That day, the sky was overcast.
Clouds rolled slowly above the village, and the wind carried with it something unspoken—like news that couldn’t be put into words.
Li Yuan sat once more on the floor of the crumbling house, across from the old man who had been his teacher for some time. But this time, the atmosphere was different. The old man seemed calmer than usual—too calm, as if he were preparing to say something final.
He looked at Li Yuan gently, then pulled out a worn cloth bundle. Inside it, there was no book, no scroll—only an old brush and a stone of black ink.
“Li Yuan… I’ve taught you all that I am able to teach.
The rest, you must find on your own.”
Li Yuan lowered his head.
“Master, I still want to learn…”
The old man smiled.
“Learning doesn’t end when there is no teacher.
Learning truly begins when you walk the path alone.”
He gazed out the window, as if seeing something far beyond the trees and mountain mist.
“I only want you to remember one thing…”
Then he spoke, slowly, with a trembling depth:
“I hope you will one day enter a library and read the books of those who came before.
Because books also offer us opportunities…
And I hope you will understand.”
Li Yuan looked at him, his eyes glassy with emotion.
The words were simple, yet they felt like an invisible gate opening in his mind.
Opportunity.
Understanding.
Meaning.
In that moment, the world around him felt wider.
He was no longer just sitting in a small wooden house.
He was standing on the threshold of a new world—
a world built from words, thought, and the understanding of those who came before.
The next day, the old man was gone.
No footprints, no sound—
as if he had been no more than a dream in Li Yuan’s life.
But on the corner of the table, a single old book was left behind,
empty of writing—except for one line on the very first page:
“Whoever reads in search of understanding… has begun the journey to their true self.”
And that was the moment.
The first gate of understanding had opened.