At dawn, a delicate mist, as light as gauze, gently drifted over the serene, jade-like surface of Juemo Lake, ebbing and flowing in ethereal currents. From the distance, the rhythmic creak of oars steadily approached, and a slender boat cut through the emerald waters, leaving behind a trail of rippling waves that danced among the swaying lotus leaves.
This expansive stretch of crystal-clear waters, known as the Emerald Jewel of the Northern Frontier in the Dawu Dynasty, lay at the border shared with the demon lands and Fengxuan Kingdom. It was guarded by Kunlun, a region haunted by formidable beasts and prowling marauders of the desert.
"… The lotus leaf is green, the stem grows long, the seeds are bitter, the blossom fragrant. A willow-leaf boat drifts in the lake's heart, plucking white lotus roots for my beloved…"
A young girl perched at the bow of the boat picked a pink lotus flower with a casual flick of her delicate, alabaster hand. Dipping her fingers into the cool, crystal water, she absently stirred it, her cheeks flushed like petals, mirroring the dew-kissed bloom in her grasp. Gazing at the endless expanse of lotus leaves that seemed to meet the sky, she sang softly in a voice pure and tender, like the first call of a fledgling, sweet and captivating.
In the Dawu Dynasty, prosperous and liberal, unshackled by the severe dictates of traditional etiquette, even a girl so young could sing folk tunes laced with tales of love without a second thought, embodying the timeless question of maidenly longing.
And in this mist-shrouded haven, there were no gossipy crones to scold or chatter. The girl's song flitted like a bird among the dancing lotus blooms.
A young man, a passenger and silent listener, wore a gentle smile. The scene before him brought to mind the age-old adage from *In Praise of the Lotus*: "Untouched by the mud from which it springs, pristine in the cleansing water."
Behind him, the girl's father—a hulking, sun-darkened man wielding the oar with hands as large as bowls—would ensure with iron fists that any unwelcome rogues learned well the meaning of "to admire from afar, but never to profane."
The young man's idle thought took a playful turn: perhaps Master Zhou, who penned *In Praise of the Lotus*, had been shaped by a childhood among legendary heroes, forced from the path of a rakish flower thief into that of a scholar armed with words rather than deeds—an ancient tale turned philosophical cornerstone by the famous Zhu, and later, magnified by the illustrious Wang Yangming with his bold credo, "thought and action as one."
"Xiao Bai Brother!"
The girl's song halted abruptly as her obsidian eyes looked up at him, luminous with innocent trust.
What?
"Ahem! Xiao… Bai?"
The young man felt the sudden shift in mood and frowned. Xiao Bai? What kind of name was that?
The girl tilted her head, her tiny buns of hair bobbing, a hint of confusion shadowing her gaze.
"Call me 'Brother' or 'Brother Li'!"
Of course, the young man refrained from explaining that 'Xiao Bai' was the infamous name of a scruffy dog a mischievous child once kept.
"Alright, Brother! Here, this flower is for you, Brother!"
Far from being offended, the girl beamed with joy and offered the lotus, elevating the simple root to a flower in its splendor.
To her, 'Brother' was far more affectionate than 'Xiao Bai.'
The young man paused, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and embarrassment as he realized he was being offered a flower by a girl.
Little one! Such unguarded charm—does your father know how you woo?
He chuckled, breaking the awkwardness, and said, "This flower suits Ying'er best; the blossom matches the rose of your cheeks."
He dared to steal an old verse, repurposed in jest.
A hearty laugh erupted behind him, shaking the little boat, and the muscular man at the oar seemed unfazed by the interaction between his daughter and the town's well-to-do Li family youth.
The man's laugh and the young man's praise painted Ying'er's cheeks a deeper red, her head lowering in shy realization.
A clean, upstanding youth of good family—what girl would not feel the flutter of affection?
To the young man, however, the father's laughter rang ominous, like a wolf eyeing a hapless rabbit. Yet he was inwardly relieved: were he the type to act rashly, he'd likely be vying with the lake's fish for a swimming medal—knowing his clumsy dog-paddle would hardly carry him to shore.
"Young man, what led you to Kunlun's monster-haunted shadows? Even the bravest hunters wouldn't dare venture there."
The father deftly shifted the conversation, sparing his daughter further embarrassment, a testament to his quick wit.
The past days had seen chaos in Xi'an Town, with the Li family's servants and tenants scurrying like headless chickens, even the laziest constables trailing the county captain, eyes red with exhaustion, iron rulers and chains in hand. All for the missing third son of the Li family.
Li Yuanwai, the local magnate, had nearly turned the town and its surrounding hamlets upside down, propelled by the tempting reward that drew the hopeful into action.
White Old Man, uninterested until he noticed that his neighbor Old Wang's boat was missing, surmised the young Li must have taken it and set out with his daughter, rowing around the lake.
Should fortune favor him with Li's rescue, Ying'er's dowry would be secure, freeing her from the toil of lake fishing.
As luck would have it, at dusk, father and daughter found Old Wang's battered boat adrift and half-sunken at the far shore—a grim testament to some terrifying encounter.
Expecting to find only grim remnants, White Old Man followed the clues by torchlight until they stumbled upon a star-gazing young man—Li Yuanwai's elusive son.
"Well, the tale is long, on a night of shadows and whispers…"
Ying'er's eyes widened as Li spun a fanciful yarn.
But moonlight, jagged mountains, a cave, a stone bowl containing a small, glass-like lotus, a presence that stirred the soul, words in an ancient tongue, and roars beyond understanding—all of these fragmented memories returned like shards of an impossible dream.
"... One flower, one world; one leaf, one Tathagata. A grain of sand holds paradise; a smile holds the ties of fate…"
The chant of a monk drifted across the water, breaking Li's reverie as the boat neared the Xi'an shore.
"Good morning, Master Zhidu!"
White Old Man set down the oar and bowed to the monk who walked along the shore with measured steps.
In a robe patched like a hundred memories, holding a cracked clay bowl, the wizened monk bore eyes that seemed to pierce the soul.
"Good morning, Master Zhidu!" Ying'er followed suit, showing due reverence.
Since settling in a humble hut on the town's outskirts, this monk known as Master Zhidu had gained fame for his quiet piety and relentless quest for alms each morning, reciting scripture for all, whether offering grain or earth, never asking for coin, ever smiling in the face of mischief.
Li did not share the same beliefs but greeted the monk with a respectful nod.
The monk, pausing in his chant, smiled and returned the gesture.
"Namo Amitabha. Good morning to you all."
At that moment, a red carp leaped from the lake and landed at Li's feet.
Startled, he reached to lift the floundering fish.
A sudden sting—the hidden thorn beneath floating duckweed drew a bead of blood that the gasping fish swallowed.
Unfazed, Li tossed it back into the lake.
"Namo Amitabha," the monk intoned with a bow as the fish circled the boat once before darting away.
"Compassion breeds virtue, pledging salvation for all…"
The monk resumed his chant, his steps carrying him serenely onward.
A sharp note, pure as a blade, thrummed through the air, raising goosebumps.
Glancing at his palm, Li found a lotus etched there in simple, glowing lines.