Where Huang Tian looked, spacetime shifted, and a scene appeared before his eyes:
At the edge of green hills lay a village. On its eastern side stood a sizable courtyard, and at the courtyard's westernmost end, a thatched hut.
Three layers of thatch covered the hut, with bundled mugwort forming its ridge. Its low eaves dipped like a weary bird folding its wings. A rough earthen window let a slant of moonlight through, while the reeds woven into its four walls rustled whenever wind and rain came at dusk, like the dry notes of a plain zither.
Deep within the hut, a boy lay on a wooden bed atop a reed mat. His face was pale as new snow, an old quilt covered half his body, and the bones of his shoulders stood out sharply.
"Dad, can Huang Tian... can he get better?"
Two people stood before the bed. One was gray-haired and stooped, surnamed Mo; everyone in the village called him Old Man Mo. The other was a boy with his hair tied in a grape-shaped topknot. His childhood name was Que'er, and his given name was Mo Hong. Born to Old Man Mo late in life, he was the apple of his father's eye, so precious Old Man Mo feared he might melt in his hands.
Old Man Mo drew his brows together and stepped forward to examine the boy on the reed mat. He pressed a hand to his forehead, and a chill seeped straight into the back of his hand.
His face grew grave. He shook his head. "I fear he won't survive. He won't survive."
Mo Hong's mouth crumpled. Tears fell like pearls, pattering down his cheeks. He wiped them with his right hand and sniffled, "He's the same age as me. How can he