The first light of dawn broke through, its pale golden rays filtering through the thin clouds and draping the world in a soft veil.
The mountains appeared and disappeared amid the curling mists, while even the trees nearby were shrouded in haziness, crystal-clear dewdrops hanging from their branches and leaves.
Chen An pushed open the firewood gate, already mottled with age and creaking every time it turned. Carrying a coarse earthenware bucket, he walked steadily toward the lush vegetable plot.
The morning air was heavy with moisture. The icy dew soon soaked through the coarse cloth shoes on his feet, leaving a string of blurred, damp footprints in the soft soil behind him.
Outside the bamboo fence stood the Withered Willow that had accompanied him for who knew how many years. Its gnarled branches twisted around one another, casting a tangled patchwork of interwoven light and shadow in the brightening dawn. Its silence held a hint of weathered age.
Just where the light and shadows blurred together, making reality and illusion difficult to distinguish, the air seemed to be stirred by a mysterious force, giving rise to ripples so faint they were almost imperceptible.
Like ripples spreading across a water's surface, they gently radiated outward, only to vanish without a trace in the next instant, making their existence impossible to grasp.
A figure gradually shifted from pale to distinct, from illusory to real, like ink slowly spreading across rice paper. A Daoist dressed in emerald-green robes quietly emerged.
He stood with his hands hanging at his sides. Even without any wind, his sleeves fluttered faintly on their own. His face was lean yet vigorous, his brows and eyes seemingly carved from ancient jade, carrying the depth left by the passage of countless years. It was none other than Yang Mei,