It was midday, and the sun was at its highest point, casting heat that made the air shimmer over the ground. Li Yuan and Chen Ming sat under the old tree, a spot that had become their sanctuary, where time seemed to move at a different pace than the outside world. Chen Ming sat with his back leaning against the trunk, his face slightly upturned to feel the warmth of the sun filtered through the leaves. The bamboo staff lay beside him, within reach but not needed for the moment. Li Yuan sat a few meters away, his posture relaxed, but his awareness was still present—observing, sensing, and learning without intrusion.
There was the sound of the stream in the distance, an occasional bird call, and a gentle wind through the branches. It was a comfortable silence that didn't need to be filled.
And then, a different, louder, and more erratic sound: multiple, light but rapid footsteps. Children. Li Yuan felt Chen Ming tense slightly, not with fear but with a readiness, like someone who knew what was coming and had already decided how to respond.
Three boys, around nine or ten years old, emerged from the path. They stopped a few meters from the tree, their posture a mix of bravado and uncertainty.
"Look!" one said in a deliberately loud voice. "The blind uncle is sitting again! Like a statue that can't move!"
The others laughed, a harsh sound that held no genuine empathy but was born from a desire to belong and impress their friends.
Chen Ming didn't respond. He didn't turn his head in the direction of the voices. He simply remained still, his breathing steady, his expression neutral.
"Hey, Blind Uncle!" the second boy called with clear mockery. "Why don't you go home? You just sit here all day like you have nothing to do!"
"Maybe he doesn't know how to get home," the third boy contributed with a snicker. "Maybe he's lost and too afraid to move!"
More laughter followed, crueler now, with a sharp edge.
Li Yuan felt an impulse to intervene, to speak with an authority that would make the children retreat, to defend Chen Ming as he had before. But he checked himself.
Chen Ming hasn't asked for a defense. He shows no signs of distress. He's just... sitting. Waiting. Maybe there's a lesson here that I need to observe rather than interrupt.
One of the boys, the boldest, or perhaps the most insecure, picked up a small stone and threw it in Chen Ming's direction. The stone hit the ground a few centimeters from Chen Ming's foot, kicking up a little dirt. Chen Ming didn't flinch or react. His breathing remained steady, his expression unchanged.
"Whoa, he didn't even move!" the boy exclaimed, with a mix of fascination and discomfort. "It's like he doesn't even care!"
"Maybe he's too stupid to care," another added, but his voice was less confident now, as if the lack of reaction made the game less satisfying than he expected.
The first boy, who seemed to be the leader of this small group, stepped forward with forced bravado. "Hey, Uncle," he called in a voice that tried to sound mocking but betrayed his uncertainty. "Why aren't you angry? Why don't you chase us or yell or something?"
And then, for the first time since the children arrived, Chen Ming spoke. His voice was calm and gentle, without a trace of anger or hurt.
"Why should I be angry?" he asked in a tone of genuine curiosity, as if he truly wanted to know the answer.
The children fell silent, surprised by his unexpected response.
"Because... because we're making fun of you," the leader finally said, his confidence wavering.
"Ah," Chen Ming said with understanding. "Yes, you were mocking me. I heard." He adjusted his position slightly, turning his head toward the voices, not to see but to acknowledge their presence. "But why should mockery make me angry?" he continued in a tone that wasn't condescending but patient, teaching without being obvious about it. "You are children. You are playing. Sometimes playing involves saying mean things. I understand that."
"We weren't playing," one of the boys protested defensively. "We were just..." He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
Chen Ming smiled, a soft, warm expression that wasn't mocking. "You see the world with your eyes," he said gently. "You see a blind man sitting under a tree, and you think he's different, he's strange, he's an easy target for jokes."
"But I see the world with my patience." He paused, letting the words settle. "And with patience, I see three children who are still learning how to treat people, who are testing boundaries, who haven't yet fully understood that words have weight."
"I am not angry with you for being children. That is what you are supposed to be."
Silence. An uncomfortable silence from children who hadn't expected this response, who didn't know how to deal with unasked-for forgiveness and undeserved understanding. The group leader scuffed his foot in the dirt, looking down, his bravado completely deflated.
"I... I'm sorry," he mumbled reluctantly.
"I'm sorry, too," another echoed in a barely audible voice.
Chen Ming nodded with simple acceptance. "Thank you," he said with sincerity. "Apology accepted. Now... you probably have better things to do than bother an old blind man, yes?"
The children mumbled their agreement and began to retreat, their footsteps less confident than when they arrived, their posture slightly hunched as if they were carrying a shame they didn't fully understand.
When the sound of their footsteps faded, Li Yuan spoke for the first time. "That was..." He paused, searching for an adequate word. "Remarkable."
Chen Ming smiled with a subtle tiredness. "It was survival," he said with blunt honesty. "If I reacted with anger every time someone mocked me or threw a stone or made a joke, I would spend my whole life in a state of bitterness."
He reached for his staff and ran his fingers along the smooth bamboo, a familiar, comforting gesture. "They are children," he continued in a reflective tone. "They see someone different, and they don't know how to process it. So they mock. They test. They try to make themselves feel superior by making me feel inferior."
"But," he added with a quietness that carried weight, "anger doesn't teach them anything. Punishment doesn't teach them empathy. Only... patience, only showing that I'm not hurt by their words, only demonstrating that there's another way to respond—that's what might, eventually, sink in."
Li Yuan absorbed these words in thoughtful silence.
This is a different kind of strength than power, he realized. Not the strength to dominate or defeat, but the strength to absorb, to forgive, to remain steady when provoked.
Chen Ming has no spiritual cultivation. He has no techniques to calm his mind or suppress his emotions. He just has... a choice. A decision to respond with grace rather than reactivity. And he makes that choice again and again, day after day, with a consistency born not from a supernatural ability but from a character forged through necessity and refined through conscious decision.
"Isn't it exhausting?" Li Yuan asked gently. "To constantly forgive, to constantly be patient, to never allow yourself to just... be angry?"
Chen Ming considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Sometimes," he admitted honestly. "Sometimes I get tired. Sometimes I wish I could just... snap at someone, release the frustration. But then I remember: anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. It hurts me more than it hurts them."
He turned his head slightly in the direction of Li Yuan's presence. "And more than that... I don't want to become bitter. I don't want to allow other people's cruelty to transform me into someone who is cruel. That would be giving them too much power. That would be allowing them to define who I am. So I choose patience. Not because I'm a saint or because I don't feel hurt. But because patience is a way to maintain control over my own character, over my own spirit."
Li Yuan felt something shift in his understanding—subtle but profound.
For thousands of years, I've pursued the cultivation of power, of understanding, of the capability to interact with the Dao in a transcendent way.
But Chen Ming cultivates something equally valuable: character. Integrity. The capacity to remain true to his values even when provoked, when tested, when there's an easy reason to abandon them.
And that cultivation—the cultivation of character rather than power—is perhaps equally challenging. Perhaps equally worthy of respect.
The afternoon continued with a restored quietness. Birds returned from wherever they hid when the children were loud. The stream continued its steady sound. The sun continued its slow arc through the sky. Li Yuan observed Chen Ming with a deepened awareness.
He noticed the small things: how Chen Ming's shoulders, which had tensed slightly when the children arrived, gradually relaxed back into a natural state. How his breathing, which had been carefully controlled when he was being mocked, returned to its steady and unconscious rhythm.
He feels the hurt, Li Yuan realized. He's not immune to mockery or cruelty. He's just... not controlled by it. He allows himself to feel without being defined by the feeling.
That is a mastery of a different kind. Not a mastery of external reality but a mastery of internal response.
When evening began to approach and Chen Ming prepared to return home, Li Yuan spoke with a thoughtfulness that had matured over the afternoon of observation.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Chen Ming paused, with clear confusion in his expression. "For what?"
"For allowing me to witness," Li Yuan explained carefully. "For not hiding how you deal with difficulty. For demonstrating patience not as an abstract virtue but as a lived practice."
Chen Ming smiled with genuine warmth. "You give me too much credit," he said with gentle humor. "I'm just doing what I need to do to survive with my sanity intact."
"Perhaps," Li Yuan conceded. "But doing what is necessary with grace, with consistency, with a commitment to values even when it's not easy—that is an achievement that should not be diminished."
Chen Ming didn't respond with words, but with a nod of acknowledgment, accepting the appreciation without false modesty but also without excessive pride. He stood with the help of his staff, with the familiar movement that Li Yuan now recognized as efficient, practiced, and the embodiment of a successful adaptation.
"Until tomorrow," Chen Ming said with a simple farewell.
"Until tomorrow," Li Yuan echoed.
And as Chen Ming walked toward his home, his staff tapping the ground with a steady rhythm, Li Yuan remained seated. He reflected on the day, on the encounter with the children, and on Chen Ming's response, which was born not from a supernatural ability but from a conscious choice and a character cultivated through years of consistent practice.
I am powerful, he thought with sober clarity. I could have stopped those children with a single word. I could have made them feel fear, shame, or regret with a tiny demonstration of spiritual pressure. But that wouldn't have taught them anything valuable. It would have only made them fear power, not understand empathy.
Chen Ming, without power, taught by example. By demonstrating that a person can be treated poorly and still choose to respond with dignity. That a victim doesn't have to become an aggressor. That the cycle of cruelty can be broken not with force but with consistent forgiveness.
And that... that is the lesson I need. Not for the children who mocked him, but for myself.
A lesson about a strength that's not measured by the ability to dominate, but by the ability to forgive. About a wisdom that's not expressed through a demonstration of knowledge but through living with integrity even when it's not easy.
The day passed into evening. Shadows lengthened. The temperature cooled. Li Yuan sat in the quietness of the valley, which felt like the world was holding its breath, and his understanding of what he was observing here deepened.
He wasn't just observing how a blind man navigates the physical world. He was observing how a good person navigates the social world—a world of interactions that can be cruel, of treatment that can be unjust, of situations where righteous anger would be justified. And how, in the face of all that, a person can choose patience. Can choose forgiveness. Can choose to remain true to their values even when it's easier to abandon them.
That is cultivation.
Perhaps not spiritual cultivation in the sense Li Yuan had pursued for millennia. But cultivation nonetheless.
Cultivation of character.
Cultivation of integrity.
Cultivation of humanity in its purest form.
And Li Yuan, with all his power, all his wisdom, and all his sixteen thousand years of experience, recognized that he was still a student. Still learning. Still discovering unexplored depths.
In the simplicity of a blind man who chose patience.
In the quiet strength of repeated forgiveness.
In the lived example of grace under pressure.
The day passed.
Understanding deepened.
And the journey continued—not with spectacle but with presence, not with achievement but with learning, not with a destination but with a process that unfolded with profound gentleness.
As always.
Without end.