Early the next morning, before the sky had broken, soft footsteps already echoed along the bluestone path outside the Panhua County post station. Zhao Henian pushed open the carved wooden window, looked out at the hazy figures in the courtyard, and a bitter smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—they had agreed last night to assemble at the fourth quarter of the mao hour, yet these youngsters had arrived half an hour earlier than the dawn-crowing roosters.
"Master Zhao!" A deliberately lowered cheer rose from downstairs, and a dozen or so lanterns flared in succession, illuminating hundreds of youthful faces. Some carried half-person-high rattan bookcases with bamboo slips poking through the gaps; others clutched poetry collections and rubbings of stone inscriptions copied overnight, the ink gleaming with a damp luster in the morning mist.
At the very front of the procession stood a limping scholar—none other than the Lame Scholar who had come to see them off. At this moment, he held a copy of the primer *Language and Literature* and waved to Zhao Henian. "This book is a gift for you, Libationer."
Chapter 105