The second morning in the village began with a different sound from what Li Yuan had heard before—not just one language, but many, overlapping like river currents meeting and mixing into one.
He sat outside Han Wei's house, his back leaning against the wooden wall that was warm from the morning sun, and he listened with an undivided attention.
There were different languages—the Huang language that he heard most often, the sharp with hard consonants of the Volmar traders, the flowing with long vowels of the Kesara sailors, the singing with rising and falling tones of wanderers whose origins he didn't know.
His Wenjing within the two-meter radius worked in a unique way—not translating word for word like a dictionary, but providing a direct understanding of the meaning and intention behind the words. When someone spoke in a foreign language within his Wenjing's range, Li Yuan did not hear a verbal translation but felt the essence of what was being said—not just the literal meaning but also the emotion, the intention, and the nuance hidden behind the words.
But when people spoke outside the two-meter radius—like now, when the sounds came from all over the village—he only heard the pure sound without understanding. And it was precisely in hearing without understanding that he found a different kind of beauty.
When he could see, language was a tool—a way to communicate, to get information, to navigate social interactions. But now, without sight, hearing a foreign language without understanding its meaning became something more—it became pure music, the melody of identity, a symphony of humanity that needed no translation to be appreciated.
Each language carried a unique emotional color. The Huang language sounded steady and structured, like a sturdy building. The sharp Volmar language sounded direct and firm, like a sword cut with precision. The flowing Kesara language sounded soft and poetic, like water flowing over stones.
This was a beauty he had never fully appreciated when his eyes provided too many visual distractions—the beauty in the way humans spoke, in the way sound carried not just meaning but also heritage, history, identity. And the beauty in hearing without always needing to understand, in letting sound be music rather than information.
Mei Lin came out of the house with a bowl of warm porridge, the aroma of ginger and freshly cooked rice carrying a soothing warmth.
"Morning, Li Yuan," she greeted him with the same warmth as the night before. "You are up early. Did you sleep well?"
"Very well," Li Yuan replied sincerely. "Thank you again for your kindness."
Mei Lin sat beside him with a motion that carried the comfort of habit—she must have sat here often, watching the village wake up, enjoying the quiet morning before the day became busy.
"Are you listening to something?" she asked in a tone that carried curiosity.
"Languages," Li Yuan replied with a slight smile. "There are so many different languages in this village. I didn't expect to hear so much diversity in such a small place."
Mei Lin nodded—Li Yuan could hear the movement of her clothes.
"Ah, yes," she said in a tone that carried a mix of pride and caution. "Our village is on the border of the Huang Kingdom. We are one of the last settlements before the territory becomes... more uncertain."
She stopped, choosing her words carefully.
"The Huang Kingdom is a great country, but here, on the edge, we are in contact with other nations, with other races. To the north is the Volmar Confederacy—the people who speak with that sharp language you might hear. To the south is the Kesara Maritime Alliance—the ones whose language flows like water."
"And to the east?" Li Yuan asked with genuine curiosity.
Mei Lin was silent for a longer time this time, and when she spoke, her voice carried something like discomfort.
"To the east is the desert. A vast desert. No one owns it—not the Huang Kingdom, not the other nations. It is a null zone, a place where there are no laws, no rulers, no protection."
She stopped, her breath coming out slowly.
"There are people who live there, of course. People who do not fit anywhere else, who are running from something, or who are looking for something they cannot find within the boundaries of civilization. But it is a dangerous place. Bandits, slave traders, people who live outside of any law."
Li Yuan felt the weight of those words with a painful clarity. Slavery. He had seen it before—in Zhardar, thousands of years ago in his subjective experience, where he had helped free those who were chained. But hearing that it still existed, that it was still rampant in this part of the world, brought something like a sadness he could not fully suppress.
"Is this village safe?" Li Yuan asked with a sincere concern.
"Mostly," Mei Lin replied in a tone that carried a realistic caution. "We are close enough to the center of the Huang Kingdom to get protection from occasional military patrols. And we are not wealthy enough to attract the attention of major bandits. But..."
She stopped, and Li Yuan could feel the hesitation in that silence.
"But we are also not completely protected," she continued honestly. "There are raids sometimes. Slave traders who look for people who won't be missed—wanderers, strangers, those who do not have a strong family or connections. That is why..."
She stopped again, and when she spoke, her voice carried genuine concern.
"That is why I worry about you, Li Yuan. You are blind, you are alone, you are not from here. You... you are the kind of person who becomes a target. I do not say this to scare you, but because you need to know. This world is not always kind."
Li Yuan nodded slowly, appreciating the honesty even though the words carried an uncomfortable weight.
"I understand," he said gently. "And I appreciate your concern. I will be careful."
Mei Lin touched his hand with a gentleness—a touch that carried support without pity.
"If you decide to stay for a few days, you will be safe here. Han Wei is a respected village elder. No one will touch you under his protection. But if you decide to continue your journey... be careful. Do not trust everyone. And if someone offers you something that is too good to be true, it probably is."
That afternoon, Li Yuan walked through the village with Han Wei as his guide—not because he could not walk on his own, but because Han Wei insisted that he needed to know the layout of the village if he wanted to move around safely.
They walked slowly, Han Wei explaining every building, every turn, every obstacle with a patience that carried a genuine kindness.
"This is the Zhou family's house. They have three children, all still young, so they are often noisy. If you hear children's laughter, it is likely them."
"This is the village well. It is in the center, so if you ever get lost, listen for the sound of the bucket being pulled up or the water flowing. It will tell you where the center is."
"This is the blacksmith's workshop. You will hear the sound of the hammer on metal. Our blacksmith, Mr. Luo, is a good man but he can be gruff. Do not be offended if he doesn't talk much."
Li Yuan absorbed all of this with an undivided attention—not just the information but also the way Han Wei spoke, with a warmth about his neighbors, with a quiet pride about the community he led.
But he also heard the things that were not said—the tension in the way people spoke when they mentioned "strangers," the concern in the way they lowered their voices when talking about the "last raid," the wariness in the way they watched the outskirts of the village as if waiting for something unpleasant to arrive.
This was a community that lived on the edge—literally on the border of a kingdom, but also metaphorically on the edge between safety and danger, between civilization and chaos.
At the village's small market—more like an open area where a few merchants laid their wares on cloths or simple tables—Li Yuan experienced a remarkable transformation of sound.
As he walked through the market, sounds came from different directions and distances. A Volmar merchant shouting offers for cloth from a distance of ten meters—his voice was only heard as sharp foreign music, not understood. Kesara sailors arguing about a price from a distance of seven meters—their language was just a flowing melody without meaning.
But then a woman walked closer—Li Yuan felt her with his Wenjing, her presence carrying something sharp, something wary, something not entirely trusting.
From a distance of five meters, she began to speak—her voice in a language that was not the Huang language, a language that Li Yuan did not know the origin of. At that distance, he only heard foreign sounds—words that carried no meaning, just noise.
But as the woman continued to walk closer—four meters, three meters—something remarkable began to happen.
By the time her voice entered the two-meter radius of Li Yuan's body, as if passing through an invisible membrane, a transformation occurred. The voice that had been foreign suddenly became clear—not that the physical language changed, but the way Li Yuan heard it changed completely. The words she spoke now resonated in his understanding as if they were spoken in a language he had known since birth.
"You are blind," she said—and although the physical sound that came from her mouth was a foreign language, Li Yuan heard it as a perfectly clear statement, with all its nuance, tone, and full meaning.
And more than that—within this two-meter radius, his Wenjing also allowed him to "hear" what was unspoken, the echo of unspoken thoughts that resonated within the woman's heart:
Stupid young man. Alone and blind. He won't last a week outside this village. But maybe a warning can save him.
"Yes," Li Yuan replied simply, responding to the spoken words, not the thoughts he "heard."
"Alone?" the woman asked—her voice remained in her native language, but Li Yuan heard it with perfect understanding, as if the echo of the voice was translated by the two-meter space that surrounded him.
The unspoken thought echoed: No family. No protection. Slave traders will pay a good price for one like this—young, handsome, won't fight back.
"Yes," Li Yuan replied, his voice remaining calm even though he heard that dark thought—a thought that also became understood as soon as it entered the two-meter radius, as if there was no difference between a spoken word and a hidden thought in this resonant space.
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken judgment—a judgment that Li Yuan could "hear" clearly:
He will die or be enslaved. But it is his choice. I have warned enough foolish people.
"It is foolish," she finally said in a tone that carried a mix of concern and criticism. "This world is not kind to those who are alone and vulnerable. You must find a group, find protection. Or you will end up chained and sold to an auction block somewhere in the desert."
Every word resonated in the two-meter radius with perfect clarity—not just the literal meaning but also the layers of emotion behind it, the truth of an experience that shaped this warning.
The thought behind it: I have seen it too many times. Too many young people who think they can survive on their own. And then they disappear. Sold to the mines or plantations or worse.
"I appreciate the warning," Li Yuan said with a sincere respect—and he truly appreciated it, because he could feel that although this woman was cynical and harsh, her warning was born from a weary kindness, from a witness to too many tragedies.
The woman snorted—a sound that carried skepticism.
Appreciation. As if that will help. But at least I tried.
"Appreciation won't save you from chains," she said harshly. "But it is your choice. Just... do not trust people who offer 'protection' or 'easy work' or 'a safe place.' Nine times out of ten, they are human hunters looking for a bounty for the slave traders."
Then she walked away—and Li Yuan felt the reverse transformation happen. As the woman stepped out of the two-meter radius—three meters, four meters, five meters—her voice slowly changed back. The words that had been clear began to lose their resonant understanding, began to return to foreign sounds, until at a distance of six meters he only heard a murmur in a language he did not understand, only music without meaning.
And the "sound" of her thoughts and intentions faded completely, as if they had exited the resonant space that made all communication—both spoken and unspoken—transparent.
Li Yuan stood there for a while, feeling the wonder and the burden of what he had just experienced.
This two-meter radius was not just a distance—it was a space of transformation, a space where all incoming sound became transparent in meaning, where no secret could be hidden, where a foreign language became familiar and a hidden thought became audible.
This was a power of the Wenjing that he had not fully appreciated before—the ability to create a space where communication becomes perfect, where no misunderstanding is possible because the true intention is always heard.
But it was also a burden—because hearing the thoughts of others meant hearing their fears, their darkness, their judgments they did not say out loud. And it meant living with the awareness that within a two-meter radius, he had access to a truth that others might not want him to know.
This was the reality of this world—not an ideal or romanticized world, but a world where vulnerable people become a commodity, where blindness made him not just different but also a target.
Chen Ming lived in this reality too, Li Yuan thought with a new acknowledgment. The Chen Ming who stayed in the safe, small valley, who had a community that cared, was lucky. But there were thousands of others like Chen Ming—blind people, lame people, deaf people, people who were different—who did not have a kind community, who lived in places like this where difference meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant danger.
That evening, Li Yuan sat with Han Wei outside the house, listening to the village slowly quiet down as day turned into night.
"Mei Lin told me about the desert," Li Yuan said in a tone that carried a cautious curiosity. "And about the dangers on this frontier."
Han Wei was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weariness that came from years of living with uncertainty.
"We are grateful to still be safe," he said with a quiet honesty. "Every day without a raid is a blessing. Every season where all our people are still here is a small victory."
He stopped, his breath coming out with a subtle tremor.
"The Huang Kingdom tries to protect us. They send patrols, they enforce what laws they can. But this territory is vast, and their resources are limited. And the other nations... they are not always hostile, but they are also not always friendly. A border is a place where tension is high and trust is low."
"And the desert," he continued in a tone that carried something like sadness, "the desert is a place where there are no laws at all. No one claims it because no one can control it. It is too vast, too inhospitable, too full of people who refuse to be controlled."
"It is a null zone in the truest sense—a space between civilizations where normal rules do not apply. And in that space, dark things happen. Slavery is one of them. But also murder, robbery, violence of all kinds."
Li Yuan felt the weight of those words with a painful clarity—not because he didn't know that the world could be cruel, but because hearing it described with such raw honesty made that reality more tangible, more immediate, more urgent.
"Why do you stay here?" Li Yuan asked gently. "Why not move to a safer place, farther from the border?"
Han Wei smiled—Li Yuan could hear it in his voice even though he could not see it.
"Because this is our home," he replied with a simplicity that carried a profound truth. "Because our ancestors built this village, and we will not abandon it out of fear. Because someone must live on the frontier, someone must be a bridge between different worlds."
"And because," he continued in a tone that carried a genuine warmth, "although there is danger, there is also beauty. There is diversity—different languages, different cultures, different ways of thinking. There is a learning that comes from living in a place where worlds meet. It is a blessing, even though it is also a curse."
Li Yuan nodded slowly, understanding in a deeper way than before.
This was another lesson that could not be learned in a safe and sheltered place—that living on the edge, living in uncertainty, required a different kind of courage, a different kind of commitment.
And that even in a dangerous place, even on a frontier where vulnerability could mean death or worse, there were still people like Han Wei and Mei Lin who chose to stay, to build a community, to make a small light in the darkness.
That night, Li Yuan lay on the same bed, in the same darkness—a darkness that never changed, that had become a constant in his life now.
But his mind was full of sounds—overlapping languages, warnings spoken with kindness, stories of unseen but very real dangers.
He had learned today that the world was more complex than he had imagined—not just in the physical challenge of moving without sight, but in the layers of social danger that made blindness not just a limitation but also a target.
But he also learned that even in a dangerous place, even on a frontier where civilization met chaos, there was still beauty—in the diversity of languages, in the courage of a community that chose to stay, in the kindness of people like Han Wei who made their home open to a blind stranger.
The Understanding of the Body sang with a complex resonance—not just contentment but also an acknowledgment that this learning was important, that understanding the body meant understanding how different bodies lived in a world that was not always kind, how vulnerability had to be navigated with caution and courage in equal measure.
Chen Ming lived with this every day, Li Yuan thought with a deep reverence. Not just with the physical challenges but with the constant awareness that he was vulnerable, that the world could be dangerous, that he had to trust in the kindness of others while remaining wary of those who would take advantage.
And Chen Ming did it with dignity—not with anger or bitterness, but with an acceptance that did not become resignation, with a caution that did not become paranoia.
It was a balance that Li Yuan was now learning to find—the balance between trust and wariness, between being open and being protected, between moving forward with courage and doing so with a wisdom that recognized real danger.
Tomorrow, he would continue his journey.
But tonight, he would rest in a safe place, in a kind community, on the edge of a world where languages mixed and dangers lurked but humanity still endured.
And in that rest, he would carry a gratitude for what he had learned, for the kindness he had received, for the reminder that even though the world could be cruel, there were still people who chose to make their part a little better.
One act of kindness at a time.
As Han Wei said.
As Chen Ming lived.
As Li Yuan was now learning to do—not just to survive in the darkness, but to live with dignity in it, to find beauty in it, to build connections that brought a light that needed no eyes to be seen.