Early autumn was bleak, and the old street was gradually becoming chillier.
The cold wind weaved through the bluestone pathways, pushing the fallen leaves to flip and flutter, rustling as they scraped the ground.
Accompanied by the creaking and rumbling sounds, a cart led by an ox slowly approached from the end of the old street, against the morning light, as if draped in a layer of gold.
Aboard the cart, three large drums were securely placed.
Each drum, over a meter wide, bore a mottled black lacquer with a dark yellow oxhide surface, ancient and robust.
Though they were relics of a longstanding heritage, they still exuded an unmistakable aura, as if ready to emit heart-stirring drumbeats at any moment.
Before even approaching Wendao Temple, Li Yan and two others came out to welcome the visitor.
Wang Daoxuan stepped forward, clasped his hands with a smile, and said, "Mr. He, thank you very much."
