Three weeks after Li Yuan blinded himself, he arrived at his first village.
He knew he was approaching not from seeing rooftops or smoke from a hearth, but from a subtle change in sound and aroma.
The sound of human footsteps—not just one or two like the couple he had met in the forest, but many, with different patterns, with a rhythm that indicated daily activities. The sound of overlapping conversations, the laughter of children in the distance, the hammering of a hammer on wood, the scrape of an axe chopping, the clucking of chickens, the barking of dogs.
The aromas also changed—the smell of burning wood, the smell of food being cooked, the smell of livestock, the smell of tilled soil, all mixing into a complex bouquet that told of human life concentrated in one place.
Li Yuan stopped at what he assumed was the edge of the village—his bamboo staff tapping the ground that had changed from forest floor to something more solid, more trodden, perhaps a path or a small road.
For a few minutes, he just stood there, his breath coming out slowly, something in his chest tightening with an anticipation that held fear and hope in equal measure.
This would be a bigger test than meeting the couple in the forest—this would be a place where he would have to interact with many people, where he would have to navigate not only physical space but also social dynamics, where his blindness would be visible and might be judged in ways that were not always kind.
But he couldn't keep walking in the forest forever. He needed food—although his consciousness body did not require nutrition in the traditional sense, he still needed to maintain the appearance of an ordinary human. He needed information about the world, about where the roads went, about the dangers that might exist.
And more than that, he needed to learn to live among humans as a blind person—because that was the core of this journey, to understand not only the physical challenges but also the social challenges that Chen Ming faced every day.
With a deep breath, with a hand that gripped the bamboo staff a little more tightly, Li Yuan stepped forward.
His first step into the village was met with a strange silence.
Not complete—conversations were still happening, activities were still ongoing—but there was a subtle change in the quality of the sound, as if attention had shifted, as if people had noticed the presence of a stranger.
Li Yuan kept walking, his staff tapping the road with a steady rhythm, his head slightly raised in a way he had learned to do to show that he was listening even though he could not see.
The sound of footsteps approached him—heavy, steady steps, carrying an authority without aggression.
"Welcome, young man," said an older man's voice, with a tone that carried warmth but also curiosity. "I have never seen you before. Where are you from?"
Li Yuan stopped, turning his head toward the voice with a motion that had become a habit.
"I am a wanderer," he replied simply. "I am not from any particular place. Just... walking."
There was a pause, then the voice spoke again—this time with a tone that carried recognition and something like concern.
"Are you blind, young man?"
"Yes," Li Yuan answered without hesitation, without shame. "I am blind."
A longer silence now—Li Yuan could feel with his Wenjing that several people had gathered, that whispered conversations were happening just outside the range of his normal hearing.
Finally, the old man's voice spoke again.
"I am the village elder here. My name is Han Wei. And you?"
"Li Yuan," Li Yuan replied with a respect that carried simplicity.
"Li Yuan," Han Wei repeated in a tone that was considering. "A good name. A name that carries meaning."
He stopped, then continued in a warmer tone.
"You must be tired from walking. And hungry, I'm sure. We are not wealthy in this village, but we are not poor either. We can provide food and a place to rest for the night, if you would like."
Li Yuan felt something in his chest loosen—a tension he hadn't fully realized he was holding released with a gentleness.
"Thank you," he said with a deep sincerity. "I would greatly appreciate your kindness."
"It is no trouble," Han Wei said with a warmth that sounded genuine. "This world is harsh enough. All we can do is make our small part a little better, one act of kindness at a time."
He stopped, then spoke in a more practical tone.
"Can you walk on your own, or do you need guidance?"
Li Yuan considered the question—there was a pride that wanted to say he could walk on his own, but there was also a wisdom that said accepting help when it was offered sincerely was not a weakness.
"Guidance would be a great help," Li Yuan replied honestly. "I can walk on my own in the forest where I have time to feel the path, but in a village with many obstacles and people, I... I am still learning."
"Of course," Han Wei said in a tone that carried no judgment, only acceptance. "I will guide you. Put your hand on my shoulder if you like, or I can walk ahead and you can follow the sound of my steps. Which would you prefer?"
"I will follow your voice," Li Yuan said, not wanting a physical contact that might make people uncomfortable or that might make him too dependent on others.
"Good," Han Wei said. "Follow me. And call out if you need me to slow down or stop."
They walked through the village—Li Yuan following the sound of Han Wei's steady and regular steps, his staff tapping the path that was now more solid and flat than the forest floor, his Wenjing giving him a perception of the presence of people around who stopped to watch or whisper.
He could feel the eyes he could not see, could feel the curiosity and perhaps pity or even a little discomfort from some people.
But no one shouted or mocked. No one tried to block his path or make his life more difficult.
Just curiosity—which was natural for a stranger, especially a blind stranger.
Han Wei led Li Yuan to his home—a simple but sturdy house, with the aroma of wood and something being cooked inside.
"My wife, Mei Lin, is making dinner," he explained as they stopped at the doorway. "We will share it with you. It's not much, but it's enough."
"Thank you," Li Yuan said again, words that felt insufficient for the kindness being shown but were the only ones he had.
They entered—Li Yuan following carefully, his staff tapping the threshold, his hand touching the frame for orientation—and he was greeted by the warmth from the hearth and an aroma that made his stomach—though it did not truly need food—feel hungry.
"Mei Lin," Han Wei called in a voice that carried the warmth of familiarity. "We have a guest. This is Li Yuan. He is a blind wanderer. I have invited him to dinner."
There was movement inside the house, then a woman's voice that carried the same warmth as her husband's.
"Of course," she said without hesitation. "Welcome, Li Yuan. Sit down. Dinner will be ready soon."
Li Yuan was guided to a wooden chair—he felt with his hand before sitting, making sure his orientation was correct—and he sat with a breath that came out with a deep relief.
This was a kindness he wasn't sure he would find. This was a humanity that still existed even though the world could be harsh.
Dinner was a simple soup with vegetables and a little meat, with hard but warm bread, with clean and cool water.
Li Yuan ate carefully—not being able to see the bowl or spoon meant he had to feel with his hands, had to use his Wenjing for a rough perception of where the food was, had to take it slowly and deliberately so as not to spill or make a mess.
Han Wei and Mei Lin talked casually—not trying to fill the silence forcibly but also not letting it become awkward. They asked about Li Yuan's journey in a way that carried genuine curiosity but did not dig too deep.
Li Yuan answered as honestly as he could without revealing too much—he was a wanderer, he was learning to live with blindness, he had no specific destination just a general direction to keep moving forward.
"Were you born blind?" Mei Lin asked with a gentleness that carried curiosity but not condescending pity.
"No," Li Yuan answered honestly. "I... I lost my sight some time ago."
Not a complete lie. Just not a complete truth either.
"That must be difficult," Mei Lin said in a tone that carried genuine empathy. "To know what it's like to see and then to lose it. I cannot imagine."
"It is difficult," Li Yuan admitted. "But it is also... teaching. I am learning to feel the world in a way I never learned when I could see."
Han Wei nodded slowly—Li Yuan could hear the movement of his head even though he could not see it.
"That is a rare wisdom for someone your age," he said with respect. "Most people who lose something become bitter. You... you seem to have found a way to accept."
"I am trying," Li Yuan said with simplicity. "I once met someone who taught me that life is beautiful enough to remember without having to see it. I am trying to live with that wisdom."
The silence that fell after those words was a silence filled with respect—as if they recognized that there was a depth in those simple words, there was a story untold, there was an experience that shaped an understanding that was unusual for someone who looked so young.
After dinner, Mei Lin helped Li Yuan to a small room in the back of the house—a place that was usually used for storage but had been cleaned out enough for a simple bed and a blanket.
"It is not much," she said in a slightly apologetic tone. "But it is warm and dry. You will be safe here tonight."
"It is more than enough," Li Yuan said with deep gratitude. "Thank you. For everything. For the food, for the shelter, for your kindness."
Mei Lin touched his shoulder with a gentleness—a brief but warm touch that carried support without pity.
"Rest well, Li Yuan. Tomorrow I will help you with your next steps, wherever they may take you."
She left, closing the door softly, leaving Li Yuan alone in the darkness—a darkness that was no different from the darkness anywhere else, but felt safer because he was inside walls, under a roof, in a place where kindness still existed.
Li Yuan sat on the bed, Chen Ming's bamboo staff by his side, and he felt the weight of the last three weeks in a way he had not allowed himself to before.
The exhaustion—not physical, but emotional, mental, from the constant concentration, from the constant vulnerability, from the effort of learning a new way of being in every moment of every day.
But also the gratitude—a deep gratitude for the kindness of Han Wei and Mei Lin, for a community that did not reject him because of his blindness, for the reminder that even though the world can be harsh, there are still people who choose to make their small part a little better.
The Understanding of the Body sang softly within his Zhenjing—not with words but with a resonance that carried contentment, with a vibration that said that this was the important learning, that these interactions were part of the path, that understanding the body was not just about physical sensation but also about how different bodies—a blind body, a fragile body, a body that did not conform to the norm—are treated in the world.
Chen Ming faced this every day, Li Yuan thought with a new clarity. Every interaction was a negotiation—would this person be kind or cruel? Would they see beyond the blindness or only see the limitation?
He was lucky today. Han Wei and Mei Lin chose kindness.
But he knew—from the warning given by the couple in the forest, from the experiences Chen Ming must have had—that not everyone would choose the same way.
There would be places that rejected him. There would be people who took advantage of him. There would be situations where his blindness made him vulnerable in a way he could not easily defend against.
But that was part of the learning—to understand not only the ability to navigate the physical world but also the resilience to navigate the social world, to find strength not from shielding himself from vulnerability but from accepting vulnerability and still choosing to move forward with dignity.
Just as Chen Ming had done.
Just as Li Yuan was now learning to do.
That night, Li Yuan lay on the uncomfortable but warm bed, a rough but clean blanket covering his body, and he allowed himself to feel the peace that came from a safe shelter.
Outside, the sounds of the village slowly subsided—conversations became less frequent, footsteps became fewer, doors were closed, hearths were banked.
The world was preparing for sleep—a world Li Yuan could not see but could feel in a different way, could hear with ears that were sharper, could understand through vibrations and aromas and a Wenjing that whispered about a life that continued even when unseen.
Three weeks had passed since he had blinded himself.
And in those three weeks, he had learned more than he had ever imagined—about difficulty and beauty, about frustration and gratitude, about how the world changes when one sense is taken away and others become sharper to compensate.
This was just the beginning—only three weeks of a journey that would last decades.
But it was a good beginning.
A beginning that taught that blindness was not an end, but a transformation.
That the loss of one way of seeing could open up a hundred other ways of feeling.
That vulnerability—though terrifying—could be a teacher that taught lessons that could never be learned from strength.
And that kindness—the simple kindness of people like Han Wei and Mei Lin—was a light that did not need eyes to be seen, only a heart open to receive it.
Just as Chen Ming had always known.
Just as Li Yuan was now learning.
Step by step.
Day by day.
In a darkness that was slowly becoming not a prison but a path—a path that led to a deeper understanding, to a wider wisdom, to a fuller life even when unseen.