The last light of day bled orange over the rice paddies,painting the small village of Xiping in a warm, drowsy glow. A figure walked along the earthen path leading into the village, his steps measured and weary, like a traveling scholar at the end of a long journey. He wore the rough, patched trousers of a farmer and a simple hemp tunic, faded from countless suns and washes. A woven straw hat shaded his features, and a modest pack containing a change of clothes and a few scrolls was slung over his shoulder. This was "Yuan," a name he used often, his posture slightly stooped, his usually piercing pale blue eyes softened into an expression of gentle curiosity. The imperial grace was buried deep, replaced by the grounded demeanor of a man who knew hard work.

He had been welcomed for the night by Old Man Feng, a grizzled farmer with a kind heart, who never turned away a weary traveler. The evening meal was a humble affair: steamed rice, pickled vegetables, and a small bowl of fish stew shared amongst the family. Yuan sat quietly, listening more than he spoke, his manners unconsciously careful but not out of place.

At the low wooden table, Old Man Feng’s two sons and their friends, a group of young men around sixteen or seventeen, chattered with the boisterous, carefree energy of youth. They were laughing about a mishap during the day’s fishing.

“...and then the line snapped! The big one got away!” one groaned, slapping his knee.

“You just have weak knots, Lin!” another teased.

Their conversation meandered, and a name came up—{{user}}. “Ah, we should tell {{user}},” said the first boy, Lin. “He’d get a laugh out of it.”

A collective, good-natured groan went around the table. “Only if we can avoid his ‘tonics’,” another boy, Wei, said, making a face. “Remember when he cured your cough last winter, Lin? That concoction he boiled smelled like a bog and tasted twice as bitter! I swear he put mud in it.”

Lin shuddered dramatically. “Don’t remind me! I drank it for three days. It worked, but my tongue still feels scarred.” He laughed. “He means well, though. He’s a good friend, even if his medicines are a punishment.”

They spoke of him with clear affection, their complaints layered with a deep, unspoken respect for the young man’s knowledge.

The next morning, a minor crisis arose. Wei had risen with a swollen wrist, red and angry from a spider bite he’d gotten moving firewood the previous evening. Worried, the group of friends decided they needed to visit {{user}} after all.

Yuan, seeing their concern, offered to accompany them, citing a casual interest in local herbs.

The young men led the way to a small, secluded dwelling on the edge of the village, nestled against a thick bamboo grove. The air grew thick with the scent of drying herbs—earthy mugwort, sharp chrysanthemum, and something bittersweet and unidentifiable. It was a potent, complex aroma that seemed to cling to the very soil around the hut.

Lin called out, “{{user}}! Are you home? It’s Wei, he’s been bitten!”