Volume One: The Quest

　　Chapter 1: The Paper Man (Part One)

In the summer of the twenty-third year of Tianxi, a dragon fell in Huameng County, Guangdong. It was as tall as a person and dozens of zhang long, trapped in a net, its flesh torn open, its spine nowhere to be seen. Officials and commoners flocked to see it, but a torrential rainstorm struck, waves surged, and the dragon was swept into the sea, vanishing without a trace. —"Huameng County Annals"[1]

That same winter, Ningyang County, Huizhou Prefecture.

The fifth watch had just sounded, the sky was still pitch black, but there were already faint voices on Xingtang Street. The waiter from Jiuweiju was setting up a breakfast stall in front of the building, carrying several large trays of freshly steamed buns.

The night watchman, huddling his neck and rubbing his hands, jogged over and bought three buns. He swallowed one in two bites, struggling to get it down, and winked at the Jiuweiju waiter: "Hey? Got everything ready?"

"It's ready, right here." The waiter, looking miserable, patted the food box next to the steamer.

The night watchman was surprised: "You really got it ready? What if he… that thing doesn't show up today?"

The waiter shivered and said dryly, "Dear ancestors, I pray he doesn't come."

Jiuweiju was a well-known eatery in Ningyang County. The chef, nicknamed "Samuel Foster", was said to be able to travel the world with just three signature dishes: peach resin braised pork, clay pot roast chicken, and pear-braised oxtail civet. The pork was skinless pork belly, the chicken was a perfectly fat and lean wild chicken from Lishan, and the civet had to be caught on a snowy day.

Thanks to these three dishes, Jiuweiju was packed with customers every day, business booming. But Samuel Foster was a man with an attitude—he only made ten servings a day, not a single pot more, so if you wanted to eat, you had to come early.

But showing up at the fifth watch for a heavy dish—well, you probably had a screw loose.

This particular nutcase had already shown up two days in a row.

The first day, he stood in front of the waiter, recited the names of all three dishes, and then never said another word. He literally had no breath left. In the dead of winter, anyone who exhaled would produce a puff of white mist—except for him. The air in front of his face was perfectly clear, not a wisp of fog. On the second day, his requests became even more particular—no clay pot for the roast chicken, no star anise or fennel, and no pear in the pear-braised oxtail civet…

These requests didn't sound like someone coming for a proper meal, more like someone trying to ruin the place's reputation.

Yet, not only did the waiter not throw this suspected troublemaker out, he actually served him, trembling, for two days straight, and today even prepared the food box in advance.

He glanced at the sky, his legs shaking, craning his neck like a skinny chicken as he asked the night watchman, "It's about time, so why aren't you shaking?"

"I'm out every night, what do I have to be scared of?" the night watchman whispered. "Besides, this year hasn't been peaceful—strange things aren't even surprising anymore. Did you hear about the real dragon someone saw in Guangdong in June? Just lying on the shore, and they say its tendons and bones were pulled out by someone! Dragon tendons! What kind of omen is that? And a couple months ago, there were rumors the Imperial Preceptor nearly died—"

Before he could finish, the waiter, barely breathing, started to slide under the stall: "He's coming, he's really coming again…"

As soon as he spoke, a scholar-like figure appeared at the stall.

He looked utterly ordinary, with a deep weariness on his face, and an unnatural flush on both cheeks, as if he'd been sitting by the fire too long. He wore a gray-blue long robe, was thin, and the robe was so flimsy it looked like a piece of cloth draped over a tree branch, ready to be blown away by the wind.

Under the white lantern light, the night watchman stared at the scholar's face for a long time, the last bite of bun in his mouth going cold, forgotten.

The scholar muttered to himself, "Here," then slowly looked up, his pitch-black eyes fixed on the waiter, making his skin crawl.

The waiter immediately squeezed his legs together, feeling like he was about to wet himself.

"Excuse me, peach resin braised pork—" The scholar's proper speaking voice was actually pleasant, unlike his earlier muttering, clear as running water over bamboo, but it didn't match his face or his mouth, making it even creepier.

The waiter avoided his gaze, trembling as he handed over the food box: "E-everything's ready, used a porcelain pot, no pear, star anise, or fennel, just out of the pot, still piping hot."

The scholar seemed momentarily choked, staring at the food box for a while before finally reacting, nodding slowly: "Thank you."

His voice was a bit hoarse, slightly different from before.