The first morning as a blind person came without Li Yuan even realizing it.
There was no change from the darkness of night to the light of morning. No color transition from black to blue to gold. Just the same darkness—consistent, unchanging, absolute.
What told Li Yuan that morning had arrived was the change in sound.
The night insects—which had sung with a low, steady hum all night long—slowly fell silent, replaced by the singing of birds that began one by one, building a complex symphony with overlapping layers of sound.
The temperature also changed. The cold of the night that seeped into the bones was slowly replaced by a warmth coming from a certain direction—a direction he knew was east, even though he couldn't see the sunrise.
Li Yuan sat with his back still leaning against the tree, not moving for a while, just listening, feeling, letting this information come in in a different way than usual.
This was his first morning without sight.
And he realized—with a mix of awe and discomfort—that the world still existed. The world was still moving. Life was still happening.
Only he could not see it.
Standing was the first challenge of the day.
Without sight, he couldn't see where his hands should support, where his feet should be placed, how his body's balance was relative to the ground.
He tried to stand and almost fell—not because his body was weak, but because his spatial orientation was disrupted without the usual visual input that gave him reference points.
Chen Ming's bamboo staff became a savior—he used it to support himself, to feel the ground, to provide a third reference point that helped him find his balance.
Finally, after several tries, he stood—feet slightly wider apart than usual, the staff in his hand, his body a little tense with the effort to maintain balance.
This is what Chen Ming did every day, Li Yuan thought with a new acknowledgment. Every simple act—standing, walking, even moving—was a negotiation with a world that could not be seen.
The first step was the most difficult.
He lifted his right foot, the staff tapping the ground in front to feel the surface, and he stepped forward with extreme caution.
His foot landed on something uneven—perhaps a root, perhaps a stone—and he almost lost his balance again. The staff saved him, providing enough stability for him to steady himself.
The second step was a little better. The third was even more steady.
But every step required immense concentration—full attention to the sound of the staff tapping the ground, to the sensation in his feet when they touched the surface, to the constantly adjusted balance of his body.
Nothing was automatic. Nothing could be done without thought.
Walking—an act he had performed for thousands of years without conscious effort—now became a demanding meditation, a practice that required every fiber of his attention.
After walking for what felt like an hour but may have only been a few dozen minutes, Li Yuan found the next challenge: navigating the forest without a clear path.
Trees stood as invisible obstacles. Low branches waited to hit his face or chest. Roots protruded from the ground like traps ready to make him trip.
The bamboo staff helped—he could tap and feel obstacles a few steps ahead—but it only gave him information about the ground, not about branches at chest or head height.
He hit the first branch with his face—not hard, but enough to make him stop suddenly, his hand coming up too late to protect himself.
A small pain on his cheek, a little scratch that brought the warmth of blood.
Li Yuan stopped, his breath coming out with a frustration he tried to control.
This was harder than he had imagined.
Much harder.
Chen Ming made this look so natural, so easy. But Chen Ming had lived with blindness since birth—he had never known what it was like to see, so he never had to let go of a dependence on sight.
Li Yuan, on the other hand, had to let go of sixteen thousand years of habit. Had to relearn how to be in the world without the sense that had been his most dominant for so long.
He raised his hand carefully, feeling the air in front of him, searching for branches or obstacles with his touch before stepping forward.
This made movement even slower—each step now required two actions: tapping the ground with the staff, then feeling the air with his free hand.
But it worked. He didn't hit a branch again.
Slowly, with a patience he forced upon himself, Li Yuan learned a new rhythm for moving—a rhythm that involved the tap of the staff, the sweep of the hand, the adjustment of balance, a careful step, then repeating.
Tap. Sweep. Balance. Step.
Tap. Sweep. Balance. Step.
It became a mantra, a meditation, a way of moving through a world that could not be seen but could be felt.
When he felt the warmth of the sun more intensely on one side of his face—indicating that the day had reached its middle—Li Yuan stopped to rest.
He found a tree with a large, flat trunk, and he sat with his back leaning against it, his breathing heavy from the unaccustomed effort.
His consciousness body did not tire like a physical body would—he did not need food or rest in the traditional sense—but there was a mental exhaustion that came from the constant concentration, from an attention that could never slacken, from a continuous negotiation with a world that provided no visual cues.
He sat in the darkness—a darkness that did not change even though he knew the sun was shining brightly—and he allowed himself to feel the weight of what he had chosen.
This was not romantic. This was not an exciting adventure.
This was a struggle. This was a constant discomfort. This was a frustration that came from not being able to do things that were once so easy.
But this was also learning.
Every challenge was a teacher. Every mistake was a lesson. Every moment of difficulty was an opportunity to understand what Chen Ming understood—that living with limitation requires a different kind of strength, a different kind of courage, a different kind of fortitude that does not come from physical power but from a willingness to keep trying even when it is hard.
Li Yuan closed his eyes that could not see—a motion that changed nothing but felt like a habit that was hard to break—and he allowed his Wenjing to speak more clearly.
Within the two-meter radius, he could "hear" the world in a different way.
There was no sight. No visual image. But there was a perception of existence—the trees around him were not visible but felt like a steady presence, like unmoving pillars. The insects crawling on the ground were not visible but felt like small points of life moving with a simple intent. The wind blowing was not visible but felt like a current that carried changes in temperature and aroma.
This was a new way of sensing the world—not with eyes, not with images, but with a more abstract perception, one that carried information about existence and presence without the visual details he was used to relying on.
This was not a replacement for sight. This was something different—something unique, something he might never have learned if he could still see.
The Understanding of the Body sang softly in his Zhenjing—not with words but with a resonance, with a vibration that carried agreement, with the feeling that yes, this was the right path, this was the learning that needed to happen.
That afternoon, Li Yuan found the river—or more accurately, the river found him.
He did not hear the sound of the water until he had almost stepped into it—his concentration was so focused on the ground beneath his feet and the obstacles ahead that he missed the sound of the current that should have told him water was nearby.
His staff tapped a strange surface—not solid ground, not stone, but something that gave way slightly, that felt wet.
Li Yuan stopped suddenly, his foot suspended in the air, almost losing his balance.
He retreated carefully, then knelt to feel with his hand.
Mud. Wet earth. And the sound—now he heard it clearly—of water flowing gently a few steps ahead.
He moved with more caution, the staff tapping in front, his hand touching the ground, until he found the edge of the river.
The water flowed—not a torrent like a large river, but a steady current, one deep enough to cover an ankle or perhaps a knee.
Li Yuan sat on the bank and lowered his hand into the water, his fingers feeling the coldness that brought clarity.
This reminded him of Chen Ming—of the last night when they went to the river together, when Chen Ming dipped his feet and spoke of the river as a lifelong friend.
Now Li Yuan understood in a deeper way.
Water does not need eyes to be appreciated. Water speaks in the language of touch—cold or warm, flowing or still, clear or murky—all of this could be felt without seeing.
He dipped his feet into the river, feeling the current push gently but consistently, and for the first time since he had blinded himself, he felt something like peace.
Not a peace because there were no difficulties. But a peace because he was beginning to accept that the difficulties were part of the learning, part of the path he had chosen.
Chen Ming was right, Li Yuan thought with a calm clarity. Water does not need to be seen to be felt. And life... life does not need sight to be experienced.
It only needs attention. It only needs a willingness to feel in a different way.
The second night came in the same way as the first night—without visual change, only with a change in sound and temperature.
Li Yuan found a place to rest near the river, close enough to hear the sound of the water but not too close to risk falling into it while sleeping.
He sat with his back leaning against a tree, Chen Ming's bamboo staff on his lap, and he felt the weight of this first day with an honesty that did not flinch.
This was hard. Harder than he had imagined.
But he had no regrets.
Because in that difficulty, he was beginning to understand something he had never understood before—that strength does not always come from ability, but sometimes comes from a willingness to let go of ability, to become vulnerable, to learn a new way of being.
Chen Ming was not strong because he could do things others could. He was strong because he could live with dignity even though he could not do things others took for granted.
And now Li Yuan—who had lived for sixteen thousand years with a power that made him almost untouchable—was learning a different kind of strength.
The strength to stumble and get back up again.
The strength to get lost and find the way.
The strength to live in darkness and find light in a way that needed no eyes.
He closed his eyes that could not see and let the sound of the river become a lullaby, let the cold of the night become an uncomfortable but real blanket, let the darkness become a patient teacher that never gave up.
The first day was complete.
And there were thousands more days to come—days that would bring difficulty and learning, frustration and growth, pain and understanding.
But Li Yuan was ready.
Because he had chosen this path not with ignorance of how hard it would be, but with a full awareness that the difficulty itself was the teacher, was the path, was the way to understand something that could not be learned in any other way.
And in that awareness, he found peace—not a peace because there was no struggle, but a peace because the struggle had meaning, had purpose, had a value that went beyond comfort or ease.
Just as Chen Ming had lived.
With dignity in difficulty.
With courage in vulnerability.
With the trust that life—though unseen—would be beautiful enough to live.
Step by step.
Day by day.
In a darkness that never changed but was slowly becoming less terrifying and more like home.