Li Yuan had been moving across the planet for what felt like an unmeasured amount of time. The days melted into weeks, the weeks into months. Maybe a year had passed, or maybe only a few months. In his state as a pure soul, keeping track of time was flexible and optional.
What mattered wasn't the duration but the experience. Not how long, but what he encountered. He had shifted through countless locations: vast deserts where the sand sang in the wind, jagged mountain ranges with peaks that pierced the clouds, dense forests with canopies that barely let in the light, bustling coastal cities filled with commerce and conversation, and quiet, remote villages with a slow, gentle rhythm.
But nothing had resonated. Nothing felt like the place where he should pause, remain, and begin the next phase of his long cultivation.
Until now.
Li Yuan shifted to a new location—a seamless, instant transition that defied physical logic—and immediately sensed a difference. This place was a valley. Not vast but not cramped. It was surrounded by gentle hills covered in lush, but not overgrown, vegetation. A small, clear stream flowed through the center, its water carrying a soothing sound.
But what made this place different wasn't its geography. It was the silence. Not the absence of sound, as there were sounds here—birds singing, water flowing, wind rustling through the leaves. But there was a quality to the quiet here that was profound, as if the world was holding its breath, as if the space itself was listening, present with complete attention.
This place, Li Yuan sensed with an immediate awareness, has a different resonance than anywhere else I've encountered.
He allowed his consciousness to expand within the twenty-meter radius of his universal Wenjing passive effect and sensed the landscape in depth. And then, he sensed a presence. Not an animal. Not the diffuse consciousness of plants or stones. But a human.
Li Yuan focused his awareness and pinpointed the location: under an old tree with branches that bowed over a narrow path winding through the valley. With gentle intention, he shifted his position, and for the first time since he released his body of consciousness on the ice continent, he decided to reform.
The process of forming a body of consciousness was familiar but never lost the sense of being significant, of being subtly miraculous. Li Yuan gathered the three necessary Comprehensions:
The Comprehension of Body, which provided the blueprint, defining what it means to have a human form and establishing the boundary between "this is me" and "this is the world."
The Comprehension of Existence, which provided the spiritual substance, making his presence not just an illusion but something real that could interact with material reality.
The Comprehension of Water, which provided the medium, bringing fluidity, grace, and the capacity to adapt.
He wove the three together with a precision born from thousands of years of practice, not with effort but with a knowing, a spiritual muscle memory. And in a seamless moment, his 水存之身 (Shuǐ Cún Zhī Shēn)—the Body of Water Existence—manifested.
Li Yuan opened his newly formed eyes, which saw with perfect clarity, and found himself standing on the narrow path, a few meters from the old tree. He felt his body of consciousness with a fresh awareness. The sensation of having a form after a period without one was always interesting, an adjustment that required recalibration. There was weight, minimal but present. Boundaries, defined but permeable. A presence that was visible, touchable, and real in a way a pure soul was not.
He took a breath—not a necessary action but a ritualistic, symbolic one—and began walking toward the tree.
As he approached, he saw a figure sitting with his back leaning against the trunk. It was a man. His age was difficult to determine—he could have been in his forties, fifties, or older. His face was weathered but not harsh, carrying the lines of a life lived but not bitterly. The most noticeable feature was a worn cloth that covered his eyes. He was blind.
Li Yuan stopped a few steps away, not wanting to startle or intrude. But before he could speak, before he even decided whether to speak, the man spoke first.
"Your steps are calm," he said without turning his head or moving to orient toward the sound. His voice was low and gentle, carrying the quality of someone comfortable with silence. "But your heart is still searching for direction."
Li Yuan stood still, surprised not by the fact that the man noticed his approach but by the accuracy of the observation. Your steps are calm—yes, Li Yuan walked with a grounded, deliberate posture born from sixteen thousand years of existence. But your heart is still searching for direction—that was also accurate. He was searching for an appropriate place, for the next phase, for... something he hadn't fully articulated even to himself.
"You can hear that?" Li Yuan asked, not with skepticism but with genuine curiosity.
The man smiled, a subtle but warm expression. "I can't see your steps," he said. "But I can hear their rhythm. And rhythm tells me a lot about the heart."
Li Yuan felt something shift within him—a subtle recognition that this was not an ordinary encounter, that this man, though he didn't emanate spiritual energy or demonstrate supernatural capabilities, had... something. A rare quality.
He took a few steps closer and sat on the ground, a few meters from the man—not too close to be intrusive, but not too far to be distant.
"I'm not searching for direction," Li Yuan said after a moment of reflection. "I'm looking for a place. A place to pause. To remain for a while."
The man nodded, a slow gesture that acknowledged the statement without judgment. "This valley," he said, "is a good place to pause. The world here is quiet. It gives you space to think. Or not to think, if that's what you need."
Li Yuan sensed the intent behind the words with his active Wenjing. There was no agenda. No manipulation. Just a simple genuineness born not of naivety but of a profound acceptance.
"I haven't introduced myself," Li Yuan said. "My name is Li Yuan."
"Chen Ming," the man responded. "Though names aren't too important here. Only a few people pass through this valley, and those who do usually don't stay long."
There was a pause, a comfortable silence that felt natural, not awkward. Then Chen Ming spoke again, in a curious but not prying tone.
"You... feel different," he said. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like... you carry a deeper quiet than the quiet of this valley."
Li Yuan felt surprise, not because the observation was wrong but because it was accurate in a way that shouldn't be possible for someone without spiritual cultivation.
He senses the depth of my consciousness, Li Yuan realized. Not with Wenjing or spiritual techniques, but with... intuition? A natural sensitivity?
"I have... traveled for a long time," Li Yuan said, choosing his words carefully. "I've seen many places. Experienced many things. Perhaps that's what you sense."
Chen Ming nodded again, accepting the explanation without pushing for details. "Travel is a good teacher," he said with disarming simplicity. "This world is vast. And every place has its own lesson." He paused, then continued. "I myself have never traveled far. I was born in a nearby village. I've lived here most of my life. But..." he gestured with a gentle hand toward his surroundings, "I don't feel like I'm missing anything. This valley is vast enough for a simple life."
Li Yuan felt something in his chest. Not a strong emotion, but a recognition, an awareness that this simple statement carried a wisdom he, with all his cultivation and understanding, sometimes forgot.
You don't need to travel to the ends of the world to find depth. Depth can be found anywhere if you're willing to pause and look.
They sat in silence for a long time. The birds continued singing. The stream continued flowing. The wind continued rustling through the leaves. And in that silence, Li Yuan felt something he didn't expect: peace. Not a peace he actively cultivated through meditation or through wrapping his Comprehensions or through controlling his environment. But a natural peace that emerged from simply being present in a quiet place with a person who was comfortable with the quiet.
This might be the place, Li Yuan thought with a gentle awareness. Not because it's special in a dramatic sense, but because it's appropriate. Because it provides what I need for the next phase: quiet, simplicity, and the presence of someone who, while not cultivating in a formal way, lives with an alignment that I'm still learning.
After an unmeasured amount of time, Chen Ming shifted position, a slow, careful movement that betrayed the fact that he was navigating the world without sight.
"I need to return home for a bit," he said. "There are vegetables that need watering. But if you'd like, you can remain here. Or if you're looking for a place to stay, there's an empty hut nearby. It's not fancy, but it keeps the rain out."
Li Yuan considered this. He didn't need shelter in the traditional sense; his body of consciousness didn't suffer from cold, wetness, or the discomfort of exposure. But having a physical space, a defined location, was grounding. It was a way to establish a presence within the community, to not just be passing through but to be part of the place's rhythm.
"Thank you," Li Yuan said with genuine sincerity. "I will... remain for a while. If it's not a bother."
Chen Ming smiled, a warm expression that was welcoming without being effusive. "Nothing is a bother in this valley," he said. "Only the quiet. And the quiet never minds an extra presence."
He stood—a slow but steady movement that revealed his familiarity with the terrain despite his lack of vision—and began walking in the direction Li Yuan sensed was toward a small village or settlement.
"I'll show you to the hut later," Chen Ming called back. "For now, feel free to explore. This valley welcomes those who are seeking peace."
And then he was gone, a figure receding into the distance, moving with a confidence born from years of navigating the same paths.
Li Yuan remained sitting under the tree for a long time. He sensed this place with his active Wenjing. He felt the resonance of the earth, the water, and the air. And he sensed a rightness. A feeling that the decision to pause here was appropriate, aligned with a timing he didn't fully understand but trusted.
One month, he decided. I will remain here for one month. Observing. Learning. Allowing whatever needs to happen to unfold. And then... we will see. Maybe this is the place to begin deepening the Comprehension of Body. Or maybe this is the place to learn something completely different. Either way, I'm here now. And now is what matters.
The wind blew, gentle and steady. The stream continued flowing, its sound constant and soothing.
And Li Yuan—sixteen thousand years old, with a complexity of Daojing incomprehensible to most beings, with power that could reshape the landscape if unleashed—sat under an old tree in a quiet valley. He had a newly formed body of consciousness and an open awareness, willing to learn from a blind man who spoke with a disarming simplicity but carried a depth that Li Yuan was only beginning to appreciate.
A meeting had occurred. A new journey had begun. And in the quiet of the valley that felt like the world was holding its breath, the cultivation continued. Not with drama. Not with spectacle. But with simple presence. A deliberate pause. An openness to wisdom that could come from the most unexpected of sources.
As always.
Depth after depth.
Without end.