Two days after leaving Qinlu, Li Yuan walked along a dirt road now crowded with people.
Refugees.
They moved in a loose, uneven stream—families with carts piled high, merchants carrying their goods, the elderly leaning on their children. All of them heading away from the border, away from the place that would become a battlefield in two months.
Li Yuan walked in the opposite direction.
No one paid him any mind. A wanderer with a small pack and plain clothes, moving at an unhurried pace. He was like water flowing among stones—present but unobtrusive, moving without disturbing the current.
The sun had begun to tilt westward when Li Yuan saw a small child sitting alone by the roadside.
A little girl, perhaps seven years old. Her clothes were dirty, her hair disheveled. She clutched a worn rag doll, staring blankly at the passing flow of refugees.
Li Yuan stopped.
No one else did. The refugees kept moving, a river in a rush, each too burdened with their own load to notice a lost child.
Li Yuan sat down beside her. Not too close—just enough to show his presence without frightening her.
"Who are you waiting for?" he asked softly.
The girl turned. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying—as if her tears had already run dry.
"Mother," she rasped. "She told me to wait here."
Li Yuan looked at the endless stream of people. "When did she say she would come back?"
"This morning. She went to find water." The girl hugged her doll tighter. "But she hasn't come back."
Li Yuan didn't ask further.
He knew—as perhaps the girl already knew deep inside—that her mother would not return. Lost in the crowd, swept away by panic, or something worse.
But he did not say so.
He simply sat, letting his silence settle gently like dew. Around them, the noise of the passing refugees seemed to grow distant. Not gone, but muffled.
The girl's breathing began to slow.
"What's your name?" Li Yuan asked.
"Xiao Mei." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "What's your name, Uncle?"
"Li Yuan."
"Li Yuan…" She repeated it softly. "Sounds like a peaceful name."
Li Yuan gave a faint smile. "Are you hungry?"
Xiao Mei nodded.
Li Yuan took out a few dry biscuits from his pack. Not much, but enough for a child who had been waiting all day.
As Xiao Mei ate, Li Yuan watched the stream of refugees pass by. Faces worn with exhaustion, eyes heavy with fear, steps quickened by the shadow of a war not yet begun.
And in the midst of it all, a little girl sitting alone, waiting for a mother who would not return.
This is war, Li Yuan thought. Not just swords and blood, but lost children, broken families, and hope left by the roadside.
"Where are you going, Uncle?" Xiao Mei asked between bites.
"South. To the State of Lu."
Her eyes widened. "But there will be war there!"
"Yes."
"Why would you go?"
Li Yuan was silent for a moment. How could he explain to a seven-year-old that water must flow where it is most needed?
"Because there will be many people like you there," he said at last. "People who need someone to sit beside them."
Xiao Mei looked at him with wide eyes. "You're kind."
"No. I'm just… here."
The sun was sinking when Li Yuan heard a familiar sound—a woman's desperate cry calling a name.
"Xiao Mei! Xiao Mei!"
The girl jumped to her feet. "Mother!"
A woman ran toward them, her face wet with tears and sweat. She clutched Xiao Mei tightly, her body trembling.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I got lost in the crowd. I've been searching everywhere…"
Li Yuan rose slowly. His task here was done.
"Thank you," the woman said, still holding her daughter. "Thank you for watching over her."
Li Yuan nodded. "She's a strong child."
As the woman and Xiao Mei rejoined the river of refugees, Li Yuan resumed walking in the opposite direction.
The sky was darkening, but he kept on—neither hurried nor slow. Like water that knows where it must flow.
In the distance, he saw the glow of fire—perhaps a refugee camp, perhaps an abandoned village. Hard to tell in the fading twilight.
But Li Yuan did not need light to find his path.
He needed something deeper than sight.
That night, Li Yuan sheltered in a small cave on the hillside.
It was shallow, just enough to shield him from the night wind. The walls were rough, the floor stony. Not comfortable, but peaceful.
He sat cross-legged at the cave's mouth, gazing at the sky thick with stars.
Somewhere to the north, Qinlu was preparing its army. Somewhere to the south, the State of Lu was strengthening its defenses. And in between, thousands like Xiao Mei and her mother searched for safety.
The war hasn't begun, Li Yuan thought, but suffering has already spread.
Li Yuan closed his eyes and touched his Zhenjing.
The water still flowed there—clear, calm, untouched by the world's chaos. Silence still stretched wide, holding space for all that needed to be felt. The understandings were still present, each like a star in an inner sky that never clouded.
But tonight, something was different.
Within his Zhenjing, Li Yuan felt the echo of meeting Xiao Mei. Not merely the memory of a child waiting for her mother, but something deeper.
Breath.
Li Yuan began to sense his breathing differently—not just as air entering and leaving his lungs, but… something greater.
With every inhale, he felt Xiao Mei's frightened breath.
With every exhale, he felt her mother's relief upon finding her.
Every night wind carried the weary breaths of refugees, the restless breaths of soldiers, the reluctant breaths of farmers leaving their fields.
Breath is not mine, Li Yuan realized with startling clarity. Breath belongs to the world, flowing through me.
The understanding came like water finding a gap in the dam.
All this time, he had thought breathing was something he did—something he controlled, something that belonged to him.
But now he saw: breath was a loan. Every breath was a temporary gift from the greater universe. He did not breathe—he was merely a channel through which life flowed.
The same breath that sustained Xiao Mei sustained him.
The same breath that carried fear also carried hope.
The same breath that soldiers would take into battle would also be taken by newborns into life.
Within his Zhenjing, something shifted.
The space of his understanding of Breath—which until now had been only ordinary insight—began to vibrate with a new resonance. Like a bell struck softly, its tone spread through his inner world.
And then, with the same gentleness as morning dew, his understanding of Breath crossed an unseen threshold.
It entered the realm of Ganjing.
The effect was not an explosion or a flash of light.
It was as if the world had suddenly remembered how to breathe properly.
Around the cave, Li Yuan felt subtle change. The night wind blew in a calmer rhythm. The sounds of the night—crickets, owls, rustling leaves—merged into an effortless harmony.
And somewhere far to the north, perhaps Xiao Mei slept with steadier breath.
Li Yuan opened his eyes.
The stars still shone in the dark sky. The cave was still cold and stony. The world was still preparing for war.
But something had changed.
Something small, almost imperceptible, yet real.
The world breathed a little easier tonight.
And Li Yuan—now understanding that he was part of the breath, not its owner—smiled in silence.
Tomorrow, he would continue to the State of Lu.
Tomorrow, he would meet more people who needed someone to sit beside them.
Tomorrow, the breath flowing through him would carry calm to places he had yet to know.
But tonight, it was enough.
Tonight, breathing was enough.
In the distance, a wolf howled.
But it was not a sound of fear.
It was a lullaby for a world weary of bracing for the storm.
And Li Yuan, with one new understanding now in Ganjing, slept peacefully in a cave whose name he would not remember—
but which would remember his breath forever.