As dawn painted the eastern sky with hues of rose and gold, its gentle light spilled across the land. A tapestry of wispy cirrus clouds, like feathered brushstrokes, adorned the cerulean canvas above, catching the sun’s early rays and shimmering with an ethereal, dreamlike quality.

From the roadside inn, nestled beside the ancient King’s Road, rose the mingled sounds of barking hounds and the sweet scent of woodsmoke curling skyward. These earthly elements, interwoven with the dawn’s ethereal beauty, lent the scene a touch of the commonplace, yet it felt perfectly harmonious, as if ordained by the very fabric of existence.

The innkeeper’s motley pack of curs frolicked and chased each other, their tails wagging with an exuberance that spoke of the vitality of all living things.

Suddenly, the distant thunder of hooves shattered the morning calm. From the horizon, a swirling cloud of dust announced the approach of riders. Within the swirling haze, several magnificent steeds galloped furiously, bearing upon their backs stern-faced men clad in rich brocades. They surged past the inn like a storm, their passage a whirlwind of haste and purpose.

The innkeeper’s hounds, cowering and whimpering, scattered to the roadside, yielding passage to the thunderous charge. The very earth seemed to tremble as the riders thundered by, their passage shaking the aged timbers of the inn.

A chorus of creaks and groans, like the pained sighs of an ancient being, echoed from the inn’s aging frame. From the rooms above, startled cries arose.

“Fear not, fear not!” a weathered voice boomed from within the inn. “This old place has stood for a century, and trembled with every passing gallop. It won’t fall today!” In the corner of the main hall, an old man with a pipe clenched between his teeth sat calmly, puffing smoke and watching the spectacle.

The young serving lad, however, merely scoffed, and slung a towel over his shoulder. He grabbed a steaming kettle and hurried up the stairs, eager to deliver hot water to the shaken guests.

In the last room on the right of the second floor, a young man lay sprawled, fully clothed, upon the bed, the air thick with the stale odor of wine.

The thunder of hooves and the brief tremor roused him from his slumber. He blinked open his heavy eyes and sat up, massaging his aching temples, and gazing around in bleary confusion.

“Alas, drink has betrayed me,” he groaned. “How did I imbibe so deeply?” The young man, no older than twenty, possessed a slender build and unremarkable features, yet carried an air of quiet scholarly refinement.

A grimace twisted his face as he struggled to his feet, his head throbbing with each movement. He stumbled to the table and gulped down a cup of cold tea, finding a modicum of relief.

“I must remember, never again to drink so heavily. Last night, I was lost to the world. Had ill-doers crossed my path, my purse would be lost, and perhaps even my very soul forfeit!” He sighed deeply, and drained another cup.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door, followed by the serving lad’s call.

“Hot water, good sir! Would you care for some?”

The young man scrambled to his feet, only to be struck by another wave of dizziness. With effort, he called out, “Enter, please.”

The door creaked open, and the lad entered, bearing the steaming kettle. He filled the basin with water, then grinned at the young man.

“I’ve served here for three years, and never have I seen a soul so readily undone by our humble rice wine! Two cups, and you were felled! I had to carry you here myself! Your spirit is willing, good sir, but your capacity is lacking. I hear the lords of the capital can drink a thousand cups and remain upright!”

The young man’s face flushed crimson, but he bowed to the lad in gratitude. “Many thanks, good fellow. I know not what came over me. The first cup seemed harmless, but the second… alas, it was my undoing.”

The lad chuckled, then, with a playful glint in his eye, said, “You are a scholar bound for the exams in the county, no? Last night, you kept muttering in your stupor about a dream, a vision of yourself as an immortal! Ha! You spoke most amusingly. Perhaps you’ll recount it for me sometime; it was a good jest.”

With a final, kind-hearted laugh, the lad departed, leaving the young man flushed and shaking his head in embarrassment. He splashed water on his face, banishing the lingering fogs of inebriation.

He flung open the window, and a gust of cool, invigorating air swept into the room, bringing with it the radiant light of the sun. He took a deep breath, savoring the revitalizing breeze.

“Last night, in my cups, I did indeed have a dream. A most peculiar dream, one that clings to my memory with unusual tenacity…” He gazed out the window, lost in thought.

“The dream felt so real, it blurred the line between waking and slumber… It began three years ago, when my Fourth Uncle returned home… I joined something called the Heng Yue Sect… How curious. Yet the dream remained incomplete. I recall only joining the sect; the rest is shrouded in mist. Heng Yue Sect… Such an order could not exist in this world, nor any true immortals. We scholars know better than to believe in such fables, spun to deceive the ignorant.” He shook his head, then turned to the teacup on the table. A playful impulse seized him. He raised his hand, miming an ancient gesture he vaguely remembered from his dream, and pointed at the cup.

“Art of Attraction!” He cried, laughing.

The teacup remained still, stubbornly unmoved. He chuckled again. “These arts and incantations are, indeed, most diverting.”

After a moment of amusement, he cast aside his whimsy and busied himself with preparing for the day. He checked his coin, dried provisions, spare clothes, and writing implements; all were in order. He tidied the room, airing out the lingering scent of wine. Finally, he donned a fresh tunic, shouldered his bamboo book chest, and stepped out of the room.

He was clever from his youth, and possessed a simple goodness of heart. A young man from the mountains, this was his first journey beyond his village. With his parents’ blessings and gentle warnings echoing in his ears, he had bid farewell to his humble home, like a fledgling bird taking wing for the first time.
The chamber bore the mark of his brief tenancy: a faint reek of spirits and a subtle disarray. Rather than burden the kindly fellow who’d carried him hence, he resolved to tidy it himself.

In the common hall below, he broke his fast with a simple repast and settled his account. With a smiling bow and clasped hands, he bid farewell to his porter and stepped out into the embrace of the sun.

The gentle light painted the young man in hues of warmth, radiating an aura of comfort that drew the eye and sparked a sense of goodwill. His raiment, though simple, was clean and well-kept, projecting an air of youthful vigor. He stood beside the King’s Road, gazing towards the horizon, where the path vanished into the unknown. In his mind’s eye, he could almost glimpse the distant capital of the Zhao Kingdom.

“Wang Lin,” he breathed, “you will succeed! When your name is etched in gold, you will bring Father and Mother from their humble village, to live out their days in comfort.” He drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

A vernal breeze, carrying the scent of distant blossoms and verdant fields, caressed his garments, causing his azure scholar’s robe to flutter gently. With each step, he drew further from the inn, the whisper of cloth and leather marking his passage.

Fragments of a song, carried on the wind, swirled around him, blurring and fading into the ambient murmur of the world.

With the boundless energy of youth, Wang Lin strode along the road, his bright eyes darting about, pausing to admire the surrounding woodlands with an easy grace.

The daylight hours sped by, and as Wang Lin ambled at his own pace, the dense foliage began to thin, revealing a ribbon of emerald water winding through the landscape.

The river chuckled as it flowed, its song carried on the wind. In Zhao, many King’s Roads followed the course of waterways, and this was one such path.

To Wang Lin’s left rose the rolling hills, while to his right, the river snaked its way onward. Several vessels, borne by the current, glided along its surface.

Darkness began to gather on the horizon, and a mass of thunderheads coalesced in the twilight. A deafening roar echoed through the air, followed by a jagged bolt of lightning that cleaved the heavens like a silver serpent.

The day had begun in brilliant sunshine, yet before night fully descended, the sky had transformed into a tapestry of brooding clouds. The distant peaks, though shrouded in shadow, were not fully obscured, resulting in a dramatic interplay of mountain and cloud – a titanic struggle between earth and sky, resembling the clash of dragons and tigers.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Wang Lin hastened to a nearby tree and retrieved a large oiled-paper umbrella from his bamboo frame. Skillfully crafted by his father, the umbrella could be folded for storage, yet when fully opened, it provided ample shelter, protecting both the frame and its bearer.

Holding the umbrella aloft, Wang Lin gazed out at the dark mountains, at the rain lashing the earth, the leaves, and the surface of the river, creating a myriad of tiny ripples and sending droplets scattering onto the passing boats.

“As the ancient poet wrote: ‘Black clouds churn ink, yet cannot hide the mountain, white rain leaps like pearls into the boat…’ How true!” Wang Lin exclaimed, his laughter ringing out.

“You bookish fool!” a clear, sharp voice called out from a vessel close to the shore. “Do you mock our soaking, and then laugh about it? How infuriating!” A comely young woman, holding her own umbrella, stood on the deck, her face flushed with exasperation, an accusatory finger pointed at Wang Lin.

Wang Lin stopped short, his laughter abruptly silenced. He scratched his head, a sheepish expression upon his face.