Li Yuan emerged from the cave after nine days of meditation into a world that had changed.
Not only the world around him—though that, too, had shifted.
The sounds of war preparations were now louder and closer. The air was thick with the scent of metal and sweat. Even the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble faintly under the synchronized steps of thousands moving in formation.
But the greatest change was in the world within him.
The ten understandings within his Ganjing now vibrated in a harmony he had never felt before—like an orchestra that had finally found the perfect root note, even if the piece they were about to play was a farewell song.
Li Yuan descended the final slope toward the valley that would soon be a battlefield.
With each step, he felt the pressure grow—not a physical force, but the weight of thousands of souls: fearful, angry, confused, or in despair.
It was like walking into an emotional storm so vast it could have halted his steps.
But the new understanding of Loss, freshly woven into his Ganjing, gave him something different: space to feel all of it without drowning. Space to be present in the midst of suffering without being consumed by it, to witness destruction without being destroyed.
So this is surrender, Li Yuan understood. Not giving up, but accepting without resistance—like water taking the shape of its vessel without losing its nature.
By the time the sun was high, Li Yuan reached the edge of the battlefield.
What he saw exceeded his worst imaginings.
On the northern side of the valley, the Qin army stood in perfect formation—row upon row of soldiers in red armor, shields gleaming, spears jutting upward like a forest of steel.
At their head stood the commanders, their auras so intense they could be felt even from here—men who could turn a tree to dust, who could make a man vanish with a single touch.
On the southern side, the Lu army was no less formidable—blue uniforms, tight formations, eyes sharp with focus. Their commanders radiated a power equally formidable.
And in between, a wide, empty valley floor—kilometers across—waiting to be filled with blood.
How many of them are like Wang Tao? Li Yuan wondered, scanning the countless faces on both sides. How many truly don't want to be here?
At that moment, the first sound came.
TAAAANG!
The war trumpet from the northern side—long, metallic, and sharp—rang out like the cry of a giant across the valley.
In an instant, thousands of bodies moved. The Qin army advanced in perfect rhythm, shields raised, spears ready to strike.
TAAAANG!
The southern trumpet answered. The Lu army moved forward as well, matching the pace and resolve.
And Li Yuan stood in the middle of the valley—exactly where the two waves of fury would meet.
Now or never, he thought.
He began walking toward the very center of the battlefield, his steps calm but steady.
Not rushing or hurrying, yet not hesitating. Like water that knew exactly where it must flow, even if that current led to danger.
The ten understandings within his Ganjing began to move of their own accord.
Not forced, not deliberate—natural, like breath or a heartbeat.
Water—flowing to where it was most needed.
Stillness—creating space amid chaos.
Emptiness—being present without taking sides.
Fear—receiving and transforming it.
Enclosure—shielding the weak from the strong.
Doubt—reminding that there is another choice.
Breath—spreading calm.
Sky—granting a wider view.
Body—ready to heal the wounded.
Loss—teaching that love does not end when life ends.
When the two armies were only a few hundred meters apart, the first strange thing happened.
A Qin soldier in the front line—a young man in his twenties—suddenly stopped.
Not from fear or hesitation, but because… he had seen Li Yuan.
The young man stared, confusion in his eyes.
Why was someone walking so calmly in the middle of a battlefield? No weapon, no uniform, no mark of either side?
"Who is that?" he shouted to the soldier beside him.
But his companion had already seen Li Yuan too—and stopped, eyes fixed on the figure whose calmness stood in such stark contrast to the chaos around him.
The effect spread like ripples across water.
One by one, soldiers from both sides began to notice Li Yuan. Not because he had done anything spectacular, but because his presence was… different.
So calm in the midst of madness, so peaceful amid hatred.
"Who is he?" whispered a Lu soldier.
"Why is he there?" asked another.
"Is he insane?" muttered a third.
Yet beneath the murmurs was something more than curiosity. Something that made their steps falter, though they could not explain why.
The commanders noticed as well.
From the north, a Qin commander barked, "Who is that man? A spy? A messenger?"
From the south, a Lu commander called back, "We don't know him! Probably a lunatic!"
But even the commanders—with all their power and rage—felt something strange as they looked at Li Yuan.
It was like seeing a fire that gave no heat, or a storm that made no sound.
Li Yuan kept walking until he reached the point roughly midway between the two advancing forces.
Then he stopped.
He did nothing—no shout, no raised hand, no dramatic gesture.
He simply… stood.
Like a tree in the middle of a plain.
Like a rock in the middle of a river.
Like stillness in the middle of noise.
And then, something extraordinary happened.
Both armies—thousands with weapons raised, their fury stoked for days, primed to kill—began to slow.
Not because of orders from above.
Not from fear or tactics.
But because… they didn't know how to respond to Li Yuan.
How do you strike someone who does not strike?
How do you hate someone who does not hate?
How do you wage war against someone who does not wage it?
A strange quiet descended on the battlefield.
Not total silence—there was still the sound of strained breathing, the scrape of metal, the restless stamping of horses.
But it was the quiet of action suspended, of violence paused before it began.
And Li Yuan stood in that stillness like the eye of a storm—the point of calm at the heart of chaos.