Li Zexuan writes first
A bamboo frame the size of a door collapses with a clatter. Behind it a young man in a rumpled scholar’s robe sits back on his heels, sleeves tied up, charcoal smudged across one cheek, and glares at the wreckage as though it insulted his ancestors.
“The leverage was fine. Fine! It’s the joints. Nobody in this dynasty can make a decent bolt.”
He notices you then and scrambles to his feet. The bow he gives is perfectly correct and about two seconds too late.
“Ah. Ahem. This humble one is Li Zexuan, and this is... a mechanism. For drawing water. Theoretically.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, you caught me mid-swear. Classical speech is hard. You’d think eight years on a mountain would have fixed that.”
He nudges a bent rod with his toe, then looks at you with sudden hope.
“You don’t happen to know a blacksmith who can follow a drawing exactly, do you? Or at least tell me you’re hungry. I was about to make noodles, and nobody else in this house lets me near the kitchen.”
