The news came like the wind—slow at first, then steadily rising, until it could no longer be ignored.
Li Yuan first heard it in whispers from customers seated in the corner of the shop. Fragmented words, scattered between the clinking of spoons and bowls.
"…troops gathering at the border…"
"…State of Lu refuses the peace offering…"
"…the emperor has signed the decree…"
Li Yuan didn't stop wiping the tables. His hands moved in the same rhythm as always, but his ears caught every syllable, drifting in the air like dust carried by the wind.
It was Master Cheng who said it aloud for the first time.
That evening, after the last customer had left, he sat on the bench near the counter with a face more serious than usual.
"Li Yuan. Bao Jing. Did you hear the news today?"
Bao Jing furrowed his brow.
"What news, Master?"
"War."
Master Cheng spat out the word as if tasting something bitter.
"The Emperor has decided. In two months, Qin will march against Lu."
Li Yuan froze mid-motion. The cloth in his hand hung limp, dripping water onto the wooden floor.
"War?" Bao Jing's voice was barely audible.
"A great one. They say it will be the final campaign to unify the northern lands."
Master Cheng looked at both his workers.
"Which means…"
He didn't have to finish the sentence. Li Yuan and Bao Jing already understood.
Which meant Qinlu—as the capital—would become the center of mobilization.
Which meant the streets would flood with soldiers.
Which meant food would become scarce.
Which meant prices would rise.
Which meant life—would change.
That night, Li Yuan walked through the streets of Qinlu that were already starting to feel unfamiliar.
At every corner, small groups gathered, murmuring. In night teahouses, conversations had shifted from weather and rice prices to military strategies, to sons of age for conscription, to whether evacuations might happen if the war did not go as planned.
Li Yuan passed a crowded teahouse. Through its open windows, a familiar voice reached his ears.
Chen Weiqi.
"…it's not about victory or defeat," she was saying to a circle of listeners.
"War changes everything. How we live. How we think. How we see one another."
A man responded, voice firm and indignant.
"But we must defend our land! Lu has defied Qin's sovereignty for too long!"
"And how many lives will be lost for that 'sovereignty'?"
Chen Weiqi's voice wasn't accusatory—just… sorrowful.
"How many children will lose their fathers? How many wives will become widows?"
Li Yuan did not enter.
He simply walked on, letting the voices fade into the night.
But her words echoed within him.
How many lives will be lost?
In his small room, Li Yuan sat at the edge of his bed.
He did not meditate. He did not open his Zhenjing.
He simply sat—letting the weight of the day settle like dust after the wind has passed.
War.
The word felt foreign on his tongue.
After years of following the Daojing path, he had learned about flowing water, about silence that gives space, about existence that serves without asking.
But war?
War was the antithesis of all that.
War was water forced to flow against its nature.
War was silence shattered by screams and sobbing.
War was existence destroyed in pursuit of dominance.
Li Yuan closed his eyes and touched his Zhenjing.
The water still flowed there—clear, calm, undisturbed by the world's noise. The silence still stretched wide, like a sky unchanged even when the earth trembled beneath it.
But something was different.
At the edge of his awareness, he felt… a resonance.
A faint sound, barely audible—yet persistent.
The echo of cries that had not yet been cried.
The scream that had not yet been voiced.
The silence that would come after the battlefield had gone quiet.
Is this what those with insight feel?
Is this the responsibility that comes with sensing beyond what the eye can see?
The next morning, the noodle shop felt different.
Customers came with tenser faces. Conversations were spoken in hushed tones. Even the children, usually full of laughter, seemed quieter—as if they too sensed the fog of anxiety thick in the air.
A young man entered with heavy steps. His clothes were neat, but his eyes were red, as if he had just been crying.
Li Yuan approached with a bowl of warm water, as always.
The man stared at the bowl as if it were something precious—yet already lost.
"Thank you," he said softly.
His voice trembled slightly.
As he washed his hands, Li Yuan saw something that made his breath catch.
On the man's ring finger, a pale band of skin.
A mark left by a wedding ring recently removed.
The skin was still tender.
The impression still fresh.
Li Yuan understood without asking.
The man had taken off his ring.
Perhaps to sell.
Perhaps to leave it behind for his wife, a token of support.
Perhaps because he didn't expect to return to wear it again.
"Chicken noodles," the man said when Li Yuan returned.
Li Yuan nodded. But when he came back from the kitchen, he brought more than a single bowl.
A plate of boiled eggs.
A bowl of greens.
A cup of hot tea.
The man stared at the table, eyes wide.
"I only ordered noodles."
"For a long journey," Li Yuan said softly.
"And for a homecoming—hopefully not too far away."
The man said nothing. His eyes welled up again.
He didn't ask how Li Yuan knew.
He simply nodded, and began eating slowly—savoring each bite like it might be his last taste of home.
All day, they kept coming.
Young men with hollow eyes.
Wives alone, seeking lunch to fill the silence that had crept into their homes.
Old parents sitting long at the tables, staring out the windows, hoping to see a face that was no longer there.
Li Yuan served them all the same way.
Without questions.
Without advice.
Without empty words of comfort.
He was simply—present.
With warm water for trembling hands.
With warm food for stomachs sick with worry.
With silence—so they could feel what they needed, without being forced to explain.
That evening, after the shop had closed, Master Cheng sat with Li Yuan and Bao Jing.
"I've made my decision," he said, voice heavy.
"The shop will close, for now."
Bao Jing flinched.
"Close? Why, Master?"
"Because I've been summoned."
He rolled up his sleeve, revealing an old scar on his right forearm.
"I was a soldier once. And now they need veterans to train the new recruits."
Li Yuan looked at Master Cheng—the calm, wise man he'd worked beside for so long.
But now, he saw something else in his eyes.
Not bloodlust. Not patriotism.
Only a duty that weighed like iron.
"When?" asked Li Yuan.
"Next week."
Master Cheng looked at them both.
"You're free to find other work. Or—if you wish—you can keep the shop open until I return.
Though I can't say when that will be."
Bao Jing stared at the floor.
"I… I'll stay. I'll keep the shop. Until you come back."
Master Cheng smiled faintly.
"Thank you, Bao Jing."
Then he turned to Li Yuan.
"And you?"