Zhou Leigong Struck by Lightning

A desolate mountain, a ruined temple—a dream of times gone by.

The Daoist, clad in a Daoist robe and leaning on a bamboo staff green as jade, walked slowly down the street.

The street was exceedingly broad. It could not compare to Celestial Street in Changjing, which split the entire capital into eastern and western halves, but aside from that road that displayed the majesty of the heavenly dynasty and the face of the imperial capital, it would have been difficult to find another street so broad anywhere in Great Yan. Yet in this strange city, it could only be called ordinary.

The Daoist walked at an unhurried pace, looking as he went.

Every blade of grass and tree by the roadside, every brick and pillar, every house and tower, every pedestrian, every strange thing passing by—though all had come from his memories, from his own hand—if even the painter himself were to look upon the things he had painted with his own hands, things he remembered deeply and cherished beyond measure, surely he would be profoundly moved?

Onward he went, past the main street and into narrow alleys.

Passing through the alleys, he came to the riverbank.

A river ran straight through the city.

The scenery along its banks was exquisite. There were broad, clean roads, dense woods, and lush green meadows; within the woods stood ancient pavilions and towers, while soaring buildings rose straight up beside the river. It resembled both a meticulously designed scenic garden and an immensely prosperous city of skyscrapers.

There was a boardwalk by the river, its path soft beneath the feet yet free of mud.

The Daoist walked along the river for a while, stopping only when he stepped onto an arched bridge.

Standing beside the railing, he gazed upon the city and