Li Yuan left the hill where he had meditated as the sun began to slope westward.
Five days beneath the old tree had changed something within him—not only a new understanding of the Sky, but also how he saw this journey. His steps now felt lighter, not because the weight on his back had lessened, but because he no longer felt hurried to arrive anywhere.
The road toward the State of Lu stretched more clearly before him—not only the winding dirt track between the hills, but also the broader path of his journey: the way that had carried him from Ziran Village to here, and would carry him on, who knew where, after this.
That afternoon, Li Yuan met a border guard.
The border post was simple—a small wooden hut by the roadside, with a middle-aged man sitting on a bench outside. Not an official garrison with many soldiers, but a place where locals informally kept watch over who came and went.
The man regarded Li Yuan with tired yet watchful eyes.
"Where are you headed?" he asked without rising.
"South. To the State of Lu."
The man frowned. "You know there will be war there?"
"Yes."
"Family there?"
Li Yuan shook his head. "No."
"Business?"
"No."
The man studied him for a longer moment. "Then why go?"
Li Yuan was silent for a moment—not because he didn't know the answer, but because he was searching for the right words.
"To be there," he said at last.
The man laughed—not mockingly, but like someone long acquainted with life's oddities, too seasoned to be surprised.
"To be there," he repeated. "That's all?"
"That's all."
The man nodded slowly, as if the answer made sense to him. "My name's Wei Dong. I've guarded this border for thirty years. I've seen all kinds of reasons for people to pass. But 'to be there'—that's the first time I've heard it."
Li Yuan gave a faint smile. "Most people go somewhere to do something, not to be something."
Wei Dong now looked at him differently—not as a suspicious wanderer, but as one human meeting another.
"Sit a while," he said, gesturing to the empty bench beside him. "Not many want to talk here. Most are in a hurry."
Li Yuan sat, moving without urgency, without the restlessness to press on. Sitting here at this modest border post was as important as sitting anywhere else.
"Where are you from?" Wei Dong asked.
"Qinlu. But originally from a small village in the north."
"Qinlu?" Wei Dong looked surprised. "The capital of Qin? You know Qin's preparing to attack Lu again?"
"Again?"
"Yes. Ten years ago it happened too. A big war then." Wei Dong gazed south, his eyes carrying old memories. "I was young, just starting to help my father at this post. I saw the Qin soldiers march down this road. Months later, only half came back."
Li Yuan listened with full attention.
"Lu lost then?" he asked.
Wei Dong shook his head. "No one won. Both sides lost too much. They finally called a truce—not because anyone had the upper hand, but because… they were tired, I think."
Wei Dong shook his head slowly. "Strange man, you are. But…" he glanced at Li Yuan, "there's something about you… calming. Since you sat down here, I feel more at ease. Normally I'm tense—especially now that things are starting to feel like ten years ago."
Li Yuan did not explain the passive influence of his Ganjing—the wrapped understanding of Breath, the softened resonance of Sky. He only nodded.
"You were here ten years ago?"
"Yes. I was twenty then. I saw firsthand how war changes people." Wei Dong stared at his hands, slightly trembling. "Back then this post was crowded—refugees streaming past, bad news arriving every day. What I remember most… were the children separated from their parents."
"Many lost?"
"Too many." Wei Dong paused. "That's why, hearing Qin is preparing again, I'm afraid. Afraid to see it all happen again."
"Perhaps because I bring no bad news," Li Yuan said.
"Perhaps." Wei Dong looked south. "Ten years ago, this border became hell. Refugees came endlessly from the south, Qin soldiers descended from the north. In between, people like me could only endure."
"Afraid?"
Wei Dong was silent a long while. "Then… afraid of dying. Afraid the post would be destroyed, my family in the next village attacked. But now…" he looked at Li Yuan, "now it's a different fear. Not fear of death. More fear… that all the goodness we've built over these ten years will be lost again. Fear the world will go back to a place where people cannot trust each other."
Li Yuan understood that fear—the fear of losing what had been built with great effort, the fear of seeing the world slide back into its darkest times.
"Change is frightening," Li Yuan said. "Especially when we've seen how bad it can become."
"Exactly." Wei Dong nodded. "Ten years ago, after the war ended, I thought: never again. I'll guard this border so it stays peaceful. But…"
"But peace is not permanent."
"Yes. And the hardest part is, sometimes those who survived the last war are the ones most eager for another. They forget how much it hurt."
"But," Li Yuan said, looking at the humble post—the wooden hut that might once again serve as a transit for refugees, the bench that might again witness sorrow, "there are things that do not vanish even when war comes again."
"Like what?"
"Like the kindness you show to everyone passing through. Like the hope that someday this border can be peaceful again. Like the ability to still trust a stranger like me, even after you've seen what people are capable of."
Wei Dong studied him for a long moment. "You speak like someone who's seen many terrible things, but hasn't let them change his heart."
They sat in a comfortable silence while the sun sank further west.
Li Yuan felt the subtle resonance of the understandings within his Ganjing—Water flowing calmly, carrying peace. Silence giving space for Wei Dong's fears without judgment. Sky offering the perspective that all change, no matter how great, is temporary.
And Wei Dong, without knowing why, began breathing deeper. His tense shoulders eased. The furrows of worry on his face softened.
"Strange," he said after a long while. "Usually I can't sit still this long. Always restless, always feeling I should be doing something. But now… now I feel it's fine to just sit."
When the sun was nearly set, Li Yuan stood.
"I should continue on," he said.
Wei Dong rose as well. "Be careful in Lu. It's unstable. Many soldiers, many panicked people."
"Thank you."
"And…" Wei Dong hesitated, "if you ever pass here again, stop by. This hut might not be the same, I might not be here, but… I'll remember this conversation."
Li Yuan nodded. "This conversation will remain, Wei Dong. Even if we both forget it."
Li Yuan walked on as the sky darkened.
He didn't go far—just until he found a suitable place to camp, a small hollow in a cliff sheltered from the night wind.
As he lit a small fire for warmth, Li Yuan reflected on meeting Wei Dong. The humble border guard didn't realize he had become part of something greater—a network of small kindnesses spreading without announcement, peace passed from one heart to another.
This is what it means to flow where one is needed, Li Yuan understood. Not just about the final destination, but about every encounter along the way.
That night, on the border between familiar land and the unknown, Li Yuan slept peacefully.
The eight understandings within his Ganjing vibrated in quiet harmony—like a lullaby sung by a soul that had found its home wherever it stood.
Tomorrow he would enter the State of Lu.
Tomorrow he would meet more people like Wei Dong—ordinary folk afraid, restless, needing someone to sit beside them and remind them that some things cannot be lost, even when the world changes.
But tonight, it was enough.
Tonight, the small warm fire and the wide starry sky were enough.
In the distance, a wolf howled—but its sound no longer carried the fear it had in weeks past.
It was like a night prayer for a world preparing for sleep.
And Li Yuan, with a heart grown more spacious and steps grown lighter, joined that prayer in his own silence—
For Wei Dong, who guarded the border with an unrecognized kindness.
For all the people he would meet tomorrow.
And for a world that kept flowing, kept changing, yet never lost its ability to heal—one small meeting at a time.