The Festival of Blessed Waters was the grandest occasion of Youzhen, second only to the New Year.
At the temple, the Water God was venerated. The townsfolk offered tribute and prayed for rain. For four days straight, lanterns and festivities would not cease.
On the eve of the festival, the town was already ablaze with color. A path of blue cloth stretched from the temple gates to the southern river mouth, lined with fluttering banners, while wooden bridges and altars were raised over the water.
Fish-shaped lanterns hung from every shopfront, paper slips painted with "Blessed Waters" and "Welcome Wishes." The streets bustled with people, anticipation thrumming in the air.
At dawn, the temple bell rang three times.
The temple keeper chanted loudly, while rows of worshippers knelt and bowed. To the sound of drums and gongs, an effigy of the Water God—over ten feet tall—was carried out by eight men. The statue was dark blue and black, eyes downcast, holding a basin of grain and water, feet set upon carved waves. Though motionless, its presence weighed heavy, like the very spirit of the river revealed.
On both sides of the street, the townspeople bowed like a tide.
Among them, Layne craned his neck as his mother Bihua held his hand. "Mom, it looks like it's moving."
"Of course not." She smoothed his collar with a smile. "It's only a symbol, a vessel of divine will, not the god itself."
"But it feels alive," he muttered.
Ahead, Lin Ji walked solemnly with a lantern. Bao Silang, licking a sugar figurine, shouted, "Hurry! They're bringing it to the river altar!"
The Water God's image was borne toward the riverbank altar, drums and horns resounding all the way.
At the rice shop, Lai Su directed the workers to bind up three sacks of their finest "clear-grain rice" and affix the tribute seals. He chose the fullest sack himself, handing it to the temple keeper for sealing.
"Your family is offering generously this year," the keeper said with a smile.
Lai Su passed the sack without expression. "This bag weighs one he and four ji. It is the best we have—our family's respect to the Water God."
As the keeper was about to accept, his eye caught someone in the distance. A man, not in uniform, followed behind the town officer. He neither spoke nor intervened, only nodded occasionally, jotting notes.
"Is he an official?" the keeper whispered.
"I don't know him," Lai Su said calmly, not turning his head.
The keeper frowned. "He doesn't look like a town man. Perhaps he's an inspector sent from above… or perhaps not an official at all."
His voice lowered further. "I've heard there are such men—wandering the kingdom, prying into matters no one understands."
Lai Su gave the faintest hum in reply, offered the rice, and turned away.
Incense smoke gilded the path in warm gold, as though burning away the old year. Yet Lai Su felt a chill cut through his chest, as if fate had already written behind that veil of smoke—ripping open a past he should have long forgotten.
By dusk, lanterns lined the riverbank. Music drifted, children paraded, their laughter mingling with drums.
At the bridgehead, a storyteller squatted, blowing sugar figurines. "Do you know, the Water God was not always a god? It was once a river spirit, a jiao, who guarded the Ling River for a thousand years before an image was raised for it."
"Lies," Lin Ji said around half a persimmon cake. "My teacher says it's an avatar of a true god."
"Then your teacher's never heard of the jiao," the man chuckled, shaping a sugar fish. "Do you know how it chose its first followers?"
"How?"
"Through the lanterns. Whichever wish floated farthest, clearest—it blessed that soul."
"Ohhh—" the children chorused, half in doubt, half in wonder.
Clutching his paper lantern, Layne whispered, "I'll write: I want my mother to smile all her life."
Lin Ji glanced at him but said nothing.
As night fell, the temple hosted the Lantern Array. Youths circled the water altar, practicing the dance under the keeper's instructions, though no lamps were yet lit—that was reserved for the third day.
From afar, Bihua watched. Turning back, she saw Lai Su standing at the street corner, gaze fixed on the eastern side of the altar, his face thoughtful.
That night, in the rice shop courtyard, Bihua sat beneath a lamp, mending festival lanterns. The paper feathers quivered delicately beneath her hands.
On the ground, Layne arranged paper fish in a circle, chanting the verses he'd memorized.
Lai Su returned, holding a red-folded letter. "Someone slipped this under the door."
Bihua unfolded it carefully. On the paper was but one line:
"Old debts unpaid. Tread carefully."
She looked up. "What debts?"
"Perhaps some account I forgot to settle," Lai Su replied lightly.
She nodded, folded the note, and tucked it into the ledger.
Outside, a single lantern swayed alone, unclaimed—like a wish someone had forgotten to take away.
At dawn, the incense altar was officially opened.
One by one, households offered tributes—grain, livestock, paper armor, and charms. Seven great sticks of incense were lit in the center. The temple keeper chanted:
"Honor the Water God, let sweet springs nourish the fields. Harmony to the household, prosperity to the trade, may wishes flow with the water."
Once more, Lai Su walked with the rice merchants to the altar, this time in a dark-blue robe, upright and reserved.
Clerks recorded each offering, marking who gave more, who gave less.
The stern-faced man without insignia appeared again.
At Lai's tribute, he paused—three breaths—then moved on.
Lai Su bowed low, eyes fixed on the ground.
Through the smoke, the temple keeper's voice drifted: "Perhaps someone will be found wanting this year. To err in tribute is no small matter…"
Lai Su did not look at the man's back. He pressed the tribute slip onto the altar, then quietly withdrew.
By afternoon, the town was lively again. Lantern rehearsals at the river, paper towers by the banks, every household preparing offerings and festival dishes for the evening.
Children ran about shouting of the coming lantern release.
Layne held his handmade lantern to Bihua. "Can I write a lot of wishes tomorrow?"
She smiled while balancing the account book. "You can. But better to write just one—the one you want most."
"Then I'll write: I wish you can sleep peacefully every night and never worry about me."
She paused, then stroked his hair. "Then don't oversleep tomorrow."
That night, the shop was quiet and warm. Lai Su hid the ledger in the bottom cabinet and said softly:
"After the festival, take Layne to Qingzhou. They have a lantern fair after the rites. He might enjoy it."
"You're not coming?" Bihua asked, surprised.
"I'll mind the shop." He smiled. "You two go, get some fresh air."
She did not press him, only nodded gently.
When he turned away, an old copper token lay in his palm, rusted with age. Its stamped mark had worn faint—only the blurred character for "official" remained.
He closed his hand over it. The metal was cold.