The sky darkened. The sun vanished.
The silence Li Yuan had brought yesterday—like morning dew—was there at dawn, but it evaporated when the fire returned to burn again.
War horns sounded. From the north, from the south.
The water that had once been calm now rippled again.
Li Yuan stood on a small hill, gazing down.
Thousands of people moved like clashing currents—water that had lost its direction, its stillness.
Water has forgotten its own nature, he thought. It has forgotten that to flow is not the same as to attack.
The understanding within his Ganjing trembled. Ten chambers in his inner world resonated, longing to open, to pour out.
But Li Yuan wrapped them tightly.
Like covering a mirror with a soft cloth, so the reflection would not be too sharp for eyes unready to see.
If left uncovered—if the ten understandings flowed without restraint—anyone who looked at him would see their true selves.
Not the masks they wore, nor the roles they played.
Their real selves.
And not everyone was ready for that.
Not in the middle of fire.
Li Yuan descended from the hill.
He stepped into the chaos with the same calm he had when walking through an empty forest.
Water does not change its nature simply because it flows among sharp stones.
A Qin soldier lay on the ground. Blood flowed from his abdomen like a small river gone astray.
Li Yuan knelt. His hand hovered over the wound—never touching, simply… there.
The understanding of Body flowed. Gentle. Wrapped thinly so as not to startle.
The understanding of Breath resonated alongside it. Like a breeze that did not blow hard, only carried coolness.
The blood ceased to flow.
The ragged breathing grew calm.
"Who…"
"Water," Li Yuan replied simply. "Flowing to where it is dry."
The soldier stared at him with bewildered eyes. And in that bewilderment was a spark of something—like someone who almost remembered a beautiful dream.
"Why… help your enemy?"
Li Yuan looked at him. His gray eyes were as calm as the surface of a lake at dusk.
"I saw thirst. Not an enemy."
Water flowed to the next place.
A Lu soldier with a broken arm. A Qin commander with a wound in his chest. A boy of sixteen weeping for his mother.
Li Yuan moved among them like water seeking gaps between stones.
He did not choose. Water does not ask who deserves to drink.
And wherever he went, silence began to grow.
Not a deadly silence. A living silence. One that gave space.
Space to breathe.
Space to see.
Space to ask.
A radius of three meters. A small circle where the understandings of Water and Silence flowed slowly, wrapped gently like morning mist.
Within that circle, anger did not vanish—but it loosened.
Hatred did not disappear—but it began to question itself.
Fear did not dissolve—but it found the courage to face the mirror.
"Kill that meddler!"
The voice of a Lu commander rang out in the distance, like a great stone thrown into a still lake.
A group of soldiers charged toward Li Yuan. Swords raised. Eyes burning.
Li Yuan stood still. He did not run. He did not evade.
Water does not fear stone. Water only seeks a way to flow.
When the first soldier stepped into the three-meter circle, something happened.
The wrapping around the understanding of Existence loosened—just slightly. Like a curtain lifting for only a heartbeat.
And in that instant, the soldier saw.
Not with his eyes. With something deeper.
He saw himself.
Not the "brave warrior" he tried to believe he was.
Not the "defender of the realm" he tried to prove himself to be.
He saw a young farmer longing for his fields.
A husband who had promised to return to his pregnant wife.
A child still afraid of the dark, yet forced to kill in broad daylight.
He saw the fear buried beneath his shouts of bravery.
He saw the sorrow masked by his anger.
He saw the question he had never dared to ask: Why must I kill someone who has never harmed me?
The sword in his hand trembled.
It fell.
"I…" his voice quivered like a leaf in the wind, "I saw myself."
The soldier behind him stopped, confused.
"What do you mean, saw yourself?"
"He… is like a mirror. But a mirror that shows… who we truly are."
Li Yuan quickly wrapped his understanding once more. Tight.
Not everyone was ready to face the mirror. Not all at once. Not in the middle of raging fire.
Understanding must be wrapped like medicine too strong—given little by little, so it does not shock the unready soul.
Li Yuan continued on.
Like water that never stops flowing. Seeking cracks. Seeking thirst.
Wherever he passed, small circles formed.
Circles of silence.
Circles of understanding.
Circles where people began to see—slowly, cautiously—who they truly were.
Not enough to stop the war. Li Yuan did not imagine he could change a great river with a single touch.
But enough to give a drop of water to the thirsty.
Enough to give silence to those tired of shouting.
Enough to give a mirror to those who had long forgotten their own faces.
Evening came.
Li Yuan stood again on a small hill—now filled with small tents. A place where he gathered the wounded—from north and south, without distinction.
Here, there were no enemies.
Here, there were only human beings who bled the same, breathed the same, and wished to go home.
Qin soldiers gave water to Lu soldiers.
Lu soldiers bound the wounds of Qin soldiers.
They spoke little. But in the silence, there was an understanding that needed no words.
We are the same.
We are human.
We are all far from home.
Li Yuan sat under the first appearing stars.
The ten understandings within his Ganjing trembled softly. Like water flowing calmly after a day of passing over sharp stones.
He felt something new being born within him.
Not a new understanding for the Ganjing.
An understanding of… his place.
He was not the one who would extinguish the fire with a single breath.
He was not the one who would turn the desert green with a single rain.
He was a small spring in the heart of a burning desert.
One that did not cry, "Come!"
One that simply existed when someone found it.
One that did not choose who may drink.
One that flowed for anyone who thirsted.
A spring does not end the desert's heat. But it gives life to anyone who finds it.
A spring does not change the world. But it changes the day for those who drink from it.
Night deepened.
In the distance, the sound of weeping still lingered. Weeping of loss. Weeping of pain. Weeping that asked why.
But in the small tents around Li Yuan, there were other sounds.
The soft sound of gratitude.
The gentle sound of understanding.
The thin but real sound of hope.
Li Yuan closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the war would continue. The fire would burn again. The waters would clash once more.
But the spring would never cease to flow.
Water never tires of being water.
And where there is thirst, there water will flow.
Drop by drop.
Bringing life to the driest places.
Bringing silence to the noisiest places.
Bringing mirrors to where people have forgotten their own faces.
Flowing to the low places.
Giving life.
Never ceasing to move.
That is the nature of water.
That is the way of Li Yuan.
And that night, in the heart of a battlefield still boiling, the little spring flowed within dreams.
Flowing calm.
Never stopping.
Never tiring of being itself.