stable enough to rise.
He did not know where he would go. Did not know what he would do with a deepening understanding of himself.
He only knew one thing: he would continue to walk. Carrying love and loss, responsibility and freedom, humanity and transcendence—all at once.
Because that is the meaning of being Li Yuan. The root from which everything grows. The source that never runs dry. The beginning that never ends.