The fifth week on the ice continent brought Li Yuan to a reflection on Ganjing—the first realm of his Daojing, the foundation of all he had cultivated since the first day he felt the flow of a river in a way deeper than just seeing.
He sat on the edge of a deep fissure, his legs dangling into the depths, gazing at the layers of ice stacked on the opposite wall.
And he remembered.
"Ganjing," he mused. "感境—Gan means to feel, to be touched, to vibrate. Jing means an inner landscape or a state of consciousness."
"The realm where the inner self begins to feel the subtle resonance of the world—not with the mind, not with the senses, but with pure consciousness."
He recalled the moment when Ganjing first opened to him—still a child, sitting by the river in Ziran Village, staring at the flowing water.
The world was still the same world. The river was still the same river. But suddenly, it began to feel different.
He didn't just see the water flowing. He felt something behind that flow—a rhythm, a vibration, an intention he couldn't explain but knew was there.
"That was Ganjing," he realized now with the clarity that came from fifteen thousand years of understanding. "The initial awareness of the Dao. The awareness that all things—the wind, the water, the stone, even the silence—have a resonance, have a 'voice' that isn't heard by the ear but can be felt by the inner self."
"In Ganjing, I didn't know what I was feeling. I just knew that the world was 'speaking' through feeling."
He looked at the ice around him now—a landscape very different from his childhood river, but one that spoke the same language.
The ice had a resonance. It had a vibration. It had an intention—not a conscious intention like a human's, but an intention in a natural sense: a tendency to store, to maintain structure, to reflect rather than absorb.
And in Ganjing, Li Yuan could feel that. Not with an analyzing mind or with seeing eyes, but with a pure consciousness that resonated with the resonance of the ice itself.
"Ganjing is a universal passive inner sense," he mused. "Like a radar that is always on, that feels the vibration of the Dao in everything."
"In this realm, emotions become clearer but also deeper. I can still feel sadness, fear, or peace, but every emotion feels connected to something bigger. Every emotion has a 'Dao vibration' behind it."
He recalled the fear he felt on the battlefield thousands of years ago—not just a personal fear but a fear that resonated with the Dao itself, which became the Understanding of Fear.
He recalled the loss he felt when his loved ones died—not just a personal sorrow but a loss that resonated with the universal cycle of existence and non-existence, which became the Understanding of Loss.
"All my Understandings were born from Ganjing," he realized. "Without the ability to feel the resonance of the Dao, there would be nothing to understand. Ganjing is the foundation—the realm where true cultivation begins."
Li Yuan stood and walked through the icy landscape, letting his Ganjing feel this place with full depth.
In Ganjing, he didn't just feel the cold or see the white. He felt... the quality of the ice itself. Its essence. The way it resonated with the Dao.
The ice in this area—very old, very dense—resonated with stability, with preservation, with a desire to maintain what has been. A steady, unchanging vibration, like a constant bass note beneath all other melodies.
The ice in another area—younger, with many air bubbles—resonated with a stored story, with a memory waiting to be read. A more complex vibration, with many layers, like a chord with many notes.
The cracked ice—which had undergone too much pressure—resonated with trauma, with the moment when the structure almost failed but endured. A disjointed vibration, like a rhythm that has lost a beat.
"All of this I feel through Ganjing," he mused. "Not by analyzing or by thinking. Just by letting pure consciousness resonate with the resonance of the world."
He stopped in an area where the wind blew through ice formations, creating a subtle sound—almost like music.
And in Ganjing, he felt more than just the sound.
He felt the intention of the wind—not a conscious intention but the natural tendency to move from high to low pressure, to carry ice crystals, to carve beautiful formations through slow but constant erosion.
He felt the intention of the ice—to endure, to maintain its structure even as the wind tried to change it, to store memory even when the surface was eroded.
And he felt the harmony between them—a conflict that created beauty, a slow battle that had lasted thousands of years but which had no winner or loser, only eternal transformation.
"This is what Ganjing teaches," he realized. "That everything has a resonance. That everything resonates with the Dao. And that by feeling that resonance, I can begin to understand—not with my head but with my entire being."
That afternoon, Li Yuan returned to the seal colony he had visited several times.
They were used to his presence—no longer wary, just indifferent in a way that showed acceptance.
He sat at a safe distance and let his Ganjing feel them.
In this realm, he didn't just see creatures lying on the ice or playing in the water. He felt the resonance of their lives.
The sleeping seals—resonating with contentment, with deep rest, with trust in the community's safety.
The playing seals—resonating with simple joy, with energy that needed to be released, with social bonds that were strengthened through interaction.
The hunting seals—resonating with intense focus, with full awareness of the present moment, with instinct honed by thousands of generations of evolution.
"All these resonances I feel without them doing anything," Li Yuan observed. "This is the nature of Ganjing—it is passive yet active. I don't do something to feel; I just open my consciousness and the resonance comes."
One of the seals—a young one that had approached him last week—raised its head and looked at Li Yuan.
And in Ganjing, Li Yuan felt the resonance of this creature with perfect clarity.
Curiosity. An absence of fear. An awareness that Li Yuan was different but not dangerous. And something else—a kind of... recognition. As if this creature felt that Li Yuan also felt, that there was a connection that transcended species.
"They feel my tranquility," Li Yuan realized. "Not because I am doing anything but because my Ganjing—which has been cultivated for fifteen thousand years—emits a resonance that they can feel on an instinctive level."
"Animals and humans can feel my tranquility without me doing anything. That is the passive effect of a mature Ganjing."
The seal turned and returned to its activity, satisfied with what it had felt.
And Li Yuan smiled slightly—an awareness that even here, at the edge of the world, a fundamental connection still occurred. A connection through resonance, through the vibration of the Dao shared by all living things.
That night, Li Yuan sat in the ice crevice that was his shelter and opened his journal.
He wrote with a trace of spiritual energy:
Today I reflected on Ganjing—the first realm, the foundation of all cultivation.
感境—the state where the inner self begins to feel the subtle resonance of the world, not with the mind or senses, but with pure consciousness.
Ganjing is a universal passive inner sense. Like a radar that is always on, that feels the vibration of the Dao in everything.
In Ganjing, I don't know what I'm feeling—I just know that the world 'speaks' through feeling. The river has a resonance. The ice has a resonance. The wind, the animals, even the silence—all have a vibration that can be felt.
All my Understandings were born from Ganjing. Water, Silence, Fear, Loss, Soul—all began with the ability to feel the resonance of the Dao behind the phenomena.
Without Ganjing, there is no Wenjing. Without feeling, there is no hearing. The first realm is the absolute foundation.
Here, on the ice continent, my Ganjing feels something new. The resonance of the three phases—solid, liquid, gas. Ice that stores, water that carries, vapor that scatters. The three breaths of the same essence.
And by feeling that rhythm—not by analyzing but by letting consciousness resonate with it—I am beginning to understand something more fundamental than I ever understood before.
The upcoming cultivation will focus on this. On understanding the three breaths not just intellectually but by feeling their deepest resonance.
Ganjing as the foundation. Wenjing as the evolution. But without the foundation, nothing can be built.
He closed the journal and looked at the sky that was never truly dark.
"How much longer until I am ready for the deep meditation?" he asked himself.
"Maybe two weeks. Maybe a month. I will know when my Ganjing feels that the time is right."
"There is no hurry. Cultivation cannot be forced. It can only be facilitated by creating the right conditions and then allowing the resonance to happen naturally."
The wind blew, carrying ice crystals.
And Li Yuan sat in the silence, letting his Ganjing feel that silence—not as an absence but as a presence, as an active resonance, as the vibration of the Dao that spoke in a language that needed no words.
A language he had learned to feel since the first day by the river fifteen thousand years ago.
A language that never stopped teaching new lessons.
If one is willing to feel.