The Light That Keeps Burning
Li Yuan entered the territory of the State of Lu on the third morning after leaving Wei Dong's border post.
The difference was not immediately visible—the land was still green hills, the road still dirt worn by ox carts, the sky still blue with white clouds drifting slowly.
But there was something in the air that had changed.
Like the scent of rain still far away, yet already felt.
Tension.
Li Yuan didn't need to see soldiers or war banners to sense it.
It was in the way the birds flew—faster, more alert.
In the way the wind carried uneasy whispers from afar.
In the way the sunlight fell—bright, yet somehow thinner.
By late morning, Li Yuan saw a thin thread of smoke rising from beyond a hill.
Smoke from a chimney, not from a fire or a military camp.
He knew the difference—household smoke rose straight and calm; fire smoke was chaotic and dark; military camp smoke was orderly but watchful.
This was the smoke of a village.
He turned his steps toward it—not because he needed anything, but because something within him—perhaps the understanding of Water, perhaps of Sky—whispered that there were people there who needed someone's presence.
The village was small.
Perhaps only fifteen houses, scattered in a small valley sheltered by hills.
Green rice paddies stretched around it, fed by a clear-running stream.
It was the kind of place time might have forgotten—peaceful, simple, far from the noise of the wider world.
But Li Yuan immediately sensed something strange.
Too quiet.
Not the quiet of absence, but the quiet of people being too still.
No children playing in the road.
No chatter from house to house.
No laughter or calls as in other small villages.
Only… a heavy silence.
Li Yuan entered the village with careful steps.
An old man sat on the porch of the first house. He glanced at Li Yuan briefly, then quickly lowered his head and went inside. The door shut tight.
At the second house, a woman was hanging laundry. When she saw Li Yuan, her hands froze. She stared at him with eyes full of… what? Fear? Suspicion? Something more complex?
"Good afternoon," Li Yuan greeted softly.
The woman did not reply. She quickly gathered the rest of the laundry and went inside. The door shut. Curtains drew closed.
Li Yuan stopped in the middle of the narrow village road.
All around, he felt eyes watching—from behind curtains, through door cracks, from small windows. But no one came out. No one asked where he came from or where he was going.
They're afraid, Li Yuan realized. But not afraid of me. Afraid of anyone who is a stranger.
He sat beneath the large tree in the village center—perhaps once a gathering place for news and conversation. Now he was the only one there.
He didn't call out. He didn't knock on doors.
He simply sat, letting his presence be felt slowly, letting the subtle resonance of the understandings in his Ganjing spread naturally.
Nearly an hour passed before he heard small footsteps.
A little girl, perhaps six years old, emerged from a house at the far end. She walked slowly toward him, stopping a few meters from the tree.
"What's your name, Uncle?" she asked in a very small voice.
"Li Yuan," he replied, even softer, so as not to frighten her.
"Where are you from?"
"From the north."
She was quiet for a moment, staring at him with large eyes. "Are you a soldier?"
"No."
"A spy?"
Li Yuan smiled faintly. "No. Just… passing through."
She stepped a little closer.
"Mother says not to talk to strangers. But you're not like the other strangers."
"The other strangers?"
"The ones before. They came, asked questions, and left. They carried swords. Their eyes… were mean."
Li Yuan nodded. "I don't carry a sword."
She glanced at his small pack. "You don't carry anything?"
"I carry calm," Li Yuan said. He didn't know why those words came—they flowed as naturally as water from a spring.
The girl laughed—the first cheerful sound he had heard in the village.
"You can't carry calm, Uncle. Calm is here." She pointed to her chest.
Li Yuan was startled by such wisdom from so young a child.
"You're right," he said. "But sometimes the calm in here can help the calm in there." He pointed to his own chest, then hers.
She thought about it. "Like one fire lighting another?"
"Exactly."
"My name is Xiao Hua," she said. "Mother says our village will be attacked. That's why everyone's scared."
A tightness gripped Li Yuan's chest. "Attacked by who?"
"Don't know. But Mother says if strangers come, it might mean they're close."
Slowly, doors began to open.
Perhaps because they saw Xiao Hua talking with Li Yuan unharmed.
Perhaps because his Ganjing's resonance was easing their fear.
Perhaps simply because humans cannot endure fear in isolation for too long.
A middle-aged woman emerged—perhaps Xiao Hua's mother.
"Xiao Hua, don't bother the guest," she said, but her tone wasn't angry. More… cautious curiosity.
"She's not bothering me," Li Yuan said. "She's wise."
The woman studied him. "You… aren't like the others."
"The others?"
"The spies before. They asked about roads to the city, how many people live here, what food we have. Questions that… felt wrong."
One by one, villagers emerged.
The old man who had hidden earlier. Women with children peeking from behind skirts. A young man standing at a safe distance, watchful but no longer hiding.
They didn't come close, but they came out.
"When was the last news you heard?" Li Yuan asked Xiao Hua's mother.
"Three days ago. Refugees passed through, said Qin's army is gathering at the northern border. Lu's soldiers are moving from the south. And villages like ours…" She trailed off.
Li Yuan understood.
Villages like this would be the first to feel war's touch—too small to defend, too valuable to ignore: food source, troop rest stop, or worst of all, a place to be looted.
"Why have you come here?" asked the old man from a distance.
Li Yuan looked at the faces before him—ordinary people caught in a storm they did not choose: farmers, mothers, children, elders. None had asked for war to come to their homes.
"I came because…" He hesitated. How to explain water flowing to where it is most needed? How to explain being a presence that could bring calm in the midst of a storm?
"… because I thought there were people here who shouldn't face fear alone," he said finally.
Silence fell over the small village.
Not the heavy silence of that morning, but one… filled.
Like the pause in music that makes the next note more beautiful.
Xiao Hua's mother was the first to speak.
"You… won't join us for lunch? It's not much, but there's still some."
Warmth bloomed in Li Yuan's chest. Not from hunger—though it was time to eat—but from knowing the invitation meant fear was receding, replaced by something more fundamental to human nature.
Kindness.
"Thank you," he said. "I would be grateful."
Lunch was simple—rice, vegetables, and small river fish.
But Li Yuan ate it on Xiao Hua's porch, with her sitting beside him, and a few other villagers slowly joining. Not all—some still wary—but enough to make it feel… normal.
Like a peaceful village where a traveler might occasionally stop, welcomed with food.
"Where will you go after this?" asked Xiao Hua's mother, whose name was Liu Mei.
"I'm not sure," Li Yuan answered honestly. "Maybe to the city. Maybe to another village. Wherever I'm needed."
"Be careful," said the old man—Grandfather Chen. "The road south isn't safe. Many soldiers, many panicked people."
Li Yuan nodded. "Thank you for the warning."
That afternoon, Li Yuan sat again beneath the great tree.
But now he wasn't alone. Xiao Hua sat beside him, playing with a worn cloth doll. Liu Mei stepped out from time to time to check on them. A few other children dared to come closer, still shy but curious.
"Uncle Li Yuan," Xiao Hua asked suddenly, "will you leave tomorrow?"
"Perhaps."
"If war comes here, will you come back?"
Li Yuan looked at her—large eyes, innocent face, yet carrying such a heavy question.
"If I can, I will," he said softly. "But what matters is this: remember that the calm inside you will still be there, even if I'm not."
Xiao Hua nodded solemnly. "Like a fire that stays lit even if the first flame is gone?"
"Exactly."
That night, Li Yuan stayed in an empty house at the village edge—its owners had fled the week before.
Liu Mei offered it. "Better than sleeping outside. Nights are cold."
He accepted gratefully.
Before sleeping, he sat on the porch and looked over the village.
It felt different now.
Oil lamps glowed in windows. Soft conversations drifted from homes. Xiao Hua's laughter carried faintly from Liu Mei's house.
That morning, the village had felt like a cluster of houses heavy with fear.
Now, it felt like a small community watching over one another.
This, Li Yuan understood, was presence.
Not doing something grand, but being a safe space where others could return to themselves.
In the morning, as Li Yuan prepared to leave, the whole village came to see him off.
"Be careful, Uncle Li Yuan," Xiao Hua said, hugging his leg.
"Thank you for coming," said Liu Mei. "Yesterday was the first night in a week we've slept peacefully."
"If things get worse," said Grandfather Chen, "we'll remember there are people like you in the world. That gives hope."
Li Yuan looked at their faces—no longer full of paralyzing fear. Concern still lingered—how could it not, with war near—but it had been replaced by something stronger.
Courage born from togetherness.
"You'll be all right," Li Yuan said with a conviction that reached his bones. "You have something no army can take from you."
"What's that?" Xiao Hua asked.
Li Yuan knelt to meet her eyes. "You have each other. And as long as that's true, no one is truly alone."
Li Yuan left the little valley village with a full heart.
Not full from pride or satisfaction, but from witnessing something that never ceased to awe him: humanity's ability to find light in darkness, courage in fear, togetherness in isolation.
He did not know if he would ever see the village again.
Did not know if Xiao Hua would grow up in a peaceful world or one wounded by war.
But he knew this: the flame of calm now lit in their hearts would keep burning, spreading to others, a small light in whatever darkness came.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
In the distance, smoke rose again—perhaps from another village, perhaps a small town.
Li Yuan turned toward it.
Water kept flowing to where it was needed.
And Li Yuan—who now understood he was part of that flow—kept walking steadily toward wherever it called him.
One village at a time.
One heart at a time.
One moment of calm at a time.