The fractured stone stele still held the residual warmth of midday. Pi Yanlin lay supine upon it, his robes rising and falling in the breeze like a leaf adrift on the water.
He kept his eyes closed, his lashes casting delicate shadows against his skin. This posture was all too familiar to him—every day at the third quarter of the morning hour, he would find a comfortable spot to sprawl out, but today was different. It was the final day of a hundred-year streak of "checking in."
"Ding—"
Chapter 150