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A desolate mountain, a ruined temple… It was a dream of the past.
The Daoist, robed in Daoist attire and leaning on a bamboo staff the color of green jade, walked slowly along the street.
The street was quite wide. It could not compare to the Heavenly Street in the middle of Changjing that split the capital into east and west, but aside from that grand avenue that showcased the majesty of the dynasty and the face of the imperial capital, it would be hard to find another street in all of Great Yan as broad as this one. And yet, in this strange city, such a street could only be called ordinary.
The Daoist walked at an unhurried pace, looking about as he went. He looked at every blade of grass and tree by the roadside, every brick and pillar, every house and building, each passerby, all the strange sights coming and going, though all had sprung from his own memory, from his own hand.
Still, even for the one who painted them, to see with his own eyes scenes he had once etched so deeply into memory and longing could not help but stir him greatly. Thus he walked onward, past the broad street, into narrow alleys.
Through the alley, he came to the riverside. This was a river that ran through the heart of the city.
The scenery along its banks was exceptional: broad and clean roads, dense groves of trees, and meadows of lush green grass. In the woods stood ancient-style pavilions...
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