Two months.
Eight weeks, step by step, like drops of water eroding a stone—not with force, but with a persistence born from an understanding of time itself. Li Yuan walked at the pace of an ordinary human, feeling each step like a conversation with the earth that had changed beneath his feet.
He ate fruit when he was hungry—not because his body of consciousness needed food, but because there was a beauty in feeling the sweetness on his tongue, in feeling a texture that reminded him of a simple life. Like a musician playing a familiar melody even though he had transcended the need for music itself.
He drank water from the small rivers he encountered—not because he was thirsty, but because the water spoke to him in a language older than words, in a resonance that connected him to the Understanding of Water that had been a part of his soul for thousands of years. Every sip was a dialogue with the essence he had first understood.
He slept when night came—not because he was tired, but because there was a tranquility in surrendering consciousness to the silence, in allowing his Zhenjing to resonate with the sleeping world. In the dreams he did not have, he heard the whispers of the souls he had gathered, like a song too gentle for a waking mind to hear.
Two months of walking like a human.
Two months of remembering what it felt like to be instead of just understand.
Then, one morning when the dew still hung on the grass like soon-to-be-lost jewels, Li Yuan found them.
Humans.
But not like any he had ever known.
They had lighter skin—not pale from sickness, but like milk mixed with honey, warm yet soft. Their hair had colors strange to Li Yuan's eyes: not the jet black he remembered from thousands of years ago, but brown like autumn soil, blond like sun-scorched wheat, some even red like maple leaves.
Their eyes... blue like a summer sky, green like a forest after rain, brown like fertile earth. Colors that made Li Yuan pause for a moment, not from shock, but because there was a beauty in this diversity he had never witnessed before.
The world has grown, his inner voice whispered in a tone difficult to define. Even in human form.
Li Yuan stood at the edge of a small forest, observing a village nestled in a green valley. Wooden houses with thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, the sound of children's laughter playing—it was all so... normal. So full of life that was not complicated by cultivation, not burdened by the search for power.
He wore simple black clothing that he had formed from the Understanding of Existence—unassuming, not flashy, yet somehow looking like it was made from a finer fabric than any that had ever existed. A black that did not absorb light but embraced it, like silence that did not reject sound but gave it room to resonate.
His body of consciousness appeared to be twenty-five years old—mature yet not burdened by years, strong yet not intimidating. His face had firm yet gentle lines, like a carving made by an artist who understood that true beauty is born from balance.
And his eyes...
Deep gray eyes like a bottomless abyss, but not a frightening abyss—rather, a depth that invited, that promised understanding instead of destruction. Like looking into calm water on a full moon night, where one could see the reflection of infinite stars.
Li Yuan began to walk toward the village.
His steps were silent—not because he was trying to be quiet, but because each step resonated with the ground beneath it, creating harmony instead of disturbance. Like a raindrop falling on the surface of a calm lake—it creates a ripple, but a beautiful ripple.
The first child to see him was a little blond-haired girl gathering wild flowers by the side of the path. When her clear blue eyes met Li Yuan's, she simply stopped.
Not afraid. Not running away.
Just... captivated.
Like seeing something she had been looking for without knowing she was looking for it. Like hearing a song she had once known in a dream, but was only now hearing with her waking ears.
"Who are you?" the little girl asked in a voice as clear as a silver bell.
Li Yuan stopped, then knelt down so his eyes were level with the girl's. A movement performed without thought, but with the understanding that a true conversation happens when eyes meet on the same level.
"I am someone who is walking," he answered in a voice as gentle as the wind blowing through the leaves. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either—like the moon showing only one side to the earth.
The little girl nodded as if the answer were the most logical thing in the world.
"I'm Lila," she said, then pointed toward the village. "That's my house. Mama is cooking soup. Are you hungry?"
The innocence of the question made something in Li Yuan's Zhenjing tremble—not from being struck, but from being reminded. Reminded of a time when simple questions had simple answers, when kindness didn't need a complicated reason.
"Yes," he said, and for the first time in thousands of years, he truly felt hungry. Not a hunger of the body, but a hunger of the soul—a longing for the warmth born from simple togetherness.
Lila took his hand with the innocence of a child who did not yet know that there were people to be feared in this world. Her hand was small and warm, and when she touched Li Yuan's hand, something strange happened.
For a moment—just a moment—Li Yuan's tightly enveloped Ganjing felt... an echo.
Not an echo of his own understanding bouncing back. But an echo of something that could understand. Like a seed that had not yet germinated, but already contained the potential to become a towering tree.
Interesting, Li Yuan's inner voice mused in a tone of curiosity he had not felt in a long time.
They walked together toward the village, Lila talking with a child's cheerfulness about the flowers she had gathered, about the cat that lived in the barn, about her brother who was learning to be a blacksmith. Simple words that flowed like a small stream, not trying to be profound but holding their own depth in their simplicity.
And Li Yuan listened—not with the ears of one who had existed for eleven thousand years, but with the heart of one who was hearing the world speak for the first time.
When they entered the village, the same reaction occurred repeatedly.
A young man carrying firewood for the hearth stopped and stared with an open mouth. A middle-aged woman hanging out clothes dropped the cloth she was holding. An old man sitting in front of his house slowly stood, his eyes blinking as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Not because Li Yuan looked strange or frightening.
On the contrary—they were fascinated because he looked... complete. Like the answer to a question they never knew they were asking. Like a puzzle that had finally found its last missing piece.
The Ganjing resonance enveloped within Li Yuan worked passively, creating a presence that was calm yet undeniable. It did not force, it did not dominate—it just was in a way that made the world around it feel more... real.
"Lila, who is that?" asked a brown-haired woman who came out of one of the houses. Her face was beautiful in a simple way, green eyes full of warmth but also the worry of a mother.
"Mama! This is someone who is walking," Lila answered cheerfully. "He's hungry. Can he have some of our soup?"
The woman—who was clearly Lila's mother—looked at Li Yuan with a gaze mixed with both awe and wariness. Like someone seeing a beautiful wolf—fascinated by its beauty, but not sure if it was safe to approach.
Li Yuan took a step forward, then bowed slightly in a natural, unforced gesture of respect.
"My apologies for disturbing the peace of your day," he said in a voice that made the words feel like a sincere prayer. "I am a traveler passing by. Your daughter has kindly offered me the warmth I need."
The way he spoke—with respect but not servility, with formality but not stiffness—made the woman feel as if she were talking to... a nobleman? Or perhaps someone even higher than that, yet with the humility to speak like a common person.
"Of course," she said finally, the wariness in her voice melting into genuine warmth. "I'm Anna. Please, come in. The soup is almost ready."
When Li Yuan entered the simple house, something in his Zhenjing trembled with a feeling he had not felt in a long time.
Home.
Not a magnificent palace or a grand library or a silent meditation cave.
But a home—with the heart-warming aroma of soup, with the gentle creak of wood, with the sunlight coming through a small window and dancing on the simple wooden table.
And for the first time in eleven thousand years, Li Yuan felt he had found the right place to start something new.
Something that would perhaps change this world forever.
But that change, he knew, had to begin with the simplest thing of all.
With sharing soup with a mother and her daughter, in a small, warm home, in a village that had never heard the word 'cultivation.'
Like all true understanding, Li Yuan's inner voice said with deep tenderness, it begins with the simplest things.