Li Yuan's footsteps made no sound,
as if the earth had long awaited and already recognized him.
Qinlu, in its endless bustle, kept moving
like a river unaware that it had just been touched by the season's first rain.
He passed through unfamiliar alleys,
turning without intention—
as though led by something voiceless.
There was no destination.
But wherever he walked, silence followed—
not the silence of a place,
but the silence that entered the minds of those who saw him.
In a quiet courtyard, he sat.
No more than three stones were arranged before him—
the remains of a simple circle he had made days ago.
There was no purpose.
No invitation.
Yet the stones looked different now—
as if they remembered something that had not yet happened.
The wind blew gently,
not to shake leaves from their branches,
but to caress the skin of the world.
The leaves stayed still,
unwilling to fall,
as if understanding that this day did not desire movement.
Li Yuan closed his eyes.
He was not meditating.
Nor was he reflecting.
He was simply still—
allowing his thoughts to drift,
not into past or future,
but into the spaces between his breaths.
"Am I teaching something?" he wondered.
The question did not come from pride,
but from concern.
He knew his Ganjing could not be hidden,
and his understanding—however faint—
would touch those who drew near,
those open enough to receive it.
The water within him still flowed,
still brought calm to anyone in reach.
But beneath its surface,
something had begun to stir.
Not waves.
Not a storm—
but doubt.
Not doubt in his path,
but doubt as a form of understanding itself.
He began to realize:
doubt was not an obstacle.
It was the very space where understanding grew wild.
And it could not be contained.
Li Yuan opened his eyes.
The afternoon light had changed—
not dimmer,
only deeper.
Tree shadows stretched long,
but his own shadow was barely visible.
He was no longer the center of this world.
And he had no desire to be.
But the world had begun to feel his presence.
Not as a teacher.
Not as a sage.
But as something quietly unsettling
to the old order that had long since gone stale.
In the distance, a temple bell rang.
But there was no temple.
There was no sound.
Only the echo of an understanding
reaching someone's inner space.
Li Yuan stood.
The stones remained where they were,
as if awaiting the next step.
But he knew—
nothing more needed to be done.
Everything was already growing,
not from his will,
but from something quieter than will itself.
He walked back to his rented room.
The dusk sky over Qinlu said nothing.
But its color held something unseen before:
a calm that had never been taught.
Li Yuan descended the inn's wooden stairs slowly.
His hand brushed against the worn railing—
aged, but still steady.
Like something quietly carrying the weight of time without complaint.
Night in Qinlu was never truly dark.
There was always light
from some unknown source,
like shadows that shimmer.
But that night,
in Li Yuan's footsteps,
there was no light.
Only a soft emptiness,
as though the city were drawing a breath
for something it could not yet name.
When he sat again in the circle of stones,
unaware,
something began to stir within it.
Not waves.
Not fire.
Not wind.
But a subtle vibration—
like a needle touching the surface of still water.
One sentence emerged—
not from his thoughts,
but from the clarity left after everything else had fallen away:
"Why am I certain?"
The question struck deeper
than any he had ever known.
It did not arrive to be answered.
It arrived as a seed.
A seed planted by no one.
Watered by no logic.
Sustained by no belief.
It appeared like morning dew:
without voice,
without cause,
without expectation.
And like dew,
it touched everything equally—
then disappeared.
This doubt was not about right or wrong,
not about action or avoidance.
It was a new kind of silence,
one born of having no ground to stand still on.
Li Yuan felt something stir within.
Not resistance.
Not acceptance.
Only opening.
And in that opening,
something formed.
Not space.
Not sound.
But structure—
without name,
without shape,
without borders.
It was not like Flowing, which moved,
nor like Wrapping, which shielded.
It was like emptiness with shape.
Like the shadow of something yet to be born.
Li Yuan gave it no name.
But he understood:
if Flowing moved,
and Wrapping enveloped—
then this one divided.
It divided illusion.
It crept between two opposing beliefs.
It took no sides.
It was not just.
It did not oppress.
It merely disrupted—
not to bring light,
but to awaken the knowledge
that somewhere,
a question had never been asked.
In the silence of Qinlu's night,
as people walked unaware
that the sky was slowly falling into their chests,
Li Yuan simply sat.
And in his stillness,
Doubt became soil.
Soil where new understandings would one day grow.
Soil not yet ready for seeds,
but already fertile—
simply because it had been disturbed by stillness.
Doubt did not come from weakness.
It came from the courage to stop walking straight.
And in its turning,
a new path was born—
a path no one had ever walked before.