A Qin commander finally broke the silence with a roar:
"Remove that man! He's blocking the battle!"
Several Qin soldiers stepped forward toward Li Yuan—but their steps were hesitant.
They didn't know what to do with someone who neither fought, nor fled, nor surrendered.
When they were only a few meters away, the strangest thing happened.
The anger in their eyes began to fade.
Their grips on their weapons loosened.
The breath that had been ragged with battle-readiness grew steady.
"I…" one of them said, bewildered, "I don't know why, but I can't be angry at him."
Li Yuan looked at the soldiers surrounding him with calm eyes.
"You don't need to be angry," he said, his voice not loud, yet somehow carrying clearly across the still battlefield. "You don't need to be afraid, either."
"But we have to fight!" one soldier shouted—though his voice was uncertain.
"Why?" Li Yuan asked simply.
The soldier froze. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because as he reached for it, he realized how tangled and unclear those reasons really were.
"Because… because we were ordered," he finally said.
"By whom?"
"By the commander."
"And the commander was ordered by whom?"
"By the king."
"And the king is ordered by whom?"
Again, silence. Li Yuan wasn't cornering him with questions—he was giving him space to think.
That exchange was overheard by the soldiers nearby, and slowly the words spread through the ranks.
"Why are we fighting?" a Lu soldier whispered to his comrade.
"For the country," came the answer—but without conviction.
"But who benefits if we die?"
Such questions began surfacing everywhere. Not because Li Yuan spoke to each one, but because his presence created a space where questions long buried could rise to the surface.
The commanders began to panic as their soldiers started questioning their orders.
"Don't listen to that madman!" a Qin commander bellowed. "He's a spy sent to break our formation!"
"Kill him!" a Lu commander roared. "He must be sent by the enemy to weaken our resolve!"
But when soldiers moved forward to "remove" Li Yuan, the same thing happened again: the closer they came to him, the harder it became to hold on to anger or hatred.
Li Yuan did nothing to defend himself.
No martial arts, no display of power—just… being.
And that being—charged with the harmony of ten understandings in his Ganjing—created something never before seen on any battlefield: space for questions, space for doubt, space for choice.
"I don't want to kill this man," a Qin soldier said softly but firmly. "I don't know why, but I can't."
"Me neither," said a Lu soldier from the other side. "It just… feels wrong."
That choice spread like fire.
Not the fire of rage, but the fire of awareness.
One by one, soldiers from both sides began lowering their weapons.
Not from fear, nor from defeat—but because, for the first time in days, they had the space to think.
To question.
To choose.
And when given a truly free choice, most people do not choose to kill.
The commanders watched with a mixture of fury and dread.
"This is treason!" a Qin commander roared, raising a massive sword that gleamed with destructive aura. "If you won't kill him, I will!"
He leapt high—an impossible leap for an ordinary man, as high as three trees—and came diving down toward Li Yuan, sword flashing like lightning.
This is it, Li Yuan thought calmly. The true test.
He did not run.
Did not evade.
Did not strike back.
He simply stood, the ten understandings within his Ganjing vibrating at their peak.
A heartbeat before the blade struck, something unexpected happened.
The commander—in midair, locked in a strike that could not be reversed—met Li Yuan's gaze.
And in those eyes, he saw no fear, no hatred.
He saw… acceptance.
Acceptance so deep it was as if he were staring into a mirror of his own soul.
Who is it I truly want to kill? The thought burst unbidden into his mind. And why?
The sword still descended, but the force behind it ebbed—not from loss of skill, but from loss of will.
The blade stopped just above Li Yuan's head.
It did not strike, but neither was it withdrawn. The commander stood frozen in his attack stance, eyes locked with Li Yuan's.
"Why…" he whispered, voice trembling, "…why aren't you afraid?"
Li Yuan looked at him with compassion. "Because you don't truly wish to kill."
"But I must! You're disrupting the war!"
"Is this war truly yours? Or are you only following orders?"
The question struck like lightning. Years of training, of becoming strong, of being feared and respected—yet when had he last chosen for himself?
The commander slowly lowered his sword.
"I…" he said hoarsely, "…I don't know anymore."
Li Yuan nodded gently. "Not knowing is the beginning of truly knowing."
The commander stepped back, his eyes empty—but not with despair. Empty like a bowl, ready to be filled with something new.
Seeing their commander falter and retreat, soldiers on both sides began looking at one another.
Not with the eyes of enemies anymore. But with the eyes of men equally confused, equally tired, equally longing to go home.
"Do we… do we still have to fight?" a young soldier asked aloud, to anyone who would answer.
No one did. Because for the first time, no one was certain.
Li Yuan stood in a deeper silence than before.
Not the silence of tension, but the silence of reflection.
Thousands were now asking themselves questions they might never have dared to ask before.
Why am I here?
What do I truly want?
Who actually gains if I die today?
And in that silence, Li Yuan felt something he had never felt before.
Not power in the usual sense.
But… possibility.
The possibility that thousands could choose another path.
The possibility that war could end not because someone won or lost, but because no one wanted to continue.
The possibility that water could reshape the battlefield without striking anyone.
The sun was tilting westward.
The battle that should have begun that morning and ended with thousands of corpses had instead halted in silence and questions.
Li Yuan still stood at the center—not as victor or vanquished, but as… space.
Space where thousands had found a choice they never knew existed.
The choice not to kill.
The choice not to die.
The choice to go home.
Water has flowed to where it was most needed, Li Yuan thought, gratitude filling his heart.
And what was most needed was not healing after battle—
but preventing the battle entirely.
By giving space to the questions that had never been dared to ask.
Space for healthy doubt.
Space to choose love over hate.
The first day of war ended.
With no blood spilled.
No lives lost.
No victory or defeat.
Only with questions that would echo in the hearts of thousands.
Questions that might change everything.
Or perhaps nothing.
But at least today, the water had flowed.
And no one had drowned.