Li Yuan's third day in the valley begins with a subtle yet significant observation. He sits under the old tree, watching—or more accurately, sensing with an awareness that expands in a twenty-meter radius—Chen Ming as he walks from his home to the vegetable plot.
Every step is calculated. Every movement of his feet is deliberate, a test of the ground before he fully commits his weight. Chen Ming's left hand extends slightly to the side, his fingertips occasionally brushing against a tree trunk or a fence post for orientation. His right hand sweeps in a subtle arc in front of him, checking for unexpected obstacles. It is efficient and practiced, but also… taxing. It requires a constant concentration that doesn't allow for relaxation or distraction.
He's navigating the world without assistance, Li Yuan observes. Without tools. Only the memory of the path and the sensitivity of touch.
It's impressive, but also… unnecessarily difficult.
When Chen Ming arrives at the plot and kneels to begin watering, Li Yuan stands and starts walking—not toward Chen Ming, but toward the edge of the valley, to an area where he senses a cluster of bamboo growing in a good density. He finds a suitable stalk—mature but not too old, straight but with slight flexibility, and about three centimeters in diameter.
With focused intention, Li Yuan extends his awareness and activates the Comprehension of Water, which he had kept wrapped during his travels. He doesn't unleash it completely; he uses a precise, controlled application. The water within the bamboo, which flows through its internal structure to provide nutrients and maintain cell integrity, responds to his resonance. Li Yuan guides the moisture to concentrate at the base of that particular stalk, saturating its connection to the roots until the fibers weaken with exact precision. Then, with a gentle but firm movement, he twists and pulls. The bamboo separates from the root with a clean break and minimal resistance. He doesn't cut. He doesn't force. He simply allows the separation to happen in a natural way that isn't traumatic for the remaining plant.
Thank you, he whispers—not with his voice, but with a spiritual resonance that the bamboo doesn't understand consciously but acknowledges in a way deeper than words.
Li Yuan carries the bamboo back to the area under the tree. He sits down and begins to work with complete focus.
First: smoothing the surface. He runs his hands along the length, feeling for splinters or rough patches, for sharp nodes or irregularities that could cause discomfort. Where the surface isn't smooth, he activates the Comprehension of Water again—a subtle application that allows the moisture to slightly soften the problematic fibers, making them easier to shape. He has no knife and doesn't need one. With precise control over the water content within the bamboo and gentle manipulation of its cellular structure, he reshapes the surface with a patience born of sixteen thousand years. The prominent nodes become flush. The small splinters dissolve. The rough texture becomes smooth with an organic gradation.
Second: adjusting the length. He estimates Chen Ming's height—approximately one meter sixty-five centimeters, maybe a little less—and determines the appropriate length for a walking stick. About one meter twenty. High enough to provide support without requiring Chen Ming to stoop. Low enough to not be awkward when navigating uneven terrain. He applies the same technique: concentrating moisture at a specific point, weakening the fibers with precision, then making a clean break that leaves a smooth end.
Third: the grip. The top of the stick needs to be comfortable for the palm, with a texture that provides friction without being rough. Li Yuan spends a considerable amount of time on this—gently reshaping the diameter to fit comfortably in an average hand, creating a slight taper that makes the grip natural, and ensuring the surface has just the right amount of resistance. He doesn't rush. He doesn't settle for "good enough." This is a gift, and a gift deserves care and attention to the details that make the difference between something functional and something truly comfortable.
Fourth: stability. The bottom of the stick needs to be durable and provide traction without being sharp or unstable. Li Yuan slightly flattens the end, creating a broader surface that distributes weight and is less likely to slip on a wet stone or sink too deep into mud.
The entire process takes about two hours. When he's finished, he holds the stick and examines it with complete awareness. It's straight, smooth, and balanced in weight. Its grip is comfortable, and its construction is durable. It isn't the work of a master craftsman, but it is a work born from an understanding of the material, its purpose, and the person who will use it.
This will do, Li Yuan decides with quiet satisfaction.
Chen Ming has finished watering and is now sitting under the tree in his familiar position, his face turned slightly toward the sun, which provides warmth without the brightness he can't perceive. Li Yuan approaches with footsteps that Chen Ming immediately recognizes.
"Li Yuan," Chen Ming greets him without turning. "You were busy this morning. I heard you were gone for a long time."
"Yes," Li Yuan confirms, and he extends the stick forward. Chen Ming doesn't see the movement, but he senses it from a shift in air pressure, from the subtle sound of the bamboo cutting through space.
"What is that?" Chen Ming asks, his tone curious.
"A staff," Li Yuan says simply. "For walking. I noticed you navigate without assistance. I thought this might make it easier."
Chen Ming feels something in his chest—a surprise mixed with a more complex emotion. He extends his hand with subtle hesitation, and Li Yuan places the stick in his palm. Chen Ming closes his fingers around the grip and immediately notices the fit. The diameter is perfect for his hand. The texture is smooth but provides friction. The weight is balanced, not too heavy to tire his arm, not too light to lack substance. He runs his hand along the length, feeling the surface, the flush nodes, and the carefully shaped end.
"This is... very smooth," he says, his tone betraying his surprise. "How did you...?"
"Patience," Li Yuan says with gentle humor. "And attention to detail."
Chen Ming continues to examine the stick with his touch, his mind processing the quality of the work.
This wasn't made in a hurry. It isn't just functional. It was crafted with genuine care.
He feels a rising emotion: gratitude mixed with something else, something uncomfortable. "I had a staff once," he says in a quiet voice. "A few months ago. But... the children took it. As a prank, I suppose. They didn't return it." He pauses, then continues in a tone that tries to be light but carries weight. "I decided not to make a new one. I thought... I know the path well enough. I don't need a crutch."
"A staff isn't a crutch," Li Yuan says with a gentle firmness. "A staff is a tool. Using a tool isn't a sign of weakness. It's a sign of wisdom, recognizing that an aid can make life easier without diminishing your capability."
Chen Ming is silent for a moment, absorbing the words. Then he stands, a slow movement, and holds the stick with a proper grip. He takes a step. Then another. The stick taps the ground ahead, providing information about the terrain, stability, and a confidence that allows for a slightly more relaxed, less taxing movement. He walks in a small circle, testing it, adjusting his grip, and feeling how the stick interacts with different surfaces. Slowly, his expression shifts. It isn't a broad smile, but a relaxation of a tension he wasn't fully aware he was carrying. A subtle but real ease.
"This is… good," he says, and Li Yuan recognizes the genuine appreciation in his voice. "Very good. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Li Yuan responds with a simplicity that matches Chen Ming's.
Chen Ming returns to his sitting position, but now the stick rests beside him, within easy reach, present as an option rather than a necessity, but available nonetheless. They sit in silence for a few minutes. And then Chen Ming speaks in a thoughtful tone.
"You have an unusual skill," he observes. "This bamboo is so smooth. The nodes, which are usually sharp or rough, are flush. I don't know how someone could achieve that without sophisticated tools."
Li Yuan carefully considers his response. He doesn't want to lie, but he also doesn't want to reveal the complexity of what he is or the capabilities he possesses. "I have learned a few techniques during my travels," he says, choosing words that are truthful but vague. "Ways to work with materials that require more patience than force."
Chen Ming nods, accepting the explanation without pushing for details.
"Patience," he repeats with a tone that carries approval. "That is a rare quality. Most people want instant results. They aren't willing to spend the time to do things right." He pauses, then continues with a gentle reflection. "I learned patience out of necessity. When you can't see, you can't rush. Every action needs to be deliberate. Every movement needs to be considered."
"But," he adds with thoughtfulness, "I'm not sure if it's true patience or just... adaptation. Forced patience versus chosen patience."
Li Yuan feels the depth of this statement—a recognition that Chen Ming is reflecting not just on his immediate situation but on a broader question about virtue and circumstance.
"Perhaps," Li Yuan offers gently, "forced patience, if embraced with acceptance rather than resentment, becomes true patience. The origin of patience may matter less than how it is lived."
Chen Ming is silent, absorbing the words. Then he makes a soft sound, almost a laugh but more of an acknowledgment, a recognition of the truth in the statement. "You speak like someone who has thought deeply about these things," he says.
"I've had a lot of time to think," Li Yuan responds with simple honesty.
They return to silence, but this silence is different from before. There's a deepening layer of understanding, a strengthening connection through this exchange. Chen Ming now has a staff, a practical but symbolic gift that represents care, attention, and a willingness to ease a burden he didn't ask to be relieved of.
And Li Yuan has witnessed his response: genuine gratitude, thoughtful reflection, and wisdom that emerges from considering not just the gift but the meaning behind the gesture.
That evening, as Chen Ming prepares to return home, he picks up the stick with a deliberate movement.
"I will use this tomorrow," he says. "When I walk to the plot. I want to see—or feel, more accurately—how it changes the experience."
"Good," Li Yuan says with quiet approval.
Chen Ming begins walking, and for the first time, he uses the stick with full intention. Tap. Step. Tap. Step. A rhythm is established, providing information, stability, and confidence. The path he knows with perfect familiarity becomes slightly easier to navigate. Not because the path changed, but because his method of navigation has expanded.
Li Yuan watches—or senses, with his active Wenjing radius—and he feels a profound satisfaction. Not from an ego-driven accomplishment, but from having contributed something meaningful that improves the quality of life for a person who deserves ease.
A simple gift, he reflects. A staff made of bamboo. Not elaborate. Not magical. Just functional and comfortable.
But sometimes the most meaningful gifts are the ones that address an immediate, practical need.
Chen Ming didn't need a cultivation technique, or spiritual insight, or a demonstration of power.
He needed a staff. And now he has one.
Sometimes wisdom isn't about profound revelations but about simple actions born of attention and care.
The sun begins to set—or more accurately, the light begins to dim in a way Li Yuan senses even though he isn't dependent on vision for awareness. The valley settles into its evening rhythm. Birds change their song. The air cools. The sound of the stream becomes more prominent in the absence of daytime activity.
Li Yuan remains under the tree, reflecting on the day, on the gift given, and on the connection that continues to deepen with a person who, although he possesses no spiritual cultivation, possesses something equally valuable: lived wisdom, practiced patience, genuine acceptance, and the grace to receive a gift without either proud refusal or excessive gratitude. Just simple acknowledgment. Simple appreciation. Simple humanity.
The third day is complete. And the journey unfolds with a gentle, natural rhythm that isn't forced.
Like the staff tapping the ground.
Steady. Reliable. Present.
Providing support without fanfare.
Providing stability without declaration.
Just... being there when needed.
As always. With a profound simplicity in its very lack of complexity.