Outside the south gate of town, by the Ling River, a temporary festival shed had been put up. Inside the Water God's temple, the temple keeper was sweeping and burning incense. The stone altar in front of the shrine had also been cleaned, ready for the upcoming Festival of Blessed Waters.
Layne stepped out of the rice shop, his bookcase on his back. The swelling on his right cheek was still visible—the mark left by Madam Wang's slap that morning. Before he left home, his mother had pressed a warm cloth to his face, her expression quiet. Just before he stepped out the door, she said softly:
"When you're at school, don't hold your head too high, and don't hang it too low."
She said nothing else. Layne only nodded and walked away.
By then, people on the street were already talking about what had happened that morning. Madam Wang's voice had carried far, and news traveled fast in a small town. Many recognized him. Some avoided him on purpose, some stole glances, whispering to each other.
Layne kept his head down, gripping the strap of his bookcase tightly.
"Well, if it isn't Layne!" a teasing voice called from the alley.
It was Bao Silang, the butcher's son, two years older, always picking on others. Munching on a sweet cake, he came closer, deliberately eyeing Layne's face.
"Look at that—your face is swollen like a bun fresh out of the steamer! Who hit you that hard?"
He spoke loudly, with a mocking grin.
The children around him snickered.
Layne said nothing and kept walking.
"Don't mind him." A quiet voice spoke from the side. It was Lin Ji, carrying an old bookcase as he hurried to catch up. His face showed no emotion, but his tone was calm and serious.
"He just likes to talk nonsense." Lin Ji paused, then added in a low voice.
Layne glanced at him, gave a small nod, and stayed silent.
The two of them walked together into Youzhen Academy.
The academy was once an old temple, now turned into a small school. Its roof tiles were worn, the courtyard narrow, and fresh buds had just appeared on the elm branches. The lecture hall walls were faded with age. Inside, about a dozen children sat at their desks, arranged by family name. The front rows were full; Layne quietly took a seat by the window.
Master Shen wore a dark green robe that morning, leaning on his staff as he stood in the center. He was about fifty years old. Though his brows were always furrowed, giving him a strict appearance, he was known as the teacher most willing to explain and reason with children.
His eyes swept across the room, pausing briefly on Layne's face, but he said nothing.
"Open your books."
After the morning reading, Master Shen closed his scroll.
"The Festival of Blessed Waters is coming soon. Today, we won't study the classics. Who can tell me where this festival comes from?"
The children looked at one another, but no one spoke.
Lin Ji quietly raised his hand. "The Water God appeared and brought rain during a drought."
Master Shen nodded.
"This is not a festival decreed by the kingdom. It has been our local custom for over a hundred years. Long ago, during a terrible drought, wells dried up and canals broke. The villagers offered incense at the river mouth, praying for water. Three days later, water surged through the canal, flooding the fields and saving the town. To thank the Water God, people began holding this festival every year. On the fourth day of early spring, we perform the rites: welcoming the spirit, offering sacrifices, releasing lanterns, and fulfilling vows."
He turned to the board and wrote four words:
Welcome. Offer. Return. Fulfill.
"On the first day, the statue of the god is carried through the streets with drums and gongs. On the second day, livestock and grains are offered at the river altar. On the third day, lanterns are set afloat, carrying people's wishes. On the last day, the statue is returned to the temple, and everyone shares a cold feast. Lanterns on the water carry people's vows downstream—that is the meaning of Returning the Wish."
His eyes swept across the class.
"Don't ask whether the god hears. Ask yourself—if you write down a vow, will you carry it out?"
Bao Silang scratched his head. "But what if I write one and it doesn't come true?"
Master Shen smiled. "If your heart is true, how could it not come true?"
The classroom fell silent.
At noon, Layne sat alone under the elm tree, tracing lines in the dirt with a small stone. Sunlight filtered through the leaves.
When he looked up, Lin Ji was there, holding out a honey cake wrapped in oiled paper.
"Here. Eat."
"Thanks," Layne whispered, taking it.
Lin Ji sat down beside him. "Did it hurt, when she hit you? Why did you argue with an adult?"
Layne's hand paused on the oiled paper.
"She's spoken badly of my mother before. But this time, she said it right in front of me. I may not understand everything—but I know it wasn't something good." His voice was low.
Lin Ji didn't reply. He only kept eating his own cake quietly.
By the time school ended, the sky was tinged with evening light. Streets were growing lively. Outside the south gate, the festival shed was nearly finished, and the idol in the shrine had been covered with a red cloth.
Smoke rose from kitchen fires, mixing with the smell of stir-fry from nearby houses. The air was full of warmth and noise.
On the street, a porridge stall boiled tofu soup, fragrant with scallions and dried shrimp. An old woman called out about freshly fried cakes, children laughing and pushing around her stall.
On the stone bridge, a man carrying a pole wiped sweat from his brow, a basket of fish hanging at his side. At the teahouse door, old men cracked melon seeds and spoke slowly of the past.
A storyteller snapped open his fan, ready to begin the next chapter of The Dragon King Bound by Iron Chains.
Layne slowed his steps. Instead of returning to the rice shop, he walked toward the canal mouth at the edge of town.
It was the place where he had played with Wang Rou that morning, where the water from the shrine entered the town.
On the stone steps lay a paper lantern left behind. It had fallen over, half-soaked, its edges wrinkled and muddy, as if trampled. Yet somehow, it hadn't been blown away or swept into the water.
Layne crouched and picked it up, staring at its ruined shape.
He looked at the flowing water, lost in thought.
Master Shen had said: "A wish written down must be carried out."
Layne hadn't written anything. But in his heart, he already had.
—May I grow into the kind of man others can entrust their hopes to.
He didn't know if any god had seen those words.
But he knew this: even if no god had, he would write them again.
Once, and again.