Li Yuan floated at a depth of two thousand meters, existing in a strange liminality between the darkness that had been his home for thousands of years and the light that was beginning to call his soul back.
Here, in this transition zone, he felt something he had never experienced before—a deep and complex longing.
A longing for light, but also a nostalgia for the darkness.
"Why do I feel like I'm losing something as I approach what I want?" Li Yuan asked himself.
Through his Water Understanding in the Wenjing realm, he spoke with the water consciousness that had become his constant companion.
"You must experience this transition often," Li Yuan said to the water. "From the depths to the surface, from dark to light."
"Yes," the water replied in a tone full of understanding. "And every transition brings loss as well as gain. We lose the absolute stillness of the depths, but we gain the life and dynamism of the light."
"Do you feel sadness leaving the depths?"
"Sadness is a human word. We feel... change. Transformation. The part of us that has merged with the darkness must change to merge with the light. This is not easy, even though it is natural."
Li Yuan pondered those words. For four thousand years, he had been a creature of darkness. His consciousness had adapted to find beauty in the absence of light, to find meaning in absolute silence, to flourish in the most minimal of conditions.
Now, as the light began to touch his awareness, he felt a part of himself that was reluctant to change.
"Perhaps this is a different kind of test," Li Yuan mused. "Not a test of enduring hardship, but a test of letting go of comfort."
Four thousand years of meditation in the darkness had created a familiar rhythm and pattern. There was a comfort in the predictability of an unchanging environment. There was a peace in the absence of constant external stimulation.
But comfort could be a trap.
"Am I afraid to return to complexity?" Li Yuan asked himself with brutal honesty.
In the depths, his choices were simple. There were no distractions, no temptations, no complex moral conflicts. There was only him, his consciousness, and a pure internal exploration.
But true life—a life of full engagement with the world—requires navigating complexity, making difficult choices, facing ambiguity and uncertainty.
"Maybe I've become too comfortable with simplicity," Li Yuan admitted.
The realization brought a mild shame. As a cultivator who had sought an understanding of the Dao—which is inherently complex and paradoxical—had he become addicted to the simplicity of isolation?
"The Dao is not simple," Li Yuan reminded himself. "The Dao is a unity that contains all contradictions, all complexities, all possibilities. To truly understand the Dao, I must be willing to engage with the full spectrum of existence."
Li Yuan felt an internal shift as he accepted this truth. His resistance to a return to complexity began to dissolve.
"The darkness has taught me about stillness, about depth, about the power of internal exploration. Now the light will teach me about movement, about breadth, about the beauty of external engagement."
"Both are necessary. Both are valuable. Neither alone is complete."
With this acceptance, Li Yuan felt a different kind of peace from the peace in the darkness. This was an active peace rather than a passive one, a peace that embraced change rather than resisted it.
Li Yuan began to move upward again, but now with a different attitude. Not fleeing from the darkness, but carrying the lessons of the darkness into a new relationship with the light.
At a depth of one thousand eight hundred meters, Li Yuan stopped for a spontaneous ritual.
He closed his eyes and used his Memory Understanding to carefully catalog everything he had learned in the darkness. The profound tranquility. The ability to find meaning in minimal stimulation. The appreciation for subtle variations in an environment that appears unchanging. The skill in internal navigation without external reference points.
"I will not lose these gifts," Li Yuan committed. "I will integrate them with whatever I will discover in the light."
"The darkness within me will coexist with the light, not be replaced by the light."
This commitment felt important. Too often, spiritual progress is seen as abandoning earlier stages for later ones. But true wisdom may involve the integration of all stages, carrying the benefits of each into a more complete synthesis.
Li Yuan continued his ascent with a renewed resolve. He was not running from the darkness or rushing toward the light. He was moving with the intention of bringing the best of both realms into a unified understanding.
At a depth of one thousand six hundred meters, the light became strong enough for Li Yuan to see the first hints of color in the water. Not bright colors, but subtle shifts from pure monochrome toward hints of blue and green.
"Beautiful," Li Yuan whispered, but not with desperation or overwhelming emotion. With a calm and grounded appreciation.
He had prepared himself mentally and emotionally for this transition. Rather than shocking his system with a sudden change, he was approaching the light with mindfulness and intention.
"Integration rather than replacement," Li Yuan repeated to himself.
Li Yuan began to notice how the presence of light—even minimal amounts—changed his own internal state. Not dramatically, but subtly. There was a lightness in his consciousness that corresponded with the lightness in the environment.
But rather than losing the depth he had cultivated in the darkness, that depth seemed to become more accessible, more dynamic. It was as if the darkness had created a solid foundation, and now the light was adding richness and variety without compromising stability.
"This is how growth should feel," Li Yuan realized. "Additive rather than replacement. Expanding rather than abandoning."
At a depth of one thousand four hundred meters, Li Yuan encountered a school of fish that was clearly adapted for life in this transition zone. They were comfortable in a range of light conditions—capable of functioning in near-darkness but also able to take advantage of increased visibility when available.
"Adaptable," Li Yuan observed with respect. "They have learned to thrive in variability rather than requiring consistent conditions."
"Maybe that is a lesson for me too. Rather than seeking consistent conditions for spiritual development, maybe I should learn to thrive in the variability of conditions, to find stability within change itself."
This idea felt revolutionary for Li Yuan. So much of the spiritual cultivation tradition focused on creating optimal conditions for practice—quiet spaces, minimal distraction, consistent routines.
But real life was full of changing conditions. True spiritual maturity might require the ability to maintain depth and awareness regardless of external circumstances.
"A truly accomplished master should be able to meditate in a marketplace with the same depth as in a mountain cave," Li Yuan reflected.
With this insight, Li Yuan approached a depth of one thousand two hundred meters with excited anticipation for whatever challenges and opportunities awaited in zones with increased light and complexity.
The journey from darkness to light was revealing itself to be not an abandonment of one for the other, but an integration of both into a fuller understanding of what it means to be a conscious being capable of thriving in the full spectrum of existence.