The sixth night in the valley began with a decision Li Yuan made in the silence of his empty hut. The hut was simple: old wooden walls, a thatched roof that leaked in a few spots, and a packed dirt floor. There was no furniture except for a thin straw mat and a bucket for water. No decorations, no comforts.
But Li Yuan didn't need comfort. His body of consciousness didn't feel cold or hardness or discomfort in the way a physical body would. He just needed a place to... be. A place not to intrude on Chen Ming at night, and a private space appropriate for someone pretending to be a regular traveler.
He sat on the straw mat in a comfortable position and closed his eyes. Not because he needed to sleep, but because the gesture itself felt right for what he was about to do. Since arriving in the valley, he had maintained the universal passive effect of his Wenjing realm within a twenty-meter radius. This effect allowed him to hear the intention behind words, to sense the meaning of nature, and to feel the rhythm of existence.
But after five days with Chen Ming—five days of observing how the blind man navigated the world without spiritual abilities or enhanced perception, but only with a sensitivity born of necessity and acceptance—Li Yuan felt an impulse to experiment.
What if I wrapped my Wenjing completely? he asked himself. What if I navigated the world without hearing intent, without sensing a deeper meaning, without the advantage of my cultivation? What if I experienced the world in a way that was closer to how Chen Ming experiences it?
The decision was made with a calm firmness. With precise focus, Li Yuan activated the Comprehension of Wrapping and completely wrapped the universal passive effects of his Wenjing. The change was immediate. The world became... flatter. Less layered. Like a painting that had lost its dimension or music that had lost its subtle harmony.
He could still hear with the ears of his consciousness body—the sound of the wind, the distant stream, the nocturnal creatures beginning their activity. But he could not hear in the deeper way. He couldn't sense the intent behind the sounds or understand the spiritual meaning of natural phenomena.
This is how most people experience the world, Li Yuan realized with a mix of surprise and something else—perhaps humility. Without a layer of spiritual perception. Just... surface reality.
He felt a subtle but real vulnerability. It was as if a crucial sense had been removed, leaving him slightly disoriented and uncertain.
But this is how Chen Ming lives every day, he reminded himself. Without spiritual perception. Without enhanced senses. Only with what his body can provide—and in his case, even less than that because he has no vision.
If he can navigate with grace, with wisdom, and with genuine connection, then I can too. At least for a while.
Li Yuan lay down on the straw mat and allowed himself to drift, not to sleep in the true sense, since his body of consciousness didn't require rest, but to a state of relaxed awareness, of quiet presence. For the first time in a very long time, he experienced a night without the layer of spiritual perception that usually provided constant information about the world around him. There was only darkness, simple sound, and unadorned existence. And there was something... peaceful about it. About the forced simplicity. About the chosen limitation.
The seventh morning began with Li Yuan waking with the dawn, not because he sensed an energetic shift in the world, but because he heard a rooster crowing in the distance and the beginnings of activity in the village. He rose, carefully arranged his clothes, and stepped out of the hut.
The air was fresh with the coolness of the night that hadn't yet fully dissipated. The sky was pale with a gradually increasing light. Li Yuan walked toward the main part of the village, a small cluster of homes scattered around a central area with a well and an occasional market. He hadn't spent much time in the village itself, spending most of his time with Chen Ming under the old tree or in the vegetable plot. But today, with his Wenjing wrapped and with a desire to experience the world in a more grounded way, he decided to engage more with the community.
When he approached the well, he saw a few people already there, mostly women drawing water for their morning routines. One of them was Auntie Zhou, the elderly woman who occasionally gave Chen Ming food. She noticed Li Yuan, and her expression shifted from neutral to slightly wary.
"You," she called out in a voice that carried the authority of age. "You're the stranger staying with Chen Ming."
"Not staying with," Li Yuan corrected gently. "Just... staying in the same valley. We spend time together."
Auntie Zhou made a noncommittal sound as she continued to draw water. "Chen Ming is a good man," she said in a protective tone. "Too good, sometimes. People take advantage of him because he can't see them doing it."
"I don't mean to take advantage," Li Yuan assured her with sincerity.
"Hmm," Auntie Zhou responded, clearly skeptical. "That's what everyone says. But we'll see. Actions speak louder than words."
She finished drawing water and lifted the bucket with a clear effort. Age had made the once-simple task a challenge. Li Yuan stepped forward with an automatic impulse to help but caught himself. Don't overwhelm her with helpfulness. Don't treat her like she's incapable. Just... offer with simplicity.
"May I carry that for you?" he asked in a casual tone.
Auntie Zhou paused, assessing him with sharp eyes that had seen a lot of life. "You'll carry it to my house and then leave?" she asked with mild suspicion.
"Yes," Li Yuan confirmed.
"Fine," she agreed after a moment. "My house is the one with the red door. Three houses to the east."
Li Yuan took the bucket, which was surprisingly heavy and filled with water that sloshed slightly, and followed her directions. They walked in silence for a while before Auntie Zhou spoke again.
"Where are you from?" she asked with straightforward curiosity.
"Far away," Li Yuan responded with polite vagueness. "I've traveled for a long time."
"Why stop here? This valley has nothing special. No trade, no opportunities."
"Sometimes the most valuable places are the ones that have nothing but peace," Li Yuan offered.
Auntie Zhou made a sound that could be interpreted as either agreement or dismissal; it was hard to tell. They arrived at the house with the red door, and Li Yuan placed the bucket inside with care.
"Thank you," Auntie Zhou said with grudging appreciation. "You're not like most young men who only care about themselves."
"I'm not so young," Li Yuan said with a hint of dry humor.
Auntie Zhou looked him up and down with a frank assessment. "You look young enough. But there's something in your eyes... like you've seen more than you should have for your age."
Li Yuan didn't respond to that, not because he didn't want to but because he didn't know how to explain without revealing too much. Auntie Zhou didn't press. She just nodded with the acceptance that everyone has secrets.
"Take care of Chen Ming," she said with firmness. "And if you hurt him in any way, you'll have to answer to me."
"I understand," Li Yuan said with genuine respect.
He left and continued to explore the village, with a sense of being observed—not with Wenjing but with the simple awareness of how small communities work and how strangers are always subject to curiosity and scrutiny.
That afternoon, after spending time with Chen Ming under the tree, which had become a comfortable routine, Li Yuan witnessed an interaction that revealed more about how Chen Ming relates to his community.
A middle-aged man approached with clear hesitation. He carried a basket containing vegetables—not many, but enough for a meal. "Chen Ming," he called out in a slightly awkward voice.
Chen Ming turned his head in the direction of the voice. "Mr. Wu," he identified with immediate recognition.
"I... I brought these," Mr. Wu said with clear discomfort in his voice. "From my garden. I thought... you might be able to use them."
Chen Ming stood with the help of his staff and reached out to accept the basket with warm gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Wu. That's very kind."
Mr. Wu shifted his weight from foot to foot with continued awkwardness. "I... I heard about my children. The ones who took your staff a few months ago. I... I'm sorry about that. I've spoken with them."
Chen Ming waved his hand in a gesture that dismissed the concern. "Children," he said with simplicity. "They don't understand consequences. There was no permanent harm."
"Still," Mr. Wu insisted with clear guilt. "It wasn't right. And I... I should have paid more attention to what they were doing."
"You are a good parent," Chen Ming assured him gently. "You're teaching them now. That's what matters."
Mr. Wu nodded with visible relief and mumbled an awkward farewell before leaving with a speed that suggested he was uncomfortable with either gratitude or guilt, or both.
When he was gone, Li Yuan spoke for the first time. "His children were the ones who took your staff," he observed—a statement, not a question.
"Yes," Chen Ming confirmed in a tone that wasn't bitter. "But Mr. Wu is a good man who's trying hard in a difficult circumstance. His wife passed away last year. He's raising four children by himself. He's doing the best he can."
"You're not angry," Li Yuan noted.
"What for?" Chen Ming asked with genuine puzzlement. "Anger wouldn't return the staff. Anger wouldn't teach the children anything useful. Anger would only create distance between me and a neighbor who, at the end of the day, is trying to do what's right."
He sat back down with a soft sigh. "Community is as much about forgiveness as it is about support," he continued with wisdom born of experience. "We all make mistakes. We all hurt each other sometimes, intentionally or not. If we hold on to every slight, every wrong, we'll end up in isolation."
"And isolation," he added quietly, "is more painful than anything anyone else can do to us."
Li Yuan absorbed these words in thoughtful silence.
Chen Ming sat under the tree, aware of Li Yuan nearby, and reflected on the day.
Mr. Wu came with vegetables and an apology. He's a good man, guilty about what his children did. I don't hold a grudge. What's the point?
Auntie Zhou warned me yesterday about trusting strangers too easily. She worries, as she always worries. She has no children of her own, so she treats half the village as if they're her own. Especially me, because… well, because I'm blind and live alone, and she thinks I need protecting.
I have no family. My parents died when I was young, both from a disease in the same year. No siblings. No children of my own, because who would marry a blind man who can't provide in a stable way?
But I have neighbors. I have Auntie Zhou who brings me food. I have Mr. Wu who feels guilty and is trying to make amends. I have the children who mock but who also, sometimes, in moments when they forget to be cruel, treat me with innocent curiosity.
And now I have Li Yuan. A stranger who arrived from nowhere, who sits with me in silence, who made me a staff with extraordinary care, who defends me from mockery without being asked.
I don't know who he really is. I don't know where he came from or why he's staying.
But I do know this: he's present. He listens. He treats me like a complete person, not like an object of pity or a burden to be taken care of. And that... that is rare. That is valuable.
I don't know how long he'll stay. Travelers don't stay. It's the nature of being a traveler. But for now, for the days or weeks or however long he remains, I'm grateful for the companionship. For a presence that is comfortable with silence. For someone who doesn't try to fix me because he doesn't see me as broken.
The world is lonely for a blind man. Not because I'm alone—the village is small, people are always around. But because being seen, being understood, being valued for who I am rather than pitied for what I lack... that is rare. Li Yuan provides that. And for that, I'm grateful.
Chen Ming opened his awareness back to the external world—to the sound of the wind, the stream, and Li Yuan's steady breathing nearby.
"Thank you," he said abruptly.
"For what?" Li Yuan asked.
"For staying," Chen Ming said with simplicity. "For not treating me as if I'm fragile. For just... being here."
"You're welcome," Li Yuan responded gently. "Thank you for allowing me to stay. For teaching me... many things. Even though you may not realize you're teaching."
Chen Ming smiled, a soft and genuine expression. "Sometimes the best teaching isn't intentional," he said. "Sometimes we just live, and others learn from watching. Or in your case, from sitting in silence with a blind man who has nothing to offer but a different perspective."
"A different perspective," Li Yuan repeated, "is one of the most valuable gifts."
They returned to silence—a comfortable, familiar silence, rich with unspoken understanding. And the night began to fall, a gradual darkness that Chen Ming felt in the temperature and in the sounds but could not see, and which Li Yuan saw with his physical eyes but did not sense with his wrapped Wenjing.
Two people who were different in fundamental ways found a connection in the simplicity of a shared presence. And the journey unfolded with gentleness, with patience, and with wisdom that emerged not from deliberate teaching but from authentic living.
In a small village with neighbors who cared in imperfect ways.
In forgiveness offered without being asked.
In gratitude expressed with simplicity.
And in the wrapping of a spiritual perception that allowed Li Yuan to experience the world with a fresh humility, a chosen vulnerability, and an openness to learn without the advantage of his vast cultivation.
As always.
Depth in simplicity.
Wisdom in ordinary living.
Connection in shared humanity.
Without end.