Outside Chaoge's South Gate.
The fragrance of congee drifted up first.
A large black iron pot sat on an earthen stove, a fierce fire blazing beneath it.
White rice churned in the pot. Once the rice broth came to a boil, its fragrance rode the night wind through the city gate.
The minor gate official stood beneath the archway, his hand on his sword hilt, motionless for a long while.
Smash the pot?
There was real congee in it.
Leave it alone?
The queue had already curved halfway around the area outside the gate.
A Daoist in plain robes stood beside the pot, his cuffs clean, more than a dozen sacks of rice piled behind him. He had neither entered the city nor called out to anyone. He had merely hung a small golden lamp beside the pot.
A wooden sign stood beneath the lamp.
[Congee to relieve suffering.]
The characters were written in a neat, proper hand.
Two more lines of small characters had been added beside them.
[No questions about your origins.]
[No names recorded.]
With those two lines on display, the gate official found it even harder to act.
The Golden Alms Bowl had just been impounded in the South Market. Western Sect disciples were forbidden to enter Chaoge to gather the people's voices.
But this Daoist had not entered the city, asked for names, or collected a single word.
He was only handing out congee.
A woman holding a child stood among the crowd. Several times, she shifted her feet, then stopped again.
The child was so hungry that his eyes stayed fixed on the pot.
"Mother."
The woman said quietly, "Don't say anything careless."
The child nodded, his eyes still on the congee.
An old man near the front asked hesitantly, "Daoist, do we have