Two days after leaving the small village of Xiao Hua, Li Yuan saw his first city in the State of Lu.
Nanping—that was the name, according to the cracked wooden sign by the roadside.
It should have been a peaceful small city, with a traditional market and neatly arranged homes.
But what Li Yuan saw was a city that had changed its face.
The streets were filled with carts of refugees.
Makeshift tents stood wherever there was empty space—in house yards, along the roadside, even in the central square usually used for ceremonies.
People pressed shoulder to shoulder, their faces marked by exhaustion, worry, and confusion.
A city meant to hold five thousand now struggled to contain perhaps twice that number.
Li Yuan entered Nanping with measured steps.
He felt pressure in the air—not only the physical press of so many bodies, but the emotional weight. So much fear, anxiety, and uncertainty mixing together, creating a heavy, suffocating atmosphere.
Children cried from exhaustion.
Elders sat with vacant eyes, unsure what to do.
Mothers tried to soothe infants with voices that carried no calm of their own.
This is the face of war, Li Yuan understood. Not swords and blood, but mass displacement and the loss of home.
He stopped near the public well at the city's center, where a long line of people waited for water.
The line was chaotic.
People shoved, shouted, and fought for position—not out of malice, but because fear made them act so.
Fear of missing out.
Fear of running dry.
Fear of not surviving.
Li Yuan didn't step into the line.
He sat beneath a tree not far from the well, watching the scene, letting his presence slowly be felt.
It didn't take long before the effect began to show.
People nearest the tree began breathing a little deeper.
Their voices grew less sharp.
Their movements less frantic.
An elderly woman with a wooden cane stumbled as she tried to enter the queue.
Several people saw her, but no one helped—not because they didn't care, but because each was too absorbed in their own need.
When survival becomes the only priority, empathy is often the first casualty.
Li Yuan rose and went to her.
"Are you all right, grandmother?" he asked, helping her to her feet.
Tears welled in her eyes. "Thank you, young man. I've been queuing for three days for water, but always lose to those who are faster."
Li Yuan noticed the small bucket in her hand—enough for one person, while others carried large buckets or even barrels.
"Come with me," Li Yuan said.
He walked to the front of the line with the old woman.
Some began to protest.
"Hey, wait your turn!"
"Who does he think he is?"
"We've been waiting too!"
Li Yuan didn't answer.
He simply stood there beside the old woman… and waited.
Something in the way he stood—calm, not confrontational, yet unyielding—caused the protests to slowly fade.
People were still irritated, but somehow they could not hold on to their anger when looking at him.
The big man who had shouted the loudest was the first to speak. "Ah, let her go ahead."
Others began to nod.
"Yeah, poor thing."
"Her bucket's small—won't take long."
After the old woman had her water and left with a grateful smile, Li Yuan remained near the well.
Not to take water for himself—he didn't need any just then.
He was simply… there.
Like a tree giving shade, asking nothing in return, expecting no thanks.
And slowly, the line at the well began to change.
People grew more patient in waiting their turn.
Those with large buckets let those with small ones go first.
Someone shared snacks with crying children.
No one knew why they had begun to act differently.
They only felt that—somehow—near this well, the world seemed a little safer.
A little more human.
That afternoon, Li Yuan walked through Nanping's crowded streets.
Wherever he went, situations slowly became a little more orderly.
Children who had been crying began to quiet.
Adults who had been arguing began to speak in softer tones.
Even stray dogs, restless and pacing, began to sit.
Li Yuan did nothing actively—
no speeches, no distributing food, no directing the flow of refugees.
He simply walked, pausing now and then to help someone up who had fallen, or to give directions to the lost, before moving on.
Yet his presence was like a small stone dropped into a still pond—
sending ripples far beyond the point where it fell.