It had been five months since Li Yuan arrived in Qinlu, the vast and noisy capital that now felt calm to him.
He did not stir the waters.
He did not seek a place.
He simply sat, then stood, walked, and worked.
Li Yuan now worked at a small noodle shop on the eastern edge of the city. The shop was neither famous nor forgotten. He filled its space like water does: serving with a quiet smile, delivering bowls, wiping tables. He did not stand out, nor did he disappear.
The customers saw a young man with black hair and gray eyes, handsome but not alluring. There was something they couldn't quite name. Not friendliness, nor coldness, but a presence that made them eat a little slower, think a little deeper.
When someone touched his hand—whether by intent or accident while receiving change—there was always a pause. A small silence slipped in. A sensation that had never been taught.
Sometimes peace.
Sometimes doubt.
Sometimes, as if the world embraced them for no reason at all.
They did not know that Li Yuan had stepped into the Realm of Ganjing. Three understandings now lived within him:
Water, which brought calm without promise.
Enfolding, which protected without walls.
Doubt, which disturbed but also liberated.
And because these were true understandings, they could not be extinguished. If extinguished, it would mean rejecting the path itself. And if one rejects the path, then one no longer walks. And if one does not walk, then what remains?
Li Yuan called it the Dao.
Or more simply, the way.
With Meilang, a sitar player who had become his friend, Li Yuan sometimes sat on the porch as the night dripped slowly down. They did not speak much. Sometimes not at all. Meilang would play a single note, then go quiet. Li Yuan would look at the sky, then look away.
They did not share understandings.
But they knew the silence was the same.
Not every step must shake the earth.
Some steps simply sink into water,
and let the world reflect their ripples on its own.
Five Quiet Months in Qinlu
The owner of the noodle shop, a middle-aged man named Master Cheng, used to be talkative. His hands were quick, his tongue quicker. He would shout at customers, scold the steam rising from the pots, and boast about his broth that "keeps the first summer in every spoonful."
But in the past five months, his words had lessened.
He still worked as usual—fast, sharp, managing ingredients and counting coins. But sometimes, he just stood, staring at the boiling pot longer than he needed to. His eyes blinked, as if hearing something in the water that made no sound.
One night, he said softly, "Yuan, have you ever felt... that someone could make you quiet, without asking you to be?"
Li Yuan only bowed his head slightly, his hands still wiping a bowl. He did not answer.
And precisely because of that, Master Cheng felt answered.
From then on, he began cooking more calmly. He realized he didn't need to speak constantly for his food to sell. The noodles he served were still warm. But now, they didn't just fill the stomach. They eased the chest.
Bao Jing had been watching Li Yuan for some time, though not in any way that could be called attention. It was more like quiet observation—like someone used to searching for light in fog and, without realizing it, started memorizing the vague shapes behind the mist.
They worked at the same noodle shop, near the southern market. Their routines intersected, but never touched. Bao Jing would light the fire, set the stools, wash the bowls. Li Yuan would sweep the small front yard, or stand watching the steam from the big boiling pot. No one gave orders, no one asked. Everything moved like a current with no name.
But ever since Li Yuan entered the shop, something in Bao Jing's chest had not been still. He didn't know when it started—perhaps in the dreamless nights, or the moment Li Yuan moved a bowl with a calmness that felt like he was touching the sky. There was a feeling he didn't recognize, as if he were a vessel that leaked, and whatever he tried to hold always spilled before it could be called mine.
That day, before the sun had fully risen, Bao Jing arrived early. The shop was still dark. But Li Yuan's shadow was already there, sitting at the doorway, silent like a stone that had forgotten how to crack.
"Li Yuan," he murmured. Not a call, just a confession that he saw him.
Li Yuan did not turn, but his stillness softened, like earth welcoming rain.
Bao Jing said nothing more. He simply sat on the opposite side, not aligned. The distance was enough not to be called close, but close enough to sense that the silence around the gray-eyed man was not emptiness. It was the shape of something. Something that did not try to fill.
And in that silence, Bao Jing heard something—not a sound, but the absence of sound—that made him question everything he had always taken as certain.
Was his life a decision?
Or merely an inheritance from days that passed too fast to question?
Li Yuan slowly stood. He didn't look at Bao Jing, but his movement shifted the air around him.
And in that moment, Bao Jing felt his body become light—not as if to fly, but as if the ground beneath him was no longer certain it should hold on so tightly.
"Why are you silent?" he asked, barely a whisper, as if asking himself.
Li Yuan paused, but did not answer. He only looked at the sky beginning to open, faint orange creeping in with no promises.
"Have you ever felt," Bao Jing continued, "that silence can be more honest than a question?"
Li Yuan turned slightly, just for a moment.
And Bao Jing knew: it wasn't an answer. It was acceptance. Like water that doesn't choose the vessel, yet never refuses to fall into it.
And that morning, they did not begin work early.
Because in the quiet that had not yet finished, something else was being cooked—not noodles, not broth, but understanding. One that could not yet be named. One that could not be sold.