On the streets of the Imperial City, in a quiet alleyway.
A gentle beam of light flashed in the pitch dark alleyway. By the entrance of Fang Fang's Little Store, Blacky lay quietly on his stomach, breathing evenly in a deep sleep.
The shutters of the store were firmly shut. From the kitchen came the crispy, melodious sounds of knife chopping against a board.
Bu Fang's slender fingers were soaked by splatters of water. With knife in hand, he diced up the carrot on the chopping board with a steady rhythm. The knife moved at an amazing speed, almost dazzling one's eyes. Bu Fang carried forth in an orderly manner, without any changes to his composure. It was evident that, for him, this was not yet an impressive speed.
Finally, the last of the carrots had been chopped up. Then, Bu Fang twirled the knife in his fingers, after which the knife began to twirl like a windmill.
