Northern Han Dynasty, the third year of Zhanghe, autumn.
It has been raining continuously for half a month. The ruined temple outside Qinghe Town is dripping with rain. The cold wind is filled with moisture and comes in through the cracks in the broken door, making the hay on the ground rustle. Yi Aixi woke up from the cold. He had a headache that felt like it was going to explode and his throat was so dry that it hurt. He wanted to raise his hand to rub his temples, but found that his arm was too heavy to lift. The bones in his body seemed to have been disassembled and reassembled, and every move caused pain.
"Water..." He uttered a word hoarsely, his voice so weak that it was almost inaudible.
"Wake up, wake up! Brother Yi is awake!" A hoarse voice rang in his ears, and then, a dark face came over, full of surprise. Yi Aixi squinted his eyes for a long time before he saw clearly that he was a man wearing a coarse cloth. He was about thirty years old, with a shallow scar on his forehead. He was holding a cracked pottery bowl in his hand, with half a bowl of turbid water in it.
The man carefully helped Yi Aixi up and handed the pottery bowl to his mouth: "Drink slowly. This is the water I picked up from the river. It has been boiled. It is not dirty."
