Mr. Po Jun held the letter in his hand, almost ready to tear it open.
He paused, then rose and in the mirror, saw himself dressed in brocade and covered in powder. Thus, he set down the letter, bathed, burned incense, washed his hands, and donned the clothes he wore when they had first met.
He lit a stick of agarwood and played a tune on the guqin.
Only then did he reopen the letter.
[Mr. Po Jun, I hope this letter finds you well.]
Mr. Po Jun's solemn expression almost broke, his lips slightly curling upwards before he forced them down.
They curled again and then were pressed down, his palm clenched into a fist, pressed against his lips as he coughed.
"I am Po Jun, the most brilliant strategist of the Po Jun lineage in eight hundred years."
"It must not be so, it must not be so."
Mr. Po Jun took a deep breath and then attended to the letter seriously.
[...And in times of hardship, I think of you constantly]
