As the first light of dawn bathed the village in golden hues, the rhythmic crowing of roosters signaled the start of another day. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys as early risers stoked their hearths, the scent of fresh bread and simmering porridge mingling with the crisp morning air. Merchants unfurled their stalls, farmers led their livestock to pasture, and the soft murmur of morning prayers drifted from the temple courtyard, weaving seamlessly into the village’s quiet awakening.

  Within the orphanage, Wuji stirred at the hour of First Embers (7:00 AM), the lingering chill of dawn brushing against his skin. He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the dimly lit room, the soft rustling of blankets as the other children roused from sleep. Without hesitation, he rose, slipping into the motions of his morning routine—bathing in the cool water, donning a fresh robe, and making his way to the dining hall, where the comforting aroma of warm millet porridge and freshly steamed buns awaited him. The meal was simple but nourishing, a steady anchor in the rhythm of daily life.

  After breakfast, the children gathered in the courtyard for their daily Yulian lesson. Beneath the sprawling branches of the old tree, dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns over the straw mats where they sat cross-legged. Their brushes, inkstones, and books were arranged neatly beside them, while at the front, a sturdy blackboard stood against a wooden frame, faint traces of past lessons still clinging to its surface.

  Qin Jingwen stood before them, poised with a piece of chalk in hand. Clad in a simple yet elegant robe, she carried an air of quiet authority, her sharp eyes sweeping over the eager young faces before her. “Today, we begin with calligraphy,” she announced, turning to the board to write a series of foundational Yulian characters. The soft scrape of chalk filled the air as graceful strokes took shape.

  “The essence of Yulian lies in its strokes,” she continued, tapping the board. “Balance, precision, and patience—without these, your characters will lack strength. Watch carefully.”

  Dipping a brush into an inkstone, she demonstrated on a sheet of paper, each movement fluid and controlled. “Now, take your brushes and follow along.”

  The children bent over their books, dipping their brushes into ink with varying levels of confidence. Zhen, ever meticulous, traced each stroke with careful precision, while Mei wrinkled her nose in frustration as her lines wobbled. Jingwei, in his attempt to maintain composure, furrowed his brow in deep concentration. Wuji, however, handled the brush with surprising steadiness—his past experience with Japanese lending him an unexpected ease in mastering the strokes.

  After a while, Qin Jingwen set the brushes aside and turned back to the board. “Now, let’s move on to proverbs,” she said, writing a phrase in bold, deliberate strokes:

  "A river carves through stone not by strength, but by persistence."

  She turned to the class. “Who can tell me what this means?”

  Jingwei straightened, his voice steady. “It means that even something as soft as water can overcome the hardest obstacles through perseverance.”

  Qin Jingwen nodded in approval. “Exactly. And this applies to your studies as well. Mastering Yulian is not something that happens overnight. It requires effort, patience, and a willingness to learn from your mistakes.”

  She then guided them through a passage from a storybook, having each child take turns reading aloud. Some stumbled over difficult characters, while others read with growing confidence. Wuji listened intently, absorbing every word.

  By the time the lesson ended, their books and practice sheets bore the marks of their efforts—some pages filled with precise strokes, others smudged with ink and wobbly lines. Qin Jingwen surveyed their work with a satisfied smile. “You are all improving. Keep practicing, and one day, Yulian will no longer feel like a challenge, but a skill you wield with ease.”

  With that, she dismissed them. The children eagerly stretched their legs, their earlier concentration melting into excitement as they rushed toward the rest of the day’s adventures.

  Wuji rose to his feet, walking toward the kitchen with measured steps, his mind already weighing possibilities. His recent interest in wood crafting had led him to this decision—to search for an old knife or something similar that could serve as a makeshift carving tool. He hadn’t bothered asking Qin Jingwen to buy him proper tools.

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  Firstly, she would refuse outright, citing concerns for his safety. Secondly, even if she miraculously agreed, he wouldn’t let her. A set of decent carving tools cost around ten copper coins, a price far too steep for the orphanage. Their funding—two silver coins per month from the kingdom—barely covered food and clothing.

  In the Golden Lotus Kingdom, currency followed a simple hierarchy: copper coins were the most common, used for everyday transactions; a silver coin was worth a hundred coppers and could sustain a family for several days; while gold coins, valued at a hundred silvers each, were a rare sight among commoners. Spending money on non-essentials was simply impractical.

  As he stepped into the kitchen, the familiar scent of damp wood, faint spices, and lingering smoke greeted him. The elder children and caretakers bustled about, scrubbing surfaces and sweeping the floors. He quickly recalled the reason—the Festival of Two Moons was approaching.

  In this festival, the people worshiped the twin moon goddesses, a tradition that required homes to be thoroughly cleaned to receive divine blessings. Wuji found it a quaint custom—one he might’ve dismissed in his past life—but here, such beliefs were woven into everyday existence.

  His gaze swept across the kitchen until he noticed a pile of discarded utensils shoved into a corner. As he approached, he spotted an old, blunt knife with a broken handle among the heap.

  Just then, Liang Bo, a middle-aged caretaker, entered with another stack of worn-out items. Wuji took the chance to ask, his tone polite but tinged with the patience of someone far older than his small frame suggested.

  “Uncle Liang, why are all these things gathered here?”

  Liang Bo glanced at him before chuckling. “Ah, Wuji. These are old and broken utensils. We’ll be throwing them out soon.”

  Wuji gave a slight nod and asked while pointing to the blunt knife. “Uncle Liang, may I take that knife?”

  Liang Bo raised a brow. “And what exactly do you need a knife for?”

  Wuji hesitated for a fraction of a second—not out of nervousness, but to mimic the natural hesitance of a child. Then, with a slight fidget, he answered, “I… I want to learn wood crafting. This knife is perfect since it’s blunt. Even if I slip, I won’t get hurt. I can use it to carve soft wood and practice.”

  Liang Bo studied him for a long moment before letting out a hearty chuckle. “A little craftsman, eh? Alright then.” He picked up the knife and handed it over. “But even a blunt knife can cut if you’re careless. Be mindful.”

  Wuji accepted it with both hands, offering a respectful bow. “I will. Thank you, Uncle Liang.”

  As Wuji stepped out of the kitchen, the weight of the knife in his small hand felt oddly satisfying. It was nothing more than a discarded tool, its edge dulled by years of use, yet to him, it marked a beginning.

  Every craftsman, every scholar, every builder—each had started with the simplest of tools. What mattered was how they used them.

  His fingers curled around the worn handle, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had what he needed to begin.

  Now, all that remained was to find some soft wood to practice on.

  But as he glanced around, watching the children and caretakers hard at work, scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, and airing out bedding in preparation for the festival, a quiet sense of duty settled over him. The orphanage was his home, and if everyone was working to clean it, then so should he.

  Before joining them, he made his way to the small, shared room where he slept. Six beds were packed tightly together, leaving little space for anything else. Sunlight filtered in through two narrow windows on adjacent walls, casting long shadows over the bare wooden floor. He crouched by his bed and carefully tucked the knife beneath it, ensuring it was out of sight. There would be time for wood carving later.

  For now, he had work to do.

  Rolling up his sleeves, he stepped into the main hall, where dust motes danced in the evening light. The long wooden tables, worn smooth by years of use, were being wiped down, their surfaces gleaming under the efforts of eager hands. Wuji grabbed a damp cloth and began scrubbing alongside the others. The scent of fresh soap and aged wood filled the air as he methodically worked, making sure no corner was left untouched.

  When the tables were spotless, he helped sweep the floors, gathering dust and stray crumbs into neat piles before discarding them outside. His small frame made it easier for him to slip into corners the older children struggled to reach, and he took advantage of it, ensuring even the tightest spaces were cleaned.

  Later, he helped carry out worn-out decorations, replacing them with fresh banners of deep blue and silver—the colors of the twin moons. The fabric shimmered faintly under the lantern light, swaying gently as they were secured in place.

  By the time they were finished, exhaustion tugged at Wuji’s limbs, but there was a quiet sense of satisfaction in the air. The orphanage looked different—cleaner, brighter, as though it, too, was preparing to welcome the goddesses’ blessings.

  As the days passed, excitement crackled like a coming storm. The festival of the Twin Moons was nearly upon them.

  On the eve of the festival, when the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, everyone in the orphanage gathered in the courtyard. A large bronze container stood empty at the center, its metal glinting in the flickering torchlight. It was time for the first ritual of the festival—one that would cleanse the past and welcome the blessings of the twin goddesses in the days to come.

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