Li Yuan found the perfect spot on the highest mountain peak—a small plateau surrounded by ancient rock formations, where the wind whispered in a language older than any civilization. Perpetual snow covered most of the area, but in the middle, a small space protected by large rocks was warm enough for a person to sit in silence.
He didn't need physical protection. His consciousness body didn't feel the cold like a normal flesh body. But there was something about this place that resonated with his Zhenjing—a silence so profound that even thoughts were reluctant to intrude.
This is a good place for contemplation, Li Yuan thought as he sat cross-legged on a flat rock.
The journey from the Kingdom of Tianshan still echoed in his mind. The faces of the people he had met, the choices they had made, and the fear he had shown them—all were experiences that required deep reflection.
He closed his eyes and allowed his consciousness to sink inward. It wasn't sleep in the normal sense—a cultivator at his level didn't need sleep. It was more like... a nap for the soul. A rest from interaction with the outside world, a retreat into his Zhenjing to integrate all the experiences that had accumulated.
In that silence, Li Yuan began to feel a subtle shift within his inner world.
His Zhenjing—the internal landscape he had built over thousands of years—was a complex and living structure. At its center flowed the Understanding of Water, the Core Consciousness that served as the foundation for all his other understandings. From there grew the branches of understanding: Silence, Fear, Loss, Soul, and fifteen others that had matured into full "fruits."
But now, in a corner of his Zhenjing that he had never noticed before, there was something new.
It was like a sprout emerging from the ground after the first rain of spring—so small, so fragile, almost invisible. If Li Yuan hadn't been in such a deep state of meditation, he might not have noticed it.
What is this?
Li Yuan directed his gentle attention toward the spiritual sprout. He didn't touch it, didn't try to force it to grow—he only observed with a curiosity that had become his fundamental nature since he was a child.
The sprout... had no clear form. It was not like the flowing Understanding of Water, or the serene Understanding of Silence, or the sharp Understanding of Fear. This was something more... abstract. More fundamental in a way that was difficult to describe with words.
In Li Yuan's consciousness, vague fragments of understanding emerged:
A seed falling to the ground.
Roots penetrating the darkness.
Leaves opening to the light.
A cycle that never ends.
From the small to the great.
From the invisible to the tangible.
This was not an understanding of growth in a physical sense. This was an understanding of... potential? Transformation? The process of becoming something that doesn't yet exist but is always possible?
Li Yuan didn't know. And for the first time in thousands of years, he felt the joy of that not-knowing.
This is a mortal Dao, he realized with a gentle surprise. An understanding that has no name yet, no fixed form. Like morning mist that can become anything depending on how the sun shines on it.
He did not try to name the spiritual sprout. Naming something that has not yet fully materialized is like trying to catch water with a net—it will only cause its essence to slip away.
Let it grow in its own time, Li Yuan decided with a wisdom that came from long experience. If this is truly a new understanding, it will find its own form. If not, it will return to being a part of the unformed Dao.
With that decision, Li Yuan allowed his attention to flow back into a broader state of meditation. He did not focus on the new sprout, did not try to understand it by force. He simply... let it be, like a farmer who plants a seed and then lets nature do its work.
Days passed like calm breaths. On the mountaintop, time flowed with a different rhythm than the world below. The sun rose and set, the moon appeared and disappeared, but Li Yuan remained seated in near-perfect silence.
His consciousness body did not move. No one could tell whether he was still conscious or had sunk completely into his inner world. Even the birds that occasionally landed on a nearby rock did not disturb the silence—as if they knew there was something sacred about this moment.
Within his Zhenjing, an unseen process was occurring. All the experiences he had gathered during his visit to the Kingdom of Tianshan—the conversation with Inspector Chen, the confrontation with King Tianlong, the faces of the commoners filled with hope and fear—all of it was being integrated, digested, and transformed into a deeper understanding.
Like a tree pulling nutrients from the soil, Li Yuan drew lessons from experience. Like water absorbing minerals from the rocks it passes over, his consciousness absorbed the meaning from every interaction he had experienced.
And in the corner of his Zhenjing, the small sprout continued to grow—very slowly, almost invisibly, but still growing. The fragile spiritual roots began to penetrate deeper into the foundation of his consciousness. The almost-transparent stem began to lengthen, millimeter by millimeter.
But it was still too early to say what would grow from that sprout. Would it become a full understanding that enters the Ganjing Realm? Or would it remain as a mortal understanding, something that exists but is not yet fully materialized?
Li Yuan was in no hurry to find the answer.
Weeks turned into months. Snow fell and melted, the wind changed direction with the seasons, but Li Yuan remained motionless. To an outside observer, he might have looked like a stone statue—so still, so calm, so in tune with his surroundings that he was almost invisible.
But in the depths of his Zhenjing, there was intense activity. Every understanding he had reached was being reorganized, reconnected, and integrated in new ways. The Understanding of Water flowed through all the other understandings, calming what was too harsh, moistening what was too dry, bringing harmony into the complex structure.
The Understanding of Silence created a space where other understandings could breathe. The Understanding of Fear reminded him of the importance of facing difficult truths. The Understanding of Loss taught him about letting go of what could not be held on to. And so on, in a complicated dance of spiritual resonance.
And in the midst of it all, the small, nameless sprout continued to grow.
By the end of the first year, the sprout had grown into... something a little bigger. Not a tree, not even a shrub—more like a fragile young plant with a few newly opened leaves. Its form was still unclear, its essence still vague, but there was an undeniable presence.
Interesting, Li Yuan thought with an undying curiosity. In all my thousands of years of cultivation, I have never experienced an understanding that grows this way. Usually, understandings come like a sudden enlightenment—a moment when something not understood suddenly becomes clear.
But this... this is like watching a plant grow from a seed. The process is gradual, organic, and cannot be forced or hurried. I can only provide the right conditions and let nature do the rest.
Is this the Dao showing me something new? That not all understandings come in the same way? That some require time, patience, and faith in a process that cannot be seen?
Li Yuan opened his eyes for the first time in a year. The sunlight was dazzling after the long darkness of meditation. He blinked a few times, allowing his vision to adjust.
The mountains around him looked the same as when he first arrived—ancient rock formations, snow covering the peaks, a sky that was blue and vast. But there was something different. Or perhaps it was he who was different.
A year, he mused with a faint smile. For a normal human, that's a long time. But for me, it's like... a refreshing nap.
He stood up slowly, stretching his consciousness body even though he didn't truly need to—more as a ritual to mark the transition from deep meditation back to interaction with the physical world.
Through his Wenjing Realm, he began to feel the vibrations of life beneath the mountains. There were small villages, trade roads, human communities living their routines. And in the distance, he could still sense it, was the capital of the Kingdom of Tianshan.
How are they now? Li Yuan wondered with genuine curiosity. Did they use the fear I showed them as a catalyst for change? Or did they return to old patterns after the trauma faded?
He did not intend to go back. His work there was done. But...
Through his Wenjing Realm, he heard something that made his brow furrow slightly. There was... a dark intention. Very dark. Like a shadow spreading over fertile ground, contaminating everything it touched.
What is happening there?
Li Yuan expanded the reach of his Wenjing Realm, pushing his perception to its maximum limit. From this distance—hundreds of kilometers—he could only catch faint echoes, but what he heard made something cold flow through his consciousness.
Death. A fear deeper than before. A suffocating despair. And at the center of it all, a familiar intention—blind arrogance mixed with growing paranoia.
King Tianlong.
Li Yuan stood on the edge of the cliff, staring in the direction of the capital that was invisible from this distance. The mountain wind blew through his hair, carrying whispers from the world below.
What have you done, you foolish king?
A decision had to be made. He could continue his journey to another part of this world, letting the Kingdom of Tianshan handle their own problems. Or he could go back to see what had happened during the year he was gone.
Li Yuan closed his eyes and listened more deeply. Through the medium of water—the dew in the air, the rivers flowing from the mountains, the vapor from the breath of millions of living beings—he could hear the story carried by the water.
And what he heard made his decision clear.
I have to go back.
Not because he felt responsible for what happened. Every human has free will, and the consequences of those choices are their own responsibility.
But there was something about the dark intention he felt—something that reminded him of the faces of the commoners he had met, of Uncle Wu teaching children with fragile hope, of Mei selling soup with trembling hands but enduring.
If injustice has increased to the point where innocent people are suffering more severely than before...
Li Yuan did not finish the thought. He didn't need to. His anger—not an anger that exploded and lost control, but an anger that was cold and contained like the ice on the mountaintop—had already begun to flow through his consciousness.
Even the Understanding of Water, which usually calmed all extreme emotions, could not completely quell this anger. Because this was an anger born from a deep understanding of justice, from thousands of years of witnessing unnecessary cruelty, from the realization that some choices are so foolish and selfish that their consequences must be faced.
Alright, Li Yuan decided with cold finality. I will go back. And this time, I will not just show a mirror. I will let the people choose their own justice.
But first, I need to see with my own eyes what has happened.
With that decision, Li Yuan stepped off the edge of the cliff. His body did not fall—it hovered down with full control, carried by the understandings of Water and Sky working in perfect harmony.
The journey back to the Kingdom of Tianshan had begun.
And the world, without realizing it, was about to witness what happens when someone who has lived for fifteen thousand years and has learned the true meaning of patience... finally loses that patience.