Li Yuan had lived in the capital of Qinlu for five months.
For the past month—he vanished.
Not in the markets.
Not at the circle of stones.
Not in the small wooden house where he once sat in silence.
People began to forget him,
or perhaps…
they had never truly remembered him.
But on a cloudy morning, where the sky hung like a curtain reluctant to fall,
Li Yuan appeared.
He walked slowly to the courtyard where he once formed the stone circle.
He sat in silence.
Not a single word.
And something began to spread.
Not a sound, not an aura, not pressure—
But doubt.
Within a hundred-meter radius, the world began to shift.
A stonemason, in the middle of cutting blocks for construction, lowered his chisel.
He stared at his half-finished work, frowning.
"Is this really the shape it's meant to be?"
He didn't know.
He had never questioned form before.
But now—
every edge seemed wrong,
every curve, flawed.
Inside a small teahouse, an old poet stared at the verse he had just written.
He had penned five stanzas that morning.
But looking at the last one, he scratched it out.
Then the fourth.
Then the third.
Until finally, he just stared blankly at the empty page.
"Is there meaning in these lines at all?"
A small child was painting.
But her brush stopped mid-air.
"Why do leaves have to be green?" she whispered.
Her mother frowned.
"Because… that's just how they are."
But even she fell silent.
Was it true?
Or simply what had always been taught?
Within the hundred-meter radius, there were no loud outbursts.
No chaos.
Only whispers of the soul.
"Is this truly the right way?"
"Why have I always believed this?"
"Is this life… really my own choice?"
People began to turn.
Not toward Li Yuan—
but inward, toward themselves.
Yet none of them realized the source.
Because the doubt born from Li Yuan's Ganjing was not a call.
Not a proclamation.
It was air—
silent, but all-pervading.
At the center of it all sat Li Yuan.
His eyes were open.
Not looking at anyone.
Yet within him, a space had formed.
A space without defined shape.
Not circular, not square.
Not empty, not full.
Just… a space, where echoes of questions rang endlessly:
"If I have understood the Dao, why do I feel farther from it?"
"If stillness is truth, why can it be broken by a single question?"
Li Yuan had entered the Ganjing Realm of Doubt.
There was no burst of light.
No explosion of energy.
Only an understanding:
Doubt had touched meaning.
And meaning had touched doubt.
And because he had been too late in using the Understanding of Wrapping,
he failed to contain the emission.
Doubt no longer lived inside him.
It flowed outward, touching everything.
Leaves on trees seemed to hesitate before falling.
Water in the ditches seemed reluctant to flow.
The sky appeared to withhold its light.
And the people…
they stood, sat, walked…
but always with a pause.
Each carrying a fragment of stillness within.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
But a strange feeling—
that life was no longer solid.
And through it all,
Li Yuan remained still.
His eyes trembled slightly.
But not from fear.
Because he knew:
Doubt is a doorway.
And he had stepped through.