Three days after the burial, Li Yuan was still in the valley.
He hadn't planned on staying this long—or perhaps he had without realizing it, because there was something unfinished, something not yet fully understood, something still whispering on the edge of his consciousness like a sound that was almost audible but not yet clear enough to grasp.
Every morning, he came to the old tree and sat in the same spot where Chen Ming had once sat—his back leaning against the rough trunk, his hands resting on his lap, his eyes staring at the garden that was now empty but still bore the traces of the hands that had tended it with so much affection.
The grave was at his side—a mound of fresh earth not yet overgrown with grass, which still carried the scent of wet soil and a life that had been returned to its source.
He did not speak to the grave. He did not pray or perform a ritual. He just... sat. Present. Letting the silence speak in a way that words could not.
The Understanding of the Body—which had been calling with a subtle whisper since he arrived in this valley—now spoke with a louder, clearer, more urgent voice.
But it was not an impatient or demanding urgency. It was a gentle urgency, like a child pulling on the hem of a parent's clothes, asking for attention without anger, only with a simple desire to be heard.
You have seen, the Understanding of the Body whispered in a voice that sounded like an echo in his Zhenjing. But have you felt?
Li Yuan closed his eyes—eyes that had seen sixteen thousand years of life, that had witnessed the birth and death of thousands of civilizations, that had stared into the depths of oceans and the heights of mountains and the endless darkness of the night.
Eyes that had seen so much that seeing itself had become a habit, an assumption, the primary way of understanding the world.
But Chen Ming had never seen.
And Chen Ming had achieved something that Li Yuan—with all the power and wisdom and understanding he had gathered for millennia—still struggled to fully achieve: true peace with existence.
How? Li Yuan asked himself, the Understanding of the Body, the echo of Chen Ming that still felt so real in this place. How did he do it without sight? How did he find beauty without eyes?
The answer came not in words but in a reminder—a reminder of how Chen Ming touched plants with fingers that read texture like a language, how he listened to footsteps and knew who was coming, how he felt emotions behind a voice, how he lived fully in a body that never saw but always felt.
Chen Ming did not live in thoughts or concepts or ideas. He lived in the body—in touch, in sound, in vibration, in a physical presence that was grounded and real.
The body is the path, the Understanding of the Body whispered with a clarity that made Li Yuan open his eyes suddenly. Not a tool. Not a vehicle. But the path itself.
Li Yuan looked at his hands—hands that had created this consciousness body from the resonance of Water, Body, and Existence. Hands that looked real, that felt real, that could touch and be touched.
But did he truly live in this body? Or did he just use it as a mask, as a projection, as a way to interact with the world while his true consciousness remained separate, still observing from a safe distance?
Chen Ming never had a safe distance. He lived fully in his body—with all its limitations, with all its fragility, with all its pain and weariness.
And in living fully within those limitations, he found something that could not be found by running away from them.
I have seen too much, Li Yuan thought with a painful clarity. I have relied on sight—both physical eyes and Wenjing—for so long that I forgot what it feels like to sense the world in other ways.
Chen Ming lived without sight. He lived fully in the body, fully in touch and sound and presence.
Do I dare to do the same?
The question hung in the air with immense weight—not a rhetorical question, but a true question that demanded a true answer.
That afternoon, Li Yuan walked to the riverbank—the same river where Chen Ming had said goodbye the night before his death.
He sat on the flat, worn stone, the spot where Chen Ming had once sat, and he dipped his feet into the water just as Chen Ming had.
The coldness touched his skin with a jolt that brought clarity—not a painful cold, but a waking cold, one that reminded him that he existed, that this body was real, that sensation was a path to understanding.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel the river as Chen Ming might have felt it.
The sound of the flowing water—not just as a background but as a conversation, as a living presence, as something that spoke in a language that needed no words.
The vibration of the water around his feet—how the current pushed gently but consistently, how the temperature changed in different spots, how there was warmth where the sun touched and cold where the shadows fell.
The smell of the water—earth and minerals and something green and alive, an aroma that carried a story of where this water had come from and where it was going.
With his eyes closed, the world became different—not less rich, but rich in a different way. Every sound became clearer. Every touch became more meaningful. Every sensation carried information that was usually ignored because the eyes dominated.
This is what Chen Ming felt every day, Li Yuan thought with a new awe. A world experienced not through sight but through all the other senses, each of which became a doorway to understanding.
He opened his eyes and felt something like a loss—as if by opening his eyes, he had lost access to another way of feeling, a deeper way, a more intimate way.
The Understanding of the Body spoke again—this time with a voice that carried a clear invitation.
You can choose, it whispered. You can choose to live as Chen Ming lived. To let go of sight and find what lies behind it.
Are you afraid?
Li Yuan realized—with a painful honesty—that he was afraid.
Not afraid of the darkness itself. Not afraid of the inability to see.
But afraid of vulnerability. Afraid of dependence. Afraid of the loss of control that comes with not being able to see a threat before it arrives, not being able to anticipate danger before it appears.
For sixteen thousand years, he had lived with a power that kept him safe—a Wenjing that could sense intentions from thousands of miles away, the ability to project or release his body as needed, an understanding that gave him an advantage over almost any situation.
Letting go of sight—even temporarily, even as a choice—meant letting go of one of those advantages. It meant becoming vulnerable in a way he had never experienced before.
But wasn't that the point?
Chen Ming lived in vulnerability every day. He never had the luxury of seeing a threat coming. He could never anticipate a facial expression or read visual cues.
And it was precisely in that vulnerability that he found strength—a different kind of strength from the strength of cultivation, but no less real, no less valuable.
The strength to accept. The strength to trust. The strength to live with a limitation without letting it become a prison.
Am I brave enough to do that? Li Yuan asked himself with an honesty that did not flinch. Am I brave enough to let go of sight—for a time—and learn to live as Chen Ming lived?
The sun began to set, its light painting the river with the colors of gold and red—colors so beautiful they were almost painful to leave behind.
But Chen Ming had never seen a sunset. And he never felt he was lacking because of it.
Because there was another kind of beauty—a beauty in sound, in touch, in the vibration of life that could be felt without being seen.
"This life is beautiful enough to remember without having to see it", Chen Ming's voice echoed in his mind, the last words he had spoken with so much peace.
Li Yuan realized that he had not truly understood those words—not in the way Chen Ming understood them, not in a way that came from direct experience rather than observation.
To truly understand, he had to experience.
To truly honor Chen Ming's lesson, he had to live as Chen Ming lived.
Not forever. Not as a curse or a punishment.
But for a time—perhaps decades, perhaps longer—he had to let go of sight and learn to see in a new way.
The decision crystallized within him with a clarity that left no room for doubt—not because he was not afraid, but because that fear was not a reason not to do what felt right, what felt necessary, what felt like the path he had to take.
I will do it, he decided with a calm certainty. I will blind myself. I will live as Chen Ming lived. I will learn to feel the world not with my eyes but with my body, with touch, with presence.
This is the way to honor him. This is the way to continue his lesson. This is the way to deepen the Understanding of the Body not just as a concept but as a lived experience.
The Understanding of the Body sang in his Zhenjing—not with words but with a resonance, with a vibration that carried agreement and anticipation, with the feeling that yes, this was the right path, this was the choice that would lead to growth that could not be achieved in any other way.
That night, Li Yuan returned to the old tree and sat beside Chen Ming's grave.
"Chen Ming," he said in a calm voice that carried the weight of a deep decision. "I have learned so much from you. But I realize that I have only observed. I have not truly experienced."
He stopped, his hand touching the earth over the grave with a gentleness that carried reverence.
"So I am going to do something that... that might sound crazy to others. I am going to blind myself. I am going to live without sight, as you lived. Not because I have to. But because I want to truly understand what you understood."
"I want to feel the world as you felt it. I want to learn to see without eyes, as you taught."
The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of soil and leaves and something that felt like approval—though Li Yuan knew it might just be his imagination, just his desire to believe that Chen Ming would understand, would approve.
"I don't know how long this will last," Li Yuan continued with an honesty that did not hide the uncertainty. "Maybe decades. Maybe longer. Until the Understanding of the Body reaches the depth it needs to reach. Until I truly understand what it means to live fully in the body without sight."
"I will use the staff I made for you. I will carry it as a reminder, as a connection, as a way to carry your presence with me."
He stopped, his breath coming out with a tremor that carried emotions that were hard to contain.
"Thank you, Chen Ming. Thank you for teaching me that wisdom does not always come from those who are the most powerful or most learned. Sometimes it comes from those who live simply, with integrity, with an acceptance that never turns into bitterness."
"I will carry your lesson. And I will honor it by living as you lived—for a time, to learn what can only be learned through direct experience."
The stars began to appear in the sky—stars that Chen Ming had never seen but had always known were there.
And Li Yuan sat under that old tree, with a decision that had been made, with a path that had been chosen, with an anticipation that held fear and excitement in equal measure.
Tomorrow, he would begin.
Tomorrow, he would close the eyes that had seen sixteen thousand years and learn to see in a new way.
Tomorrow, a new journey would begin—a journey that would not take him across countries or oceans, but would take him deep into the mystery of the body, into the depth of perception that needed no eyes, into an understanding that could only be achieved by letting go of the familiar and embracing true vulnerability.
Just as Chen Ming had lived.
With dignity.
With courage.
With a trust that life would be beautiful enough to remember without having to see.
And in that trust, a new journey began—a journey that would span decades, that would take Li Yuan through lands he had never imagined, that would teach him lessons that could never be learned with open eyes.
Only with eyes closed.
Only with the body as a guide.
Only with vulnerability as a teacher.
And the courage to let go of the familiar to find what is true.