Lin Yuan arrived at the village in the late afternoon.
The bus stopped where it always had—by the old banyan tree near the bend in the road. Nothing marked the place as a station. People simply knew to get off there. He stepped down with a small bag in hand, the bus door folding shut behind him with a tired hiss before the vehicle rolled on.
The road was quiet.
A few houses stood scattered along it, their walls weathered by years of sun and rain. Some doors were open, some closed. The smell of cooking drifted faintly through the air, carried by a light breeze that stirred dust along the ground.
Lin Yuan walked the remaining distance to the house.
It was a single-story structure with a tiled roof, modest in size, set slightly apart from the others. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The interior was clean but plainly furnished—bare walls, simple wooden furniture, no personal decorations. It was not a home in the emotional sense. It was a place that existed, nothing more.
He opened the windows.
Air flowed in, cool and ordinary. It moved across the room without resistance, without response. Lin Yuan stood still for a moment, waiting out of habit rather than expectation. Nothing gathered. Nothing shifted. The air remained air.
He nodded faintly, as if confirming a known result.
Outside, he fetched the broom and began sweeping the front yard. Fallen leaves scraped softly against the ground, dust lifting and settling again with each measured stroke. His movements were unhurried, practiced. This was something he did every time he came back, not because it was necessary, but because it established a rhythm.
A neighbor passed by the low fence, slowing slightly.
"Back again?" the man asked, glancing over.
"Yes," Lin Yuan replied.
"City work keeping you busy?"
Lin Yuan inclined his head. "Something like that."
The neighbor laughed softly, satisfied with the answer, and continued on his way. They were not close. Lin Yuan had inherited the house from a distant relative years ago, and since then he had appeared only on weekends or during brief stretches of leave. He kept to himself, spoke politely, and left early. That was enough to define him.
To the village, he was simply a quiet man who worked in the city.
When the yard was clean, Lin Yuan washed his hands and locked the door behind him. The sun was already lowering, shadows stretching long across the road. He did not linger.
Over the following days, he traveled.
He went first to Qingyun Ridge, a low mountain range popular with hikers. He walked its paths slowly, stopping where the trees thinned and the wind moved freely. He stood at the ridge's highest point and waited. The sky remained clear. The land remained silent.
From there he went to Stone Drum Pass, where the wind funneled between two hills and howled loud enough to drown out thought. He closed his eyes and listened past the sound. There was nothing beneath it.
White Pine Gorge came next. The forest was dense there, the air cool and shaded even at midday. The ground was soft underfoot, layered with needles and fallen branches. It felt cleaner. Easier to breathe. And yet—still nothing.
He visited Old Luohan Temple, long abandoned, its stone steps cracked and uneven. Moss crept along the edges of broken carvings. Incense burners lay overturned, blackened by time. Lin Yuan stood before the collapsed main hall and observed carefully. The place carried age, but no vitality.
River Ancestral Ford. Southwatch Terrace. Broken Stele Fields.
One after another, he passed through places that had once mattered to people—sites chosen for worship, settlement, remembrance. He waited in each. He listened in each. The result did not change.
There was no spiritual energy.
Not dispersed. Not dormant. Not hidden.
Absent.
In the city, the contrast was sharper.
Crowds flowed through streets and stations with practiced efficiency. Trains arrived and departed on schedule. Screens flickered with information. Hospitals glowed white through glass walls, filled with movement and noise even at night. Life continued at scale, orderly and self-sustaining.
Lin Yuan moved among it without drawing attention. He ate simple meals, rested briefly, and kept walking. The air felt heavier here, not because it was polluted—though sometimes it was—but because it was closed in. Enclosed. Pressed flat by human activity.
And still, even in the outskirts where parks opened into fields and the skyline loosened its grip, the conclusion remained unchanged.
Clean air was not the same as living air.
By the time a month had passed, he returned once more to the village house.
Dusk had settled by the time he arrived. He sat on the low step by the door and took out the small envelope he carried with him. Inside was what remained of his cash. He counted it carefully, then stopped before reaching the end.
There was no apartment to return to. The lease had ended weeks ago. No income awaited him. Cultivation had not altered the basic requirements of living here.
Lin Yuan did not feel panic.
He felt acknowledgment.
The village lights came on one by one as evening deepened. Somewhere, a television murmured. A dog barked and then fell silent. The world continued on its familiar path, untroubled by Heaven's absence.
Lin Yuan watched until the sky darkened completely.
One month had passed.
Earth had answered him.
And the answer was simple.
End of Chapter 34