Li Yuan left Zhardar just as the sun rose over the desert horizon, painting the sand in warm golden hues. Behind him, the city that had been changed forever began to grapple with its new reality—freedom for thousands who had lived as property, and uncertainty for those who had built their lives on a system that was now collapsing.
He did not look back. His task there was done—not perfectly, not with a guarantee that the change would last, but with a sincere opportunity for something better.
His journey took him back across the desert, but this time he did not follow the caravan route. He walked alone through the vast expanse of sand, his footsteps leaving no traces because his consciousness body did not have the same weight as a flesh body.
Through his Wenjing Realm, he could hear—even from an increasing distance—the echoes of what had happened in Zhardar. The cautious joy of those who had been freed. The fear and anger of the merchants who had lost their "investments." The confusion of the city residents who had to face moral questions they had avoided for too long.
And amidst it all, Amara's song still resonated—no longer as a song of sorrow, but as a song of newfound hope.
They will be fine, Li Yuan mused with a quiet satisfaction. Or they will not be fine. But that is their story to write now, not mine.
The journey across the desert took two weeks. Li Yuan was in no hurry—he allowed himself to walk at a natural rhythm, observing the barren beauty of a landscape that many considered a place of death but which he saw as a place of profound silence.
In the evenings, he sat under the countless stars, contemplating what he had learned from the experience in Zhardar.
Slavery. The most systematic, most dehumanizing cruelty he had ever witnessed in his fifteen thousand years of life. And though he had helped to end it in one city, he knew that the system still existed in many other places—in cities across the desert, in distant kingdoms, wherever human beings decided that some other humans were not human at all.
I cannot change the whole world, he admitted to himself with brutal honesty. Even with all the comprehensions I possess, even with fifteen thousand years of experience, I am only one man. I can be a catalyst in certain places, but true transformation must come from the people themselves.
But something was different now. Something had changed within him during the Zhardar experience.
He closed his eyes and directed his attention inward, to his Zhenjing—the inner world he had cultivated for thousands of years.
In a distant corner, a sapling of comprehension that had begun to grow during his cultivation a year ago—a mortal comprehension he had yet to name—now felt a little clearer, a little stronger.
The experience in Zhardar had given it new nourishment. He had witnessed transformation—slaves who went from despair to determination, a system that collapsed and something new that began to grow from the ruins.
Seed, he mused, remembering the vague fragments of comprehension. From the small to the great. From the unseen to the tangible. Transformation. Growth.
But the comprehension was still too vague to be named, still too fragile to be forced. He let it grow in its own time, like a plant that needs a season to mature.
On the fourteenth day, Li Yuan finally emerged from the desert and arrived in a greener region—plains with grass swaying in the wind, small rivers flowing from distant mountains, and small villages scattered across the landscape.
He stopped at the edge of the first river he encountered, kneeling to touch the water with his hand. Through his Water Comprehension which was in the Wenjing Realm, he could hear the story the water carried—of the places it had passed through, of the lives that depended on it, of the endless cycle from cloud to rain to river to sea to cloud again.
Water teaches flexibility, he mused with a comprehension he had carried for thousands of years. It flows around obstacles, not against them stubbornly. It adapts to the shape of its container without losing its essence. It is patient, but eventually, it can erode even the hardest rock.
It was a lesson he had used in Zhardar—not with direct and brutal force, but by creating the conditions where change could happen organically.
And it was a lesson he would carry on the long journey still ahead.
Li Yuan spent a few days in the small villages on the plains, not intervening in a grand way but simply observing, listening, and sometimes offering small advice or simple assistance.
In one village, he helped mediate a conflict between two families over water rights—not by imposing a solution, but by helping them see that they could share the resource without one having to lose.
In another village, he spoke with a young man who was struggling with the decision of whether to leave home to seek opportunities in a big city or stay to help his family—not by telling him what to do, but by helping the young man listen to his own heart.
Small help. Brief conversations. Nothing dramatic or world-changing.
But Li Yuan had learned—in his thousands of years of travel—that sometimes small actions could be just as meaningful as grand ones. That not every problem requires a revolution, not every injustice requires a cosmic confrontation.
Sometimes, it is enough to simply be present. To listen. To remind people of the wisdom they already possess but have forgotten.
Two months had passed since Li Yuan left Zhardar. He was now in a region far from the desert—a dense forest with ancient trees towering high, where sunlight filtered through the canopy in patterns that moved like water.
He found a quiet spot near a clear stream, where he sat to reflect on all he had experienced in the last few years.
The Tianshan Kingdom with its bloody revolution. The Yunfeng Kingdom with its wise compromise. The Qingxi Valley with its enduring harmony. Zhardar with its self-chosen liberation.
Each place had taught him something different. Each place had shown a different aspect of human nature—the capacity for cruelty and compassion, for foolishness and wisdom, for repeating past mistakes and sometimes, just sometimes, for learning.
In fifteen thousand years, Li Yuan mused with a depth of reflection that could only come from such vast experience, I have seen the same patterns repeat over and over. But I have also seen that each repetition is a little different, each generation has a chance to do a little better than the one before it.
And perhaps that is enough. Perhaps progress is not about achieving perfection, but about a slow, inconsistent, but still tangible movement towards something better.
He closed his eyes and allowed his Water Comprehension to flow through his consciousness with a calming intensity. The water that teaches patience. The water that teaches that true change takes time. The water that teaches that even the smallest drop, if consistent, can eventually change the shape of a rock.
When Li Yuan opened his eyes again, the sun had already begun to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. He stood up, stretching his consciousness body in a ritual that was more about mental transition than physical need.
It was time to continue the journey.
There were still many places he had not seen, many communities that might need a mirror or mediation or just the presence of someone who listens without judgment.
And one day—perhaps next year, perhaps next decade, perhaps next century—he might hear about another city that had ended its slave trade, inspired by the story of what happened in Zhardar.
Or he might hear about a kingdom that had adopted shared leadership, inspired by the Yunfeng model.
Or he might find a new community that had built something similar to Qingxi, one that did not forget their principles even as generations passed.
Ideas spread. Stories spread. And sometimes—just sometimes—they spread widely enough to change not just one place, but many.
That is hope, Li Yuan mused with a quiet satisfaction. Not certainty, but hope. And hope, as I saw in the eyes of Amara and the other slaves in Zhardar, is something that cannot be completely destroyed as long as human beings remember that they are human.
Li Yuan began to walk into the forest, his steps calm, unhurried, like someone who has walked for fifteen thousand years and will walk for thousands more.
The journey continued.
As it always does.
And somewhere—in this vast world, full of different races and nations, diverse languages and cultures—there would be another community, another conflict, another lesson waiting.
But for now, Li Yuan walked in silence, surrounded by ancient trees and the song of twilight birds, carrying with him the memory of all he had witnessed and all he still did not know.
One step at a time.
One community at a time.
One lesson at a time.
Forever.