The Boundless Field
Li Yuan's body no longer moved.
His final breath escaped like water leaving a cracked vessel.
The flow of blood ceased.
The beating of his heart stopped.
But something else began to happen.
Something that had never before occurred in the history of Daojing.
The ten understandings within his Ganjing—which had always been neatly bound within the physical limits of his body—began to… slip free.
Water flowed outward, no longer bound to a three-meter radius.
Silence spread, no longer confined to the physical presence of one person.
Existence radiated, no longer needing eyes to be seen or a voice to be heard.
The Dao is not bound to the physical, Li Yuan's awareness drifted somewhere between life and death, between the individual and the universal.
The body is a temporary vessel.
Understanding is a space of meaning in the inner world.
And space… needs no walls to exist.
One by one, the ten understandings that had lived within his Zhenjing began to taste a freedom they had never known.
Doubt no longer needed to be restrained for fear of disturbing others—it flowed freely, giving space for questions to anyone in need.
Breath no longer had to synchronize with a single body—it became the rhythm of the universe, inviting all beings to breathe together.
Sky no longer had to fit within the mind of one person—it became a boundless, tangible space, not just a metaphor.
And together… they merged.
Not merged like water blending with water—
but like ten instruments playing the same symphony.
Each kept its own note, yet together they formed a harmony greater than the sum of its parts.
A field of understanding.
A field of meaning.
A field where the Dao flowed unhindered by physical limits.
A one-kilometer radius began to feel small.
The understandings continued to spread.
Two kilometers. Three. Five.
Like ink dropped into water, coloring the whole pool without losing its hue.
Like light spreading from its source, illuminating an entire room without dimming.
Like fragrance carried by the wind, reaching distant noses without losing its scent.
Across the wide battlefield, change began to take hold.
Not dramatic, like an earthquake or a lightning strike—
but subtle, like dawn gradually turning night into day, without a single moment where you could point and say, This is when darkness became light.
A Qin soldier sprinting toward the fighting suddenly slowed.
Not from exhaustion—
but because each step began to follow a different rhythm.
The rhythm of Breath flowing in this space, inviting all beings to move with awareness rather than urgency.
His steps grew deeper.
His breathing steadier.
His mind clearer.
"Why am I rushing?" he murmured to himself.
The question did not come from compulsion, but because Doubt in the air gave space for healthy questions.
A Lu commander shouting orders to his troops suddenly fell silent.
Not because his voice failed—
but because in a space filled with Silence, shouting felt like defiling something sacred.
Like yelling in a temple.
Like speaking loudly in a library.
Like singing joyfully at a funeral.
Not wrong—
but… out of harmony.
He tried to shout again, but his voice emerged as a whisper.
And strangely, the whisper carried more clearly to his troops than his loudest cry.
Because in a space filled with silence, even a whisper had weight.
Thousands of soldiers on both sides began to feel the same.
Water flowed beneath their feet—not physically, but in meaning.
Each step felt like walking through a calm river, urging them to move in harmony with nature's rhythm rather than against it.
Loss touched their hearts gently, reminding them that everyone they killed was someone who would be mourned.
Fear appeared not as terror, but as honesty—an admission that they all feared death, feared killing, feared never returning home.
Body brought awareness to the miracle of moving, breathing, living—and how easily it could be taken away.
Existence reminded them that beneath armor and uniform, they were all humans with names, stories, and someone waiting at home.
Wrapping shielded those not ready to feel it all at once, giving them time to adjust slowly.
Sky gave them a sense of the vastness of the world, and how small this conflict was against the immensity of the universe.
At the center of this vast field, Li Yuan's awareness floated like the eye of a storm.
He felt every soul touched by his understandings.
He felt every question arising.
Every doubt forming.
Every moment when someone began to remember who they truly were.
This is what happens when Ganjing is not bound by flesh, he thought with awe—and a sliver of worry.
The understandings flow everywhere, touching anyone, beyond control.
The field kept expanding.
Ten kilometers. Fifteen. Twenty.
Small towns around the battlefield began to feel its effects.
A merchant weighing goods suddenly felt uneasy at the thought of cheating a customer—Doubt made him question his honesty.
Mothers waiting for their husbands to return from war felt a strange calm—Water gave them the strength to hope without despair.
Children playing in the streets felt a peaceful quiet descend among them—Silence invited them to listen to their own hearts.
This is too big, Li Yuan began to feel a worry he had never known.
Too vast. Too strong.
An understanding forced—even a good one—is not true understanding.
Water that flows too fiercely will drown, not heal.
Light that shines too brightly will blind, not illuminate.
He saw confusion starting to take root in the distance.
A craftsman who usually worked quickly now moved painfully slow—Breath urged him to savor every motion, but he could not finish his work.
A judge, once decisive, now could not pass judgment—Doubt made him question every ruling.
A mother, once quick to scold her children, now could not raise her voice—Silence made harsh tones feel wrong.
The world needs balance, Li Yuan realized.
A place for healthy anger, for quick decisions, for actions that don't require deep thought.
If everyone is always silent, who will shout when danger comes?
If everyone always doubts, who will lead when certainty is needed?
If everyone always flows like water, who will stand like a mountain when stability is required?
The field kept expanding.
Thirty kilometers. Forty. Fifty.
Far away, birds began flying in different patterns—following the rhythm of Breath in the air.
Small rivers flowed more quietly—aligned with the spread of Silence.
The wind blew softer—carrying Water in every breath.
Even nature itself began to shift.
And Li Yuan realized something both terrifying and wondrous—
If this field keeps spreading…
If all ten understandings flow without limit…
The whole world will change.
Everyone will be forced to live by my understanding.
And that… is not Dao.
True Dao grants choice.
It leaves room for difference.
It allows darkness to exist so light can have meaning.
It allows noise to exist so silence can have value.
It allows hatred to exist so love can have strength.
At the center of the ever-expanding field, Li Yuan felt a power he had never imagined before—
The power to change the world.
The power to force everyone to be "good" by his measure.
The power to create paradise on earth.
But he also knew—this power…
Was not the right path.
Understanding forced is not understanding.
Goodness forced is not goodness.
A paradise imposed is hell for those who never chose it.
For the first time in his long journey, Li Yuan faced his greatest trial.
Not whether he was strong enough to change the world—
but whether he was wise enough not to.
Would he allow this field to spread until it enveloped the earth?
Or would he…
Draw it back?
Wrap it again?
Give the world the choice to remain itself?
The field reached sixty kilometers.
And the decision had to be made.
Now.
Author's Note:
Li Yuan's body broke because the magnitude of his understanding exceeded what his physical form could contain. In Daojing, the body remains that of an ordinary human—it does not become physically reinforced like the body of a Qi cultivator.
Whether through conscious choice or impulse, Li Yuan released his understanding out to a 1-kilometer radius—far beyond the normal 100-meter focused range of Ganjing. This alone was already over ten times his safe limit.
But unlike Qi cultivation, Daojing has no "energy" to fuel resonance. It is sustained only by:
Mental focus
Inner stability
The structure of the soul
When he forced all ten understandings to remain active at a range ten times greater than normal:
His soul tore under the collision of overlapping meanings.
His mortal body could not withstand the pressure of such resonance.
It was like trying to draw ten massive war bows at once with an ordinary human body—tendons snapping under the strain.
In Daojing, even at the highest realms, the physical body remains human. Power comes not from muscle or stored energy, but from the resonance of understanding itself.
For that reason, both advancement and survival in Daojing are entirely different from the path of Qi cultivation.