On the third night in the village, Li Yuan sat alone in the small room Han Wei had given him, the darkness outside no different from the darkness he now always experienced.
But there was something bothering him—something he had felt since he released his Wenjing to a two-meter radius but had not fully processed until now.
When the woman spoke to him in the market, he did not just hear her words. He did not just hear the intention behind her words. He heard the unspoken thoughts—complete thoughts, like an internal conversation that echoed from the woman's heart into the two-meter space surrounding Li Yuan.
"Stupid young man. Alone and blind. He won't last a week."
"Slave traders will pay a good price for one like this—young, handsome, won't fight back."
It wasn't just intention. It wasn't just emotion or a hidden meaning. But literal words that echoed in the heart, which should not have been heard by anyone.
This was not what was supposed to happen.
Li Yuan closed his eyes that could not see—a habitual motion that did not change the darkness—and he reached inward, into his Zhenjing, into the structure of his Understanding of Water that had been his main Core Consciousness for thousands of years.
He found the problem quickly.
When he released his Wenjing to a two-meter radius, he did not filter it with his Core Consciousness of Water as he usually did. He released it raw, unfiltered, without the refinement that usually made the Wenjing a subtle perception of intention and meaning rather than a total invasion of another person's thought privacy.
In this unfiltered state, the Wenjing worked at full power—not just reading the mood and intention, but also "hearing" every echo of thought that resonated in a person's heart within a two-meter radius.
This was a deep secret—a secret perhaps known to no one but Li Yuan, because there were no other cultivators in this world. The Wenjing in its pure, unfiltered state was like an ear that heard every whisper, every breath, every heartbeat without discrimination.
But it was not the right way to use it.
It was a violation—a violation of privacy, of another person's dignity, of a boundary that should exist between a person's thoughts and the outside world.
Chen Ming had never heard another person's thoughts. Chen Ming only felt intention—whether someone was kind or cruel, whether their words were sincere or lying, whether their presence carried warmth or tension.
That was the true Wenjing—the filtered, the refined, the respectful one.
Li Yuan sat with a straight posture, his breath coming out slowly, and he began a job he had done thousands of times before—the job of filtering, of refining, of making sure that his Understanding worked in a way that aligned with the values he held.
His Zhenjing unfolded before him—not visually, but as a landscape of consciousness that he could navigate with a familiarity born from sixteen thousand years of cultivation.
At the center, at the roots of the spiritual tree that was the structure of his inner world, there was the Understanding of Water—the Core Consciousness that had become the main filter for all his other Understandings.
Water taught gentleness, flexibility, the ability to flow without forcing. And now, Water would teach the Wenjing to hear in a gentle way as well—to hear intention without invading thoughts, to understand meaning without stealing unspoken words.
Li Yuan reached for the resonance of Water—a soothing coldness, an unforced gentleness, a non-judgmental clarity—and he allowed it to flow into the structure of the Wenjing he had released.
Like water filtering through stone, the Understanding of Water began to filter the Wenjing—not reducing its power, but refining the way it worked.
He felt the transformation happen with a gentleness that brought no pain but brought a profound change.
The Wenjing that had previously heard every echo of thought—every literal word that resonated in the heart—now began to change. The Water filter made it more subtle, more selective, more respectful.
It no longer heard complete thoughts. But it heard the intention behind the thoughts—the essence without the invasive detail.
It no longer heard "Stupid young man. Slave traders will pay a good price for one like this."
But it heard: Genuine concern mixed with weary cynicism. A warning born from witnessing too many tragedies. An intention to protect even while not believing the warning would be heeded.
The same meaning. The same understanding of the true intention. But without the invasion into the private words that should not be heard by others.
Li Yuan continued to work—with a patience born from thousands of years of practice, with a carefulness born from respect for others, with a precision born from a deep understanding of how resonance works.
He filtered the Wenjing with the Understanding of Water, layer by layer, until he felt the right balance—enough to hear intention and hidden meaning, enough to understand the truth behind the words, but not so deep that he heard the internal conversation that was every person's private right.
When the job was done—when the filtering was complete—Li Yuan opened his eyes that could not see and felt the difference immediately.
The Wenjing was still there, still active within the two-meter radius. But now it worked in the way it was meant to—in the way Chen Ming might have felt the world, in a way that respected the boundary between understanding and invading.
He heard the sounds from outside—Han Wei and Mei Lin's conversation in another room, their voices muffled by the wall but still audible.
They were speaking in the Huang language, but when their voices entered the two-meter radius—even through the wall—a transformation occurred. Not that he heard their words more clearly physically, but he understood the meaning and intention behind them.
Han Wei: Concern for Li Yuan. A desire to help but not knowing how. A hope that this young man would be safe.
Mei Lin: A gentle affection. A desire to persuade Li Yuan to stay longer where he was safe. A fear of what would happen if he left.
Not literal words. Not complete thoughts. But the intention—the pure essence of what they felt, what they meant, the truth behind whatever they were saying or not saying.
This was the true Wenjing—the one filtered with Water, the one that heard with gentleness, the one that understood without invading.
Li Yuan felt something in his chest loosen—a tension he hadn't fully realized he was holding since he had heard the woman's literal thoughts in the market.
This was the right way.
This was how an Understanding was supposed to work—not as a tool for power or control or invasion, but as a way to understand more deeply, to connect more genuinely, to feel the truth that was often hidden behind the social masks people wore.
When a person says, "I'm fine," a well-filtered Wenjing cultivator does not hear the literal words that echo in their heart. But they hear the sadness behind those words—they understand that "fine" is a gentle lie, that there is a pain that is not wanted to be shared, that the need for space and privacy is more important than complete honesty at that moment.
They understand the intention—why the words were said. Not what was thought but not said.
That difference was subtle but crucial—the difference between understanding and invasion, between empathy and violation, between hearing with respect and hearing without boundaries.
The Understanding of the Body sang softly within his Zhenjing—not with words but with a resonance that carried agreement, with a vibration that said that yes, this was the important learning.
Because the Understanding of the Body was not just about feeling the physical body—about vibrations and touch and sensations. It was also about understanding boundaries—the boundary between one body and another, the boundary between self and other, a boundary that must be respected for connection to be healthy and dignified.
Chen Ming never had a Wenjing. But he had something similar—a sensitivity to intention born from listening with full attention, from feeling the vibration of emotion in a voice, from understanding a person not through what they said but through how they said it.
And Li Yuan, with his now properly filtered Wenjing, was learning to hear in the same way—with respect, with gentleness, with the acknowledgment that every person has a right to the privacy of their thoughts even when their intention becomes transparent.
The next morning, when Li Yuan sat again outside Han Wei's house, listening to the village wake up with a now-familiar symphony of sound, he felt the difference in the way he heard.
Conversations were happening around him—some in the Huang language, some in the Volmar language, some in the Kesara language, some in languages whose origins he did not know.
When those voices entered the two-meter radius, the transformation still occurred—the foreign languages still became understood, the sounds still resonated with a clear meaning.
But now, he only heard intention—not literal thoughts.
A Volmar merchant walked by, speaking with his friend about the price of cloth. When their voices entered the two-meter radius, Li Yuan understood the conversation—about negotiation, about profit, about the strategy to get the best price.
But he also heard the intention behind the words—Trust between business partners. A desire to be fair but also to profit. A wariness about competition from other merchants.
Not literal thoughts. Not unspoken words. But the essence—an understanding of why they were talking that way, what they felt, what the truth was behind the words they chose to say.
A mother called her child from a distance—her voice in the flowing Kesara language. When that voice entered the two-meter radius, Li Yuan understood her words—a call to come home, to eat.
But he also heard the intention behind it—A gentle concern. An unconditional love. A desire to protect while giving freedom.
This was the beauty of a filtered Wenjing—not invasion but understanding, not violation but empathy, not control but a connection that respected boundaries.
That evening, when Mei Lin sat beside him with a cup of tea, she said in a tone that carried something hard to express:
"Li Yuan, I know you may want to continue your journey soon. But... would you consider staying a little longer? Just a few more days?"
Her words were simple. Her request was gentle.
But his filtered Wenjing allowed Li Yuan to hear more than the words—he heard the intention behind them:
Genuine concern. A fear that if Li Yuan left too soon, he would be harmed or worse. A desire to protect without forcing. A hope that with more time, Li Yuan would be more prepared, or perhaps would decide to stay in a safe place.
Li Yuan felt the warmth of that intention—a warmth that needed no words to be confirmed, which was heard clearly through the Wenjing that was now working in the right way.
"I will stay two more days," Li Yuan said gently. "I appreciate your concern, Auntie Mei Lin. And I do not want to leave without making sure that I have learned what I can learn here."
Mei Lin nodded—and through his Wenjing, Li Yuan felt the relief she felt, mixed with a sadness from knowing that two days would not be enough to make him truly ready for what awaited him outside the village.
But he also felt acceptance—acceptance that Li Yuan was an adult making his own choices, that he could not be forced to stay, that all she could do was offer kindness and her best hopes.
This was the beauty of a filtered Wenjing—to understand not just what was said but why, to feel the truth behind the words without invading privacy, to connect with others in a way that respected them as individuals with their own thoughts and feelings.
Chen Ming never had a Wenjing. But he had something similar—a sensitivity to intention born from listening with full attention, from feeling the vibration of emotion in a voice, from understanding people not through what they said but through how they said it.
And Li Yuan, with his now properly filtered Wenjing, was learning to hear in the same way—with respect, with gentleness, with the acknowledgment that every person has a right to the privacy of their thoughts even when their intention becomes transparent.
That night, Li Yuan lay on the familiar bed, in the darkness that never changed, and he felt the peace that came not from a lack of power but from choosing to use power wisely.
The filtered Wenjing was weaker in a technical sense. But it was stronger in a more important sense—because it worked in a way that aligned with the values Li Yuan held, in a way that respected others, in a way that allowed for a genuine connection without violation.
This was a lesson that could not be learned without making a mistake first—without first hearing too much, without feeling the discomfort of an unintentional invasion, without recognizing that power without boundaries was a burden, not a blessing.
And this was a lesson that Chen Ming taught without words—that to live with dignity means to respect the dignity of others, that to hear correctly means to hear with a healthy boundary, that to connect sincerely means to do so in a way that does not invade or control but that respects and accepts.
The Understanding of the Body sang with a deep resonance—because this too was about the body, about boundaries, about understanding where one person ends and another begins, about respecting space and privacy even when having the power to violate that boundary.
And in that filtering, in that choice, in that respect, there was a power greater than raw power—a power that came from wisdom, from integrity, from a willingness to limit oneself not out of weakness but out of respect for the dignity of all living things.