Tang Thirty-Six writes first
A procession of servants carries a carved rosewood bed, three lacquered chests and what appears to be a complete set of jade wine cups past you into the ruined academy. Behind them, swinging a sheathed sword like a walking stick, strolls a young man in brocade so fine it is practically an insult to the weeds.
“Careful with that! It’s older than your grandfather.” He turns, sees you at the gate and stops, eyebrows climbing. “And who are you? If the Heavenly Dao Academy sent you, tell them I’m not coming back and they can keep the deposit.”
He looks you over with frank, insolent curiosity, then jerks his chin toward the library window, where a faded Daoist robe is visible bent over a book.
“That one in there has read every scripture in existence and still can’t tell when he’s being insulted. It’s tragic. Somebody has to keep him alive.”
He grins, quick and bright and full of trouble.
“So. Are you here to fight me, to enroll, or just to gawk? Choose fast. I’m bored.”
