Li Yuan walked for three days before he stopped to truly contemplate what had happened.
He found a spot by the edge of a small lake—the tranquil surface of the water reflecting the sky like a perfect mirror. He sat by the shore, letting the silence envelop him, allowing the thoughts he had held back during the conflict to finally flow freely.
I almost failed, he admitted to himself with brutal honesty. If I had been a few minutes late, if Torin or Kai had failed to bring their leaders, if Rekan had not dropped his weapon—blood could have been spilled. Children could have died.
And I would have been responsible for choosing not to act sooner, for choosing a philosophy of non-intervention over certain safety.
He stared at the reflection of his face on the water's surface—a face that appeared to be thirty years old but carried the weight of fifteen thousand years more. The face of a wanderer who had seen too much and was still walking.
But if I had acted sooner—if I had exposed Vareth and Karim early on, if I had forced a solution with spiritual power—would that have truly solved anything?
Or would it have only created dependence? Made both tribes believe that they needed an external force to solve their problems, rather than finding the strength within themselves?
Questions with no easy answers. A dilemma he had faced countless times on his long journey—when to intervene, when to step back, when wisdom meant action and when it meant patience.
The wind blew gently across the lake's surface, creating small ripples that disturbed the reflection. And in those ripples, Li Yuan saw something that made him smile softly.
Water doesn't fight the ripples. It accepts them, flows with them, and eventually returns to stillness. Perhaps that is the answer—not perfection in every decision, but the flexibility to adapt, to learn, to accept that sometimes the best path is only visible after it has been walked.
On the fifth day after leaving the Kael and Valen territories, Li Yuan met another traveler on the road—an old merchant with a cart full of fabrics and spices.
They shared a fire in the evening, and the merchant—who had no idea who Li Yuan truly was—spoke of the news he had heard on his travels.
"There's a strange story from the north," the merchant said while stirring his soup over the fire. "About two tribes that were on the brink of war but somehow found peace at the last minute. People say there was a mysterious wanderer involved—someone who could see the truth behind the lies."
When the merchant said this, he looked at Li Yuan with curious eyes—searching for a sign that he might be talking to the same wanderer.
But Li Yuan only smiled softly. "Stories often grow in the retelling. I'm sure the truth is simpler—just people who chose to listen to each other instead of letting fear control them."
The merchant stared at him for a moment longer, then laughed. "Maybe you're right. But people like stories about mysterious heroes. Makes the world feel a little safer, you know?"
A hero, Li Yuan mused after the merchant fell asleep and he sat alone, gazing at the stars. I'm no hero. Just an observer who sometimes can't help but intervene. Just someone who has lived long enough to see the patterns and sometimes—just sometimes—is wise enough to find a way to break them without creating greater damage.
Two weeks after leaving Kael and Valen, Li Yuan entered a different region—a more fertile plain with larger settlements, with signs of a more complex civilization. Better roads, more merchants, even guard posts that indicated some form of centralized government.
He wasn't in a hurry. Not looking for a new conflict or a community in need of intervention. Just walking, observing, letting the world show him what he needed to see.
And as he walked, he reflected on the lessons from his time with the two tribes—about what he had learned not only about them, but about himself.
I still believe in non-intervention as a principle, he concluded with calm clarity. But I also understand that a principle without flexibility is rigidity. And rigidity—as Kael showed—makes things brittle.
Sometimes, intervention is compassion. Sometimes, letting something unfold without help is cruelty disguised behind a beautiful philosophy.
The key is knowing the difference. And that—that requires not only wisdom but also the courage to admit when I am wrong, when principle must bend in the face of reality.
He stopped at the side of the road and looked out at the horizon—at the distant mountains, at the vast sky, at a world that continued to turn with or without his intervention.
Fifteen thousand years, he mused with something akin to self-awe. And I'm still learning. Still making mistakes. Still finding new nuances in questions I thought I had answered centuries ago.
Perhaps that is the hidden blessing of a long life—not that I become perfect or all-knowing, but that I have enough time to make mistakes, to learn from them, to try again with a slightly deeper understanding.
And maybe—just maybe—that's enough.
That night, Li Yuan found a place to rest under a large tree with wide-spreading branches. He didn't sleep—never truly needed to—but he closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to flow inward, into his Zhenjing.
That inner world—the spiritual landscape he had cultivated for thousands of years—welcomed him with familiar stillness. At its center, the Comprehension of Water flowed calmly. Around it, the seventeen other Ganjing comprehensions stood like pillars wrapped carefully by the Comprehension of Wrapping.
And in a far corner, something new was beginning to grow.
Not the yet-unnamed comprehension he had felt growing over the past year—that was still there, still slowly maturing. But something different. Something born from the experience with Kael and Valen.
Li Yuan approached carefully, feeling its vibration, listening to what it was trying to say.
It was about... choice. About the moment when paths diverge and a decision must be made with no certainty about the outcome. About the courage to act despite the fear of being wrong. About the responsibility that comes with the power to influence the lives of others.
The Comprehension of Choice? Li Yuan pondered. Or perhaps something more specific—the Comprehension of Intervention? The Comprehension of Courage?
The name was not yet clear. The comprehension itself was still too young, too fragile to be forced into a definite form.
But it was there. A seed planted by experience, watered by reflection, which would grow in its own time.
Li Yuan smiled gently and retreated, allowing the seed to rest in the fertile darkness of his Zhenjing.
No rush, he reminded himself. True comprehension cannot be forced. It can only be invited, nurtured, and waited upon until it is ready to bloom.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the night sky—countless stars shining with a light that had traveled for thousands of years to reach his eyes.
Just like me, he mused with something akin to peace. A light that travels a long way. Not knowing if it will arrive at something meaningful, but shining all the same. Because that is its nature. Because it is the only thing it can do.
Shine. Walk. Observe. Sometimes intervene. Sometimes retreat. Always learn.
Forever.
Dawn came with a soft light, and Li Yuan stood, stretching his consciousness in a ritual that was more about mental transition than physical necessity.
It was time to continue the journey.
There was still a vast world out there. There were still communities that might need a mirror, mediation, or just the presence of someone who listens without judgment. There were still lessons to be learned, comprehensions to be found, mistakes to be made and corrected.
And Li Yuan—the wanderer, the cultivator, the observer, the occasional intervener—would continue to walk.
One step at a time.
One community at a time.
One choice at a time.
Forever learning.
Forever growing.
Forever walking the endless path called Daojing—the path of understanding, the path that does not seek to conquer but to comprehend, the path that does not force but flows.
The path of water that erodes rock not with violence, but with endless patience.
And somewhere—in this vast region, filled with different races and nations, diverse languages and cultures—there would be another story waiting to unfold.
But for now, Li Yuan walked in the morning stillness, surrounded by the light of dawn and the song of birds, carrying with him the memory of two tribes that had almost destroyed themselves but found a way back from the brink.
And that—for now—was enough.