At the beginning of the hour of the Rabbit, Black Flood Dragon slipped into his cave. His Primordial Spirit left his body, glided down the hillside, and drifted lightly into the Medicine King Temple's courtyard.
Too lazy to open the door, he passed straight through it, grabbed his cloth bag inside, and passed straight back through.
A muffled thump sounded. The little boy stood outside the door, but the cloth bag had struck the door solidly and fallen onto the floor inside.
He looked down at his empty hands, then back at the bag behind the door, and remembered that his wall-passing technique only worked on himself. To fetch his book bag, he would have to open the door like everyone else. He pushed it open, picked up the cloth bag, brushed off the dust, and slung it over his shoulder again.
He vaulted straight over the courtyard wall and broke into a sprint the moment his feet touched the ground, bounding swiftly along the ridges between the fields.
It was only a few li. That distance was nothing to him; he could reach the school by the middle of the hour of the Rabbit.
Dewdrops studded the grass. Swept by the gust stirred up by his fleeting figure, they shivered loose and sank soundlessly into the soil.
The city gateway bustled with noisy carts and horses, crowded with marketgoers, vegetable sellers, and people carrying shoulder poles.
Too lazy to squeeze through the gate, he climbed over a weed-covered stretch of city wall instead.
Cooking smoke rose from every household, its smell sharp in his nostrils. He raced over rooftops of varying heights, stepping on ridge tiles that clicked faintly beneath his feet.
He landed steadily in a quiet alley.
Several schoolchildren ahead were talking as they walked. Hearing a