1.1 The Call to Adventure
The sky above Hamburg had been gray for weeks. Markus sat in his study, surrounded by piles of scientific articles, medical reports, and cold coffee cups. His body, once agile and tireless, now felt foreign: aching all over, chronically fatigued, with intermittent fevers. After months of tests, the diagnosis had arrived like a sentence: progressive autoimmune neuropathy. No cure. Only palliative treatments.
The news left him empty. There was no anger, no despair. Only a heavy silence, as if time had stopped.
He often looked at himself in the mirror: dark brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin, short beard, lean frame. The illness had slowly altered those features, leaving a familiar yet strangely distant reflection: his eyes sunken, his skin paler, his body thinner, casting a shadow of himself that was hard to recognize.
For weeks, Markus hadn't gone to the office. His manager had allowed him to work from home, letting him structure his days according to the rhythms of his fragile body.
One day, while working at his computer, a notification popped up in his email inbox. It was a message from Henrik, his childhood friend who had been living in China for many years. Henrik often wrote to him, sharing stories of life there, the landscapes, and local traditions. His words were a thread of normalcy and lightness that Markus eagerly awaited, a small bridge to a distant world.
The message was brief, almost cryptic:
"Markus, there's a center in China. It's unconventional, but I've seen things our medicine can't explain. If you're willing to look beyond, I can put you in touch."
Markus read and reread the words. "Look beyond." What did it mean? Crossing the boundary between science and spirituality? Between reason and hope?
Markus was completely unfamiliar with all of this. He had always relied on Western knowledge, the certainties of science, and the customs he understood because they were familiar. Yet now these words challenged him: what would it mean to look elsewhere? Or, worse, to the East?
Nights had become endless for Markus. Insomnia followed him like a constant shadow, and while the world slept, he lay awake, mind racing in every direction. Each day, he returned to Henrik's email, rereading the phrase "look beyond" and wondering what it truly meant.
The idea of leaving everything behind—his job, friends, routine—and taking an undefined period of time frightened him. Yet the scariest thought wasn't the uncertainty of the journey, but the illness. Every ache, every fever, every wave of exhaustion reminded him of itself. Looking beyond meant risking the unknown, but staying still meant facing the same fear every day, with no escape.
And so, while the city of Hamburg fell asleep under a gray, unmoving sky, Markus found himself staring at the ceiling, torn between fear and a spark of hope he could no longer ignore.
One evening, as he gazed at his reflection in the window glass, Markus made a decision. It wasn't just the illness pushing him; it was a deeper need—a desire to find himself amidst the chaos of body and mind.
In the following days, the thought consumed him. He searched for information about the center, Dr. Li, the method. He found nothing official. Only blogs, scattered testimonies, and a growing sense that something was calling him.
Markus sat on the couch, the phone clutched in his hands. Rain tapped rhythmically against the windows. After a long breath, he pressed the green button. Henrik's voice came through after a few rings, rough and familiar.
Henrik: Markus… I thought you'd forgotten me.
Markus (smiling faintly): I couldn't. It's just… I don't know where to start.
Henrik: Did you read my email?
Markus: Yes. Several times. That center… it's real?
Henrik: It's real. But it's not what you expect. No white coats, no protocols. It's a place that works with what medicine ignores: the connection between body and consciousness.
Markus (hesitant): Sounds… mystical. You know I don't believe in this stuff.
Henrik: I know. But you still believe in science, right? Then consider this an experiment. Go, observe, evaluate. No one asks you to convert. Just open yourself.
Silence. Markus looked at his hands, marked by slight tremors.
Markus: And you? Have you seen anyone get better?
Henrik: Yes. And I've seen others fail. But those who returned… they weren't the same. You're not just sick, Markus. You're stuck. And this place… it might unlock you.
Markus (almost whispering): I'm scared.
Henrik: That's normal. But if you stay still, fear becomes habit. If you move, it becomes strength.
Another silence. Markus nodded, as if Henrik could see him.
Markus: Send me the address. I'll leave as soon as possible.
He booked a flight to Chengdu. No detailed plan, no certainty about the future. Just a name, an address, and the vague promise of a possibility. A small step into the unknown, but perhaps the only one that could give him back something he felt he had lost.
1.2 Flying into the Unknown
The constant roar of the engines was a neutral, almost hypnotic background. Markus sat by the window, hands clasped in his lap, eyes fixed beyond the glass. Outside, the sky was a milky sea of clouds, endless stretches suspended between two worlds. Every now and then, the plane hit a light turbulence, like a jolt from fate itself.
Watching those shifting shapes, Markus thought about what he was leaving behind: his tidy apartment, the laboratory, the routines that had kept him going even as his body started to fail. He thought of familiar faces, interrupted conversations, and diagnoses that had never offered answers—only numbers and percentages.
But more than anything, he thought of the silence. That silence that had surrounded him these past months, made up of sleepless nights and days when even breathing felt like a struggle. It wasn't just the illness weighing on him: it was the feeling of having become a spectator of his own life.
Now, flying toward a country he didn't know, toward a center that didn't appear on any official map, Markus felt something stir inside. It wasn't hope—not yet. It was a kind of fertile emptiness, like the moment just before a seed touches the soil.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Henrik's face, the testimonies, and the words of Dr. Li in that attached file. Everything seemed fragmented, yet part of a design he could not yet decipher.
When he opened his eyes, the clouds had parted. Below him, the Chinese mountains began to emerge, dark and majestic. Markus pressed his forehead against the glass. He didn't know what awaited him. But for the first time in months, he wasn't afraid to find out.
1.3 Chengdu – Encountering Another World
Chengdu airport buzzed like a hive of unknown languages, indecipherable signs, and rapid movements. Markus moved forward with his trolley at his side, eyes still blurred from interrupted sleep and jet lag. The air was thick and humid, carrying an indefinable mix of spices, fuel, and recent rain.
The moment he stepped outside, the world changed.
Traffic was a choreographed chaos: scooters darted between taxis, horns seemed to speak a language of their own, and street vendors shouted offers he couldn't understand. Markus paused for a moment, as if his body needed to synchronize with this new rhythm.
The neon signs shone brightly even in daylight, red and gold characters dancing across the walls. An elderly woman passed by carrying a basket of herbs on her back, while a child stared at him curiously before being pulled away by his mother.
Markus felt like a stranger in every sense. Not just because of the language, but because of the customs: the way people moved, brushed past each other, ignored and observed. Everything felt closer, more alive, more immediate.
A man holding a handwritten sign waited a short distance ahead: "Markus" in trembling letters. Next to him stood a young man with delicate features and an attentive gaze: Mu Chen.
Mu Chen: «Welcome. Tired?»
Markus nodded, unable to speak. Mu Chen smiled, as if he already understood everything.
Mu Chen: «The center is two hours from here. I suggest you watch and observe. Don't talk too much. Your body hasn't arrived yet.»
They got into a dark sedan, and as the car moved away from the urban chaos, Markus gazed out the window. The streets narrowed, buildings gave way to green hills and temples hidden among the trees. Each turn seemed to carry him farther from who he had been.
And closer to something that still had no name.
1.4 Mu Chen – The Bridge Between Two Worlds
Markus had met Mu Chen just outside the airport. The young man greeted him with a discreet smile and a handwritten sign, shaky but clear. He spoke fluent English with only the faintest accent, and immediately offered to carry his suitcase.
During the car ride to the Center, Markus observed Mu Chen with curiosity. He noticed his composed posture, the way he followed the road as if he had known it all his life, and the faint scar on his left wrist—a mark that seemed to tell an untold story.
Mu Chen shared that he had grown up in southern China, the son of a traditional doctor and a Taoist philosopher. He had studied Western medicine in Beijing but had abandoned his studies after a deep inner crisis.
«Science taught me how to heal the body,» he said, «but it never taught me how to listen to it.»
Markus listened in silence, struck by a calmness that wasn't passivity, but presence. Mu Chen wasn't trying to persuade or reassure; he simply shared fragments of himself, like someone who knew that answers were not imposed, only offered.
Markus picked up his phone and sent a message to Henrik:
"I've just arrived. I'm on the road to the Center."
The reply came almost instantly:
"Welcome to China, my dear friend. You'll be fine there. I'll visit you very soon."
Markus allowed himself a faint smile.
The scenery shifted quickly: bustling streets gave way to rolling green hills, temples hidden among the trees, and small villages where time seemed to move more slowly. Markus felt something inside him begin to loosen, as though his breathing had found a new rhythm.
Meanwhile, Mu Chen jotted something down in a small notebook he always carried. Markus never asked what it was; he understood that the gesture was part of a personal ritual—a way of collecting thoughts, dreams, and symbols.
As the car turned onto the dirt path leading to the Center, Markus looked at Mu Chen and thought: This young man is more than a guide. He is a threshold.