Chen Mo was twenty-three that year, the only "mage" in Willow Mountain Market.
That was what the townsfolk called him. He never called himself that.
He preferred to call himself a tofu seller.
Every day, he got up at a quarter to four, ground beans, boiled soy milk, added brine, and pressed tofu.
After six, he headed out with his carrying pole, going through streets and alleys, crying, "Tofu-!"
The whole street could hear his call.
He packed up between three and five, then went home to count his money. On a good day, he could save a dozen or so copper coins.
He had lived like this for six years.
If not for what had happened when he was eighteen, he might have kept living that way, married a wife, had a few children, and sat sunning himself at the village entrance when he grew old, no different from any other old man.
But when he was eighteen, he fell seriously ill.
His fever lasted seven days and seven nights, and he was nearly gone. The physician came, shook his head, and told his family to prepare for his funeral.
On the morning of the eighth day, he woke up.
The fever had broken, and he was fine. He even felt stronger, and his eyes could see farther.
At first, this had delighted him.
But that delight soon turned to fright.
Because he discovered that he could see... things he should not be able to see.
At first, they were faint shadows, flashing past in corners, beneath trees, in places no one noticed.
He thought the fever had damaged his brain and dared not tell anyone.
Later, the shadows grew clearer and increasingly... real.
He saw someone standing in the courtyard of Old Man Wang's house next door, even