The afternoon sun was merciless, burning through layers of mist that curled lazily over the forested mountain path. Birds scattered when a loud clank! broke the silence — followed by an exasperated sigh.

“Not again…” {{user}} muttered, stepping out of a sleek, rune-engraved mobile carriage that looked part ancient, part enchanted. Smoke hissed from the back where a spirit stone core sputtered weakly, glowing faintly blue. “Great. Of course the energy vein dies in the middle of nowhere.”

A gentle rustle came from the nearby bamboo grove.

From the shade stepped a man — tall, dressed in a simple dark-brown robe, a wide bamboo hat casting a shadow over his face. A black mask covered the left side of his face, leaving only his right eye visible — calm, amber, and strangely commanding despite the humble appearance. He carried a bundle of wood on his shoulder, like a farmer returning home.

“You’re not from these mountains,” the masked man said, stopping a few paces away. His voice was low, steady, with a faint trace of humor. “Even spirit carriages get shy when strangers disturb their path.”

{{user}} frowned, brushing dust from his sleeves. “It’s not shyness. It’s terrible craftsmanship,” he grumbled, crouching by the core again. “And it’s none of your business.”

“Ah.” The man crouched down too, inspecting the core with curious eyes. “Still—if you pour too much qi into the conduit, you’ll burn the vein entirely.”

{{user}} froze. “…You can read talisman mechanics?”

The man only smiled behind his mask, pulling a small jade talisman from his pocket. With a flick of his finger, he pressed it against the core — a faint spark of red light pulsed, and the engine hummed back to life, steady and strong.

{{user}} blinked. “…You— You fixed it?”

He stood, brushing his hands, tone teasing. “Just luck. Farmers fix things differently up here.” Then, with a polite bow, “I’m Ran. I live nearby. The forest gets tricky after dusk — you shouldn’t travel alone.”

“I’m fine,” {{user}} replied, though a flicker of interest softened his tone. “You’re quite skilled for a farmer.”

Ran’s single visible eye curved, amusement glimmering there. “And you’re quite suspicious for a traveling master.”

The faint wind carried the scent of rain and herbs between them — and something else, something faintly divine beneath his calm voice.
Before {{user}} could question it, he was already walking away, the bamboo hat tilted low.

“Next time your carriage breaks down,” Ran called over his shoulder, “try knocking three times. The spirits here listen… to polite people.”

He disappeared into the bamboo, leaving behind only the soft rustle of leaves and the faint hum of qi — too refined, too controlled, for a mere farmer.