It was just a small favor

Chapter 88 It was just a small favor

Wei Shufen stood there, watching all of this.

She suddenly felt that the scene before her was even more shocking than the scene of the golden light turning into a palm and clearing the CD player Gu.

The golden light transforming into a palm represents power.

That's something to be feared, something that lets you know "this person is not to be messed with".

Power is tangible and measurable, like the height of a mountain or the depth of the sea. You can revere it, you can submit to it, but ultimately you can keep it in a corner of your heart, give it a place, a name, a definition.

Cleansing CD players of their curses is a skill.

That's something to be awe-inspired, something that lets people know "this person is capable".

The Tao is intangible, yet perceptible, like the coolness of the wind or the warmth of the fire. You can admire it, you can look up to it, but ultimately you can describe it with words and confine it with cognition.

But all of this before my eyes—the tears of these people, their prostrations, their clasped hands and chanting of Buddha's name—this is the human heart.

It is the most instinctive, the most genuine, and the most genuine gratitude that living people feel for "surviving".

Strength can be faked, so can spiritual attainment, but the human heart cannot be faked.

The tears shed after surviving a disaster cannot be faked.

The kowtow of someone who has escaped death cannot be faked.

A hug that is lost and then regained cannot be faked.

These are things that are more real than gold and spiritual attainment.

Gold may fade, and spiritual cultivation may vary in depth, but the burning passion in people's hearts at this moment is the most difficult thing in the world to fake.

She turned her head and looked at Li Yuan.

The figure in the moon-white Taoist robe still stood there quietly.

He didn't look at those who were kowtowing, those who were chanting Buddhist prayers, or those who were embracing and weeping.

He simply stood there, the clear light between his brows had faded, his hands hung at his sides, his face as calm as still water.

That tranquility was not a deliberate restraint, nor a suppression of cultivation, but rather—there was no ripple beneath the surface of the water, and nothing was inherently present in the depths of the water.

He didn't simply ignore it; he saw it, yet acted as if he hadn't. He didn't suppress his displeasure; he acted on it, yet acted as if he hadn't done it.

He didn't say anything like "You're welcome."

That's a way of deferring gratitude; deferring means that he feels he has already received that gratitude, but is just too embarrassed to accept it.

It is human nature to yield; it is a polite gesture of giving and receiving, a social etiquette of "I gave it to you, you don't have to return it."

But he didn't even take that step.

There was no mention of it being "just a small favor".

That was a humble expression of gratitude; humility meant that he knew what he had done but simply didn't want to take credit.

Humility is a virtue, but virtue is ultimately a deliberate act of goodness; it is the cultivation of "I know I am good, but I pretend I am not."

But he didn't even pretend.

There was no statement like "This is what I should do."

That was a response to a favor, and a response meant that he regarded the matter as a favor.

When it becomes a favor, there is a distinction between the giver and the receiver; with distinction comes attachment; with attachment comes mental hindrance.

But he didn't even have that thought.

But he didn't even refuse.

They didn't even have humility.

There wasn't even a response.

He just stood there.

It was as if nothing had happened.

It wasn't that he was deliberately pretending nothing had happened; rather, it was that nothing had actually happened to him.

Like the wind blowing across the water, once the wind is gone, the water is still water, the ripples return to calm, as if there had never been any waves.

Just as the moon shines on the earth and dawn breaks, the moon is still the moon, its radiance hidden in the sunlight, as if it had never illuminated anything.

As he just did, it really was just a trivial matter.

It wasn't that he was being modest, it wasn't that he was refusing to take credit, it wasn't that he didn't feel he had done anything special.

In that radiant light, at the moment when the gods descended, he was merely a passage, a vessel, a crack through which the "Tao" came to the human world.

It wasn't him who saved these people, it was the Tao that saved them; it wasn't him who neutralized the curses, it was "the original nature" that denied what shouldn't exist.

He was just a guy standing there who happened to pass by.

But Wei Shufen knew that it was no small matter.

It was something she had never seen before in her life.

It was something higher than Gu magic, higher than medical skills, higher than everything she knew.

But after that person did something that was higher than anything else, he just stood there, as if he hadn't done anything at all.

This attitude of "doing nothing" is more captivating than any attitude of "doing something".

Because the former is still within the realm of humans, while the latter has already transcended it.

She suddenly remembered her grandmother's words.

When my grandmother said those words, her eyes shone like a young girl's.

Those eyes, at that moment, pierced through ninety years of time, through the influence of the Gu poison, through the boundary between life and death, and saw something she had been searching for her whole life but had never found.

That wasn't a final burst of energy before death; it was in the very last moment of her life when the door suddenly opened and she glanced inside. Just one glance was enough.

Grandmother said, "There is only one way to truly break the curse."

Now she knows.

The Way is doing something incredibly important, yet feeling like you've done nothing at all.

It wasn't intentional humility, nor was it deliberate modesty, but rather...

In his eyes, it really wasn't a big deal.

Just as the sun illuminates the world, it doesn't think it has done anything remarkable; it simply shines, nothing more.

The Way is that he saved more than thirty lives, yet stood there, calm as still water.

That water is not dead, not cold, not heartless; it is alive, warm, and all-encompassing.

It's just that it's too deep, so deep that no ripples can be seen on the surface; it's too clear, so clear that no impurities can be hidden inside.

All the ripples are underwater, all the temperature is deep within; on the surface, it is just water, just calm, just as it is.

The Tao is simply the way it is.

"That's how it is" is not a description, but a state of being.

Flowers bloom and wither, that's just how it is; clouds roll and unroll, that's just how it is; life and death, the cycle of reincarnation, that's just how it is.

The Tao is not some unfathomable thing; the Tao is simply the "original state."

Before all embellishment, before all definition, before all distinction, there exists that which remains unmoved and naturally.

When the Gu worms come, the Dao is there; when the Gu worms go, the Dao is still there.

Before saving lives, the Way exists; after saving lives, the Way remains.

The Tao remains unmoved; what remains unmoved is the "original state." What moves are the myriad phenomena of the world, the rise and fall of human hearts, and the cycle of life and death.

Wei Shufen opened her mouth, as if to say something.

But I found myself not knowing what to say.

Language is too thin, too narrow, like a net trying to catch the ocean, like a ruler trying to measure the sky.

A thousand words were churning in her mind, but when they reached her lips, they all got stuck, not because she didn't know which one to say, but because none of them were enough.

Saying anything is too mild.

Saying "thank you" is too weak; saying "I admire you" is too weak; saying "you are truly amazing" is also too weak.

Those words, when placed before this matter, are as light as a feather falling at the foot of Mount Tai. It's not that the feather isn't heavy enough, but that Mount Tai is too heavy.

So she just stood there, quietly watching him, watching the person who made her truly understand what "Tao" was for the first time.

She didn't need to say anything. Saying anything would be superfluous.

She simply stood there, like those who were kneeling, crying, and kowtowing, quietly surrendering something of herself.

It wasn't given to Li Yuan as a person, but to that which was revealed through Li Yuan, that which she finally saw.

Inside the carriage, the crying gradually subsided.

It's not that I'm done crying, it's that I've cried enough.

The tears that needed to be shed have been shed; the fears that needed to be released have been released; the gratitude that needed to be expressed has been expressed through cries, kowtows, prayers, and hugs.

A person can't cry forever, just as it can't rain forever.

After crying, my heart felt empty. But that emptiness wasn't a hollow void; it was like the sky after a storm, washed clean, bright blue, and crystal clear.

Some people started cleaning up the mess, some started wiping the stains off their clothes, and some started comforting their still-crying relatives.

Those who are alive will eventually return to the order of life.

After the fear and gratitude subsided, the next step was to clean up the mess, wipe the dirt off oneself, and carry the survivors on one's back.

This is human instinct, and also human resilience. No matter what you've been through, as long as you're alive, you'll get up on your own, dust yourself off, and keep going.

The vomit was still there, the dead insects were still there, and the window with the crack was still there.

But those things don't seem so scary now.

Vomit is still vomit, insect carcasses are still insect carcasses, cracks are still cracks, but the person looking at them has a different state of mind.

Just now, when I looked at them, I felt fear, despair, and the panic of "I'm going to die"; now, when I look at them, I see the past, my experiences, and the relief of "I'm still alive".

The same thing can be hell or a beautiful landscape in the eyes of people with different states of mind.

Because they are just the past.

And they are still alive.

Things from the past, no matter how disgusting, terrifying, or nightmarish, are still things of the past.

As long as you are alive, the past can be let go, forgotten, and trampled underfoot, becoming a distant story that you may occasionally recall for the rest of your life.

Li Yuan remained standing quietly.

The wisp of clear light between his brows slowly receded and finally disappeared completely.

It wasn't destroyed, it just went back.

Just as the tide recedes, the water doesn't disappear; it returns to the sea. Just as breathing doesn't disappear; it returns to the body.

That clear light originally came from the light of nature, and now it returns to the light of nature. It comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. In the ancestral aperture between Li Yuan's eyebrows, the bright moon still hangs, but it does not appear in the human world.

He opened his eyes.

His gaze swept over the weeping, kneeling, and excited people.

That gaze remained gentle, peaceful, and devoid of any superfluous emotion.

It's not indifference—indifference is knowing someone has feelings but not giving them; it's not detachment—detachment is standing on high ground and looking down.

He simply watched, as if watching spring flowers bloom, as if watching autumn leaves fall.

There was no sense of self-awareness that "I saved you", no expectation that "you should thank me", or even any pity that "you are pitiful" in his eyes.

There was only one extremely faint, indescribable feeling—peace.

It was as if all of this was how it was supposed to be; as if these people's survival was an arrangement of heaven and earth, and he just happened to be standing in the place that arrangement had passed through.

Then, he slightly raised his hand.

"Get up, all of you."

His voice remained as gentle and calm as ever, neither too loud nor too soft.

It's not high because it doesn't need to be a command, an order, or something that requires obedience.

It's not low, because a low voice doesn't need to be a plea, a request, or something that needs a response.

His voice was perfectly positioned, neither too high nor too low, like a stream overflowing a riverbed, like moonlight spilling into a courtyard—natural and just right.

"The poison has been neutralized. You'll be fine after a few days of rest."

He paused, his gaze falling on the drifting black mist.

The black mist was still there, swirling and churning, but it no longer posed any threat.

They are just some remnants, some lingering traces of the poison that have not yet completely dissipated.

Like the wisps of smoke after a fire has died down, like the damp marks left after water has dried.

There's nothing more to do; they'll dissipate on their own. It just takes time.

"Don't overwork yourself these next few days, and avoid eating fishy or gamey foods, lest you damage your health."

The words contained the meaning of a doctor's order, but there was an additional layer of something indescribable beyond that.

The doctor's orders were technical, a list of "what to do and what not to do"; his words contained technical knowledge, but were more than just technical. When his words reached the listener's ears, they didn't just remind them to "avoid overexertion and avoid pungent foods," but also instilled a sense of peace in them.

power.

It was as if everything would be alright if they did as he said; as if the person who said those words had already shielded them from all the bad possibilities from view.

Those people nodded repeatedly, wishing they could engrave his words in their hearts.

It wasn't because he saved them that his words became sacred decrees, but because his words, spoken after saving them, naturally carried weight.

That was the weight of the savior, the weight of the clear light, and even more so, the weight of the person standing before me, calm and serene.

Li Yuan withdrew his gaze.

He turned around and looked at Wei Shufen.

Those gentle eyes remained clear and undisturbed.

There was no smugness of "Look how amazing I am", no expectation of "You should admire me", and not even a sense of "What did I just do?"

That clarity is the clarity in a baby's eyes, the clarity of an ancient pool in a deep mountain, the clarity of the first ray of light at the beginning of time.

It is not a clarity that is unaware of good and evil, but a clarity that chooses clarity even after knowing all good and evil.

It's not a clarity that hasn't been weathered by storms, but a clarity that has settled down after experiencing all the storms.

It was as if the astonishing scene just now was nothing more than a simple act.

It's not just a feeling; it's true for him.