At that moment, Huamantian was even quieter than Qin Yu behind her.
She watched Wang Xian climb the ladder, a ball of golden light slowly rising with him, and felt something she couldn't put into words.
It was like Li Dalu in the prince's residence in the imperial city, teaching Liu Xian'er that volume of the Book of Rites, each wondrous line of poetry rolling from the little girl's lips.
Like a mountain stream, trickling along.
Every poem the teacher recited was like the wisdom of sages, the essence of Daoism, lingering in the garden of the prince's residence.
If comprehending the Dao was like moving a mountain, then Huamantian was now moving the first mountain on her path of cultivation.
Her senior brother stood on the ladder, rising onto his toes to write high on the city wall. Her heart soared into the sky, like a white cloud shielding her senior brother from a ray of sunlight.
When her senior brother bent down to carve something lower, shifting his feet lightly, her heart became like the river not far away, surging ceaselessly eastward toward the East Sea.
As his writing flowed freely, Wang Xian even leaned against the towering scaffolding, as though holding a scroll of Dao Scripture and writing while reclining. The small knife in his hand never stopped.
The way of Heaven benefits all and harms none. The way of the sage is to act without contention.
At that moment, Wang Xian was writing those words: "The highest good is like water. Water benefits all things and does not contend."
Then, the moment he stood up, he turned that gentle stream into a roaring torrent, sweeping down and engulfing a thousand armies and ten thousand horses.
He wrote, "The way of Heaven—the will of Heaven is iron."