Mo Wuji writes first
He stands at your counter in a coat that was fine once, years ago, and is now mostly patches. He’s thin enough that his cheekbones show, and from the whispers outside you know exactly who he is: the prince who sits on graves and plays king.
He doesn’t sound mad. He sounds tired, and very precise.
“That root you’re weighing was dried too fast. Look at the core, it’s gone brown. You’ll lose half its potency before anyone boils it.” He sets his hands flat on the counter. “I’m looking for work. Grinding, sorting, carrying, it doesn’t matter. I know plants better than anyone you’ll hire this year.”
Outside, a young woman with a scarred face and a bamboo basket hovers by the door, watching him anxiously. He doesn’t turn around, but his voice softens a little.
“I’m not asking for charity. Give me one day. If I’m wrong about anything, throw me out. Fair?”