Chapter Twelve: A Modest "World of Heroes"

Ever since Yiyi made her first friend, “Stone,” in kindergarten, her little world had been brushed with even more vibrant hues. Stone, true to his name, was sturdy and robust with a round, bold face. He was the most daring and mischievous child in the Sunflower Class, yet he preferred to trail behind the quietest and most well-behaved girl—Yiyi—proudly calling himself her “guardian.” Whenever another child tried to take Yiyi’s toys, Stone would always be the very first to step forward, puffing out his cheeks and declaring in his childish voice, “Don’t bully Jiang Yiyi!”

This small kindergarten was like a miniature “martial world,” and Yiyi and Stone were undoubtedly the most curious pair of partners in it.

Stone’s mother, Li Yue, was a woman utterly different from me. She was always impeccably dressed in tailored business suits, with flawless makeup and a brisk, purposeful stride, exuding the aura of a decisive professional. As the marketing director of a foreign enterprise, she was a firm believer in “scientific parenting,” convinced that children must not lose at the starting line—even from birth. Stone’s weekends were filled to the brim with classes: English, Lego robotics, young presenters, and countless other early education programs.

Every day, at the kindergarten gate, I would meet her as we picked up our children. She regarded me—this seemingly “unconventional,” always plainly dressed “single father”—with friendly curiosity, tinged with a subtle, almost imperceptible incomprehension born of our differing philosophies.

“Mr. Jiang, you’re picking up Yiyi alone again today? That can’t be easy.” She would greet me with a smile, her eyes flickering briefly to the well-worn cloth shoes on my feet.

“I’m used to it,” I would always reply gently.

The true “collision” happened on an ordinary afternoon.

I had come to collect Yiyi from school and saw Li Yue gently chastising Stone, attempting to reason with him. Upon seeing me, she seemed to find a willing confidant and approached.

“Mr. Jiang, I need a word with you.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Stone told me that during snack time today, while the children were eating fruit, Yiyi just sat quietly with her apple, saying nothing at all. When the teacher asked her to share with the child beside her, she simply handed over the apple with a silent smile. Stone was more anxious for her than anyone!”

She looked at me, her tone laced with unyielding professional certainty. “Isn’t Yiyi a bit too introverted? This is a crucial time for her personality to develop; she needs encouragement to express herself and join in with others. Otherwise, she might suffer for it in the future.”

I understood her concern. In this era, eloquence seems to be a necessary survival skill.

Looking down, I met Yiyi’s clear, untroubled gaze—there was only serenity in her eyes. I smoothed back a stray lock of hair from her temple before replying calmly to Li Yue, “Thank you for your concern. But the cicada sings through the summer, while the stone remains silent for millennia—each finds joy in its own way. She moves to her own rhythm.”

Li Yue was taken aback, clearly not expecting this answer. She opened her mouth as if to say more, but when she met my tranquil, unfathomable eyes, her words dissolved into a soft sigh. “Very well… Mr. Jiang, you certainly have your own perspective.”

Her confusion only deepened. I knew, in her eyes, my “go with the flow” approach bordered on “laissez-faire,” perhaps even “irresponsibility.”

I offered no further explanation. Our philosophies diverged; there was no need to persuade her. My only duty was to guard my daughter and let her grow freely, guided by her own heart.

After seeing off Li Yue and the ever-energetic Stone, I held Yiyi’s small hand as we walked home.

“Papa,” Yiyi suddenly asked, “Stone’s mom said things about me. Aren’t you upset?”

I smiled. “Why should I be upset? She’s only worried for you. It’s like how a bird in the sky might pity a fish in the water for not being able to fly—yet the fish is perfectly happy in the water, isn’t it?”

Yiyi nodded, half understanding, a smile of realization lighting her little face.

Back at “Anhe Hall,” the sky was still bright. I had just changed into my white coat when the clinic’s curtain was lifted.

A young man stepped in, about twenty-five or six, wearing thick glasses and looking pale. His right shoulder habitually slumped forward as he walked. As soon as he sat, he let out a long sigh.

“Doctor, my neck… it feels like it’s about to snap.”

I motioned for him to sit, placing my fingers gently at the back of his neck. In an instant, I understood his condition. His cervical spine was stiff as wood, several vital meridians blocked, and his blood and energy were sluggish—this was no recent ailment.

“You work in IT, don’t you? More than ten hours a day at the computer?” I asked quietly.

He jerked his head up, astonished. “How did you know? I’m a programmer. I’ve barely slept for nearly a month, trying to get a project online.”

I said nothing, retrieving my acupuncture kit—a set of ebony needles, made extraordinary by years of cultivation and care.

“Massage can only relieve the symptoms. I’ll use a few needles to treat the root.”

He looked nervously at the fine, hair-thin needles in my hand, but the searing pain in his neck made him grit his teeth and nod.

Focusing my energy, I channeled a thread of golden force into the needle tip. With a deft flick of my wrist, the silver needles pierced precisely into the Fengchi and Tianzhu points at the nape of his neck. The needles entered the flesh without harming muscle or bone; my energy, gentle as spring rain, instantly unblocked the congested meridians.

The young man felt a wave of warmth surge from his neck throughout his body. The stiffness and pain that had plagued him for days melted away like snow in the sun. In disbelief, he rotated his neck, hearing the soft clicks of his vertebrae settling into place.

“Incredible! Absolutely incredible!” He stood up, elated. “Doctor, I’ve been to so many big hospitals. They all said it was chronic and could only be managed with therapy and traction. I’ve never felt this comfortable before!”

I put away my needles, watching him calmly. “The real root of your illness isn’t your neck, but your heart. If a string is drawn too tight, it will eventually snap. What truly matters to you—the project, or your life?”

My question caught him off guard. His excitement faded, replaced by confusion and exhaustion. He murmured, “I… I don’t know. Everyone’s working so hard. If I don’t, I’ll be left behind…”

I poured him a cup of tea, offering a few words of Daoist wisdom: “Heaven and earth follow their own course. Work at sunrise, rest at sunset. Look at the trees along the street: they bud in spring, shed leaves in autumn, never anxious about whether they’ll green again next year. Your life isn’t just one project. Slow down—you might see more along the way.”

He sat there for a long while, cradling the tea, his gaze gradually clearing from confusion to lucidity.

As he left, he gave me a deep, grateful bow.