Three months had passed since Li Yuan discovered the spiritual spring in the western cave.
The season had changed from rain to a light dry season, and Narau Island showed a different face. The foliage that was previously lush green had now turned into shades of golden and deep red. The small rivers flowed more slowly, and the air carried a warmer scent.
Li Yuan stood in his yard, observing the changes in the plants in his formation. They had adapted to the new season—their leaves changing color, the way they conserved water, how they adjusted their spiritual communication patterns to different environmental conditions.
"You teach me about acceptance," Li Yuan murmured while watering the plants with water from a small spring near his house.
Not that the plants needed the extra water—they had learned to survive in dry conditions. But Li Yuan did this as part of his daily rhythm, a way to stay connected to meaningful activities.
His consciousness body didn't require food or drink, but he still collected fruits from the island's trees and prepared them as if he were going to eat them. The process was more important than the result—the hand movements that selected the ripe fruit, the aroma that was inhaled, the texture that was felt.
A way to remember what it was like to be human.
Every morning, Li Yuan began his day by walking around the island. Not to patrol or oversee, but to listen. With his Understanding of Water in the Wenjing domain, he listened to the stories carried by the morning dew, the small changes in the spiritual conversations between plants, the news from the ocean currents that reached the shore.
The island breathed with a consistent rhythm, but it was never exactly the same from day to day. There were always small variations, subtle adjustments, and ongoing learning.
Like cultivation, Li Yuan mused. It's never stagnant, always moving, even if the changes are sometimes too subtle to notice.
The afternoons were usually spent maintaining his house. Fixing parts of the roof that were loosening from the sea wind. Cleaning the rain gutters that were clogged with dry leaves. Rearranging the stones that served as his house's foundation to make them more stable.
Simple work, but Li Yuan did it with full attention. Every movement was done with the same awareness as when he meditated. Not in a hurry, not carelessly.
"In manual labor," he often said to himself, "there is a meditation not found in stillness."
The evenings were for sitting in the cave with the spiritual spring. Not to use its water or try to manipulate it, but to listen to the thousands of years of archives stored within it.
Every day, Li Yuan discovered a new layer of the island's history. Stories about a major storm that came every few decades. Stories about how the oldest trees on the island grew from seeds brought by birds from a distant land. Records of how the spiritual ecosystem slowly developed over centuries.
"Patience," he whispered into the darkness of the cave, "is the true currency of time."
The nights were always spent in meaningful silence. Li Yuan sat in his yard, surrounded by the sounds of the island night—the rustle of dry leaves, the sound of waves hitting the shore, the occasional call of a night bird to its mate.
In that silence, he did not meditate in a formal sense. He just existed. Breathing with the island's rhythm. Letting his thoughts flow like water, without a specific goal.
Sometimes, in moments like these, small understandings would emerge. Not a great enlightenment or a dramatic spiritual breakthrough, but subtle insights into how life works. About how consciousness interacts with existence. About how solitude can be a form of community with the universe.
Today, as the sun began to set, Li Yuan decided to do something different. He took a piece of wood he had shaped a few days earlier and began to carve.
Not a specific image or pattern. His hands moved with the wood's grain, letting the natural shape of the material determine the direction of the carving. Like water flowing along the contours of the land, his hands flowed with the character of the wood.
What emerged was something simple yet beautiful—a bird with half-open wings, as if deciding whether to fly or to stay perched.
"Like myself," Li Yuan gave a small smile, looking at his carving.
He placed the wooden carving on a flat stone in the middle of the plant formation. In the twilight, the wooden bird looked as if it were waiting for something.
Waiting for a decision. Waiting for the right time. Waiting for a call that only the heart can hear.
Li Yuan sat cross-legged in front of the carving, watching the island slowly be swallowed by the darkness of the night. The stars began to appear one by one in the clear sky, and the sound of the waves became a constant and soothing backdrop.
Three months on this island had taught him about a different rhythm. Not the rhythm of cultivation that is always chasing the next level or a deeper understanding. But the rhythm of life itself—waking, working, resting, sleeping. A simple yet meaningful cycle.
"Perhaps," he said to the wooden bird, "sometimes stopping the chase is the best way to move forward."
The night wind blew gently, moving the dry leaves around him. In that sound, Li Yuan heard whispers about time—about how these quiet moments are just as valuable as moments of great enlightenment.
About how a simple life can be the most profound form of cultivation.
About how learning to be content with presence is a spiritual achievement no less high than mastering complex understandings.
Li Yuan closed his eyes and allowed himself to become a part of the night's silence. Not searching for anything, not chasing anything. Just existing, breathing, living.
In that simplicity, there was a peace he had never found in all his complicated spiritual cultivation.
And for the first time in thousands of years, Li Yuan felt that he was enough. Not less, no need for more. Just enough.
The wooden bird in front of him seemed to nod in the moonlight, as if understanding the unspoken decision of the heart: for a while, he would learn how not to fly.