Li Yuan opened his eyes.
The phosphor stone now seemed dimmer—as if it only shone for those with closed eyes.The air around him remained just as still,but something had changed.
Not the world.But himself.
He had not ascended to a new level.He had not uncovered a new truth.He had not discovered a new term, shape, or sound within his soul.He had simply... revisited.Returned.
A hundred years had passed within.Yet only a year outside.
He did not regret the time that had yielded no "progress."For he understood now:True understanding is not a climb.It is not a staircase to be scaled for height,nor a straight line to be raced for speed.
It is a current.Flowing.Like water.
And on that day, he simply sat.At the heart of the cave.Among cold stones,amid silence,and the echo of his own breath.
He recalled his understanding of water—how it flows without forcing,how it takes the shape of any vessel,yet can carve through mountains.
"Water is never in a hurry," he thought,"yet it reaches wherever it wants."
He remembered stillness,not as the opposite of chaos,but as the foundation of being.Stillness is not stagnation—it is awareness without grasping.
He remembered absence—that true presence arises from emptiness.That the void is not hollow,but a space where everything can grow.
He remembered fear,not as an enemy,but as a mirror.He had learned that fear does not signify weakness—but meaning.And from that fear, he had shaped strength:not the strength to fight,but the strength to understand.
He remembered enveloping,not as a technique,but as a tender protection.Like mist wrapping the trees.Like air embracing the body.To envelop was not to conceal,but to preserve what is soft from harm.
And at last, he realized:none of these understandings stood alone.
They were parts of a single body.A single current.A single worldhe called Zhenjing—an inner space,not just a place,but a mirror of the soul.
Li Yuan stood.
His body felt light.Not because of power,but because he carried no burden.No pursuit.No resistance.
He walked slowly out of the cave.His feet touched damp soil,and dew from the leaves fell gently onto his shoulders.
The sky was still pale blue,and birdsong echoed faintly in the distance.As if the world welcomed him back—not because he had been gone too long,but because he had changed.
He took a deep breath.Not because he needed to,but because he wanted to feel.
"A hundred years," he whispered inwardly.
He did not feel old.He did not feel he had lost anything.Because time within himwas not like time outside.
Inside,he had simply sat.In silence.In being.
And through that century,he had added no new understanding.He had only revisited them—like rereading a bookhe had once written in haste.And now,he finally understood its meaning.
He realized that every insight he heldcame from a single source:himself.
Not from the outside.Not from the sky,or teachers,or ancient texts.
Water, stillness, absence, fear, enveloping—they all were born from feeling,from experience,from sitting in silenceand asking only himself:
"Is this the right path?"
And the answer that camewas not in words.But in calm.
Li Yuan walked through the forest.
Each step left a footprint,but he knew the wind would erase them.And he didn't mind.Because true footprintsare never left on the ground—but in the hearts of those who once walked beside us.
He remembered the village of Ziran.
He remembered the Root of the Soul library.
He remembered the childrenwho wrote characters that the world could not read,but the heart could feel—the characters for Silence, Longing, and Understanding.
He remembered his father, Li Haoming,who once taught him that a name is not just a label—but a root.And that lossis simply another form of love that stays.
All of that remained with him.
But he knew—he could not return yet.
Because there was still something he sought.Not a new insight,but truthfulness—a place within where he could say:
"This is me. And I am enough."
And to reach that point,he didn't need to rush.
He just needed to walk—like water.
Day turned to noon.Noon to dusk.Dusk to night.
That night,Li Yuan sat beneath a tree.
He wasn't meditating.He wasn't trying to go "inward."He simply sat.And looked at the sky.
The stars moved slowly,as if nothing matteredexcept shining.
And he smiled.
"Even stars do not ask to be understood," he said."They simply… exist."
And in that presence,he learned one more thing:that to understandis not to control,but to release.
The more he understood water,the more he wanted to let it flow.
The more he understood fear,the less he wanted to resist.
The more he understood silence,the more he wanted to be still.
And in that stillness,he found himself.
Li Yuan closed his eyes again.
Not to meditate—but to unite.
With the air.With the earth.With the sky.
And for the first time in a hundred years,he asked nothing.
He simply listened.
And he knew—in such moments,no new understanding will arrive.
But something else opens:a space within him,now wider,clearer,and more… vast.
And in that space,there are no boundaries.
No names.
No goals.
Only being.
And that being... is enough.