There's a saying in the countryside: "A village isn't a village without a fool."
He asked, "Why doesn't our village have a fool?" The people laughed and patted his head with a touch of pity.
Ever since he could remember, he had suffered from a strange affliction. Whenever he had a nightmare, he saw a grotesque face. It grew large and small, appeared near and far, seeming to mock and resent him, to weep and rage. Its countless expressions silently taunted him in his dreams. One day, the face seemed to come alive, taking on three-dimensional form. It chuckled, and every ear of wheat in the dream snapped, leaving only broken stalks.
To save his life, he left his home and went to the mountains to cultivate, then entered the mortal world to endure tribulations.
He witnessed the cold-blooded killing ruler and encountered the terrifying "Ten Kills with Every Strike." Then one day, his master told him that his only chance of survival had always been in the place where he was born.
It turned out that the protagonist's greatest enemy was neither the "ruler" nor the "Ten Kills," but his own heart, lost and restless amid the glittering lights and extravagant pleasures of the world.
The heart of a child, the way of utmost sincerity, unity of knowledge and action, the bridge to the other shore. Cultivating the Dao means cultivating the heart. Only then did he understand: faced with power, do not let your sincere heart be clouded; emerging from the mire, hold fast to simplicity. After all that effort, all he had been cultivating was a single heart.
