The month of Yin marked the heart of spring. Willow catkins drifted like snow, and a cool breeze rippled across the lake as a pleasure boat glided to shore, its wake lapping gently against the docks.
"Passenger, we've arrived at Liuzhou City," the boatman murmured, bowing his head toward the lone figure aboard.
Inside the vessel sat a man in white robes, his face like polished jade, his eyes dark as ink. The slight upward tilt of his outer eyelids lent him an air of sharp intelligence—and something faintly otherworldly. This was Ming Xuan, torn from his world and cast adrift in this one.
As consciousness returned, Ming Xuan recoiled instinctively from the mortal who drew near. Without a word, he stepped off the boat, his back rigid with disdain.
White causeways arched over canals, and towering pavilions rose in layered splendor. The streets teemed with travelers, laughter and chatter thickening the air.
To him, it was all utterly foreign. His hair, once silver-white like his fox form, had darkened to match the humans around him. As he walked, his gaze swept restlessly over the crowds. A stranger in a strange land, rootless as duckweed—there was no novelty in it, only a gnawing absence of anything familiar. Despite his worldly experience, humiliation and despair fissured through him like cracks in ice. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.
Then he froze.
*My power?*
Ignoring the stares of passersby, he raised a hand and formed a seal. Nothing happened. The curious glances around him sharpened.
The cracks in his heart threatened to swallow him whole. Forcing down his panic, he pressed onward. His eyes caught on a teahouse nestled among emerald willows, its sign reading "Pure Joy." The place was nearly empty. Perfect.
He needed to stop. To *think.* Ducking inside, he claimed a seat by the window. Only three other patrons dotted the room. The proprietor approached with a menu, offering warm smiles and a tray of customary snacks and hot water.
Ming Xuan scanned the menu. The characters were legible; the server's speech, intelligible. At least communication wasn't a barrier. The boatman had called this place Liuzhou—the name surfaced in his mind like debris from a shipwreck.
He ordered tea absently, one fragrant brew and one of Dragon Well. When the server withdrew, he exhaled and turned his focus inward.
*My magic. My foundation.*
He tried again. First, a simple test: topple the teacup. It clattered to the floor on command. Next, he switched the seats of the two farthest patrons. Their positions swapped instantly.
Some tension left his shoulders.
The third attempt—to erase their memory of the event—failed. The teacup in his grip cracked under sudden pressure.
So. His power remained, but halved. Levitation and wind control required at least half his strength; without it, even disregarding human attention, he was grounded. As he weighed testing a fourth spell on the oblivious drinkers, the server returned with his order.
The tea scalded his tongue.
He patted his sleeves. Empty. No coin, no belongings.
Coldly, he watched the leaves swirl in his cup. Moments later, the two patrons began arguing with the server, unaware their purses had vanished into thin air.
Ming Xuan rested his head against the window frame. Outside, the crowd flowed like a river. He'd never been so close to so many humans—never by choice. They moved past him like fish in a glass bowl, and he, another trapped creature, could only rage uselessly against the invisible walls of fate. No matter how he cursed the Witch-Priest in his mind, nothing changed. Different from them, yet forced to live among them, penniless and powerless. He wanted to smash the bowl to pieces. But all he had was fury, drowning in the currents of helplessness.
By mid-afternoon, he left a few coppers on the table and stepped back into the street. The din of the city rushed at him again, clinging like a stubborn stain.
Aimless, he wandered. As a demon, his stamina outstripped any mortal's; he could go days without food or rest. But now, numb with despair, he barely registered the weariness. A walking corpse in a living world.
The sun dipped low, painting the rooftops gold.