In the ninth year of the Republic, Hunan was divided among warlords and plagued by bandits. Changsha was still awash in lights and revelry, but just beyond the city gates stretched endless wasteland, with starving corpses littering the roads.
That night, rain poured down in sheets. The Xiang River was pockmarked by raindrops as large as beans, and a black-canopied boat struggled in midstream like a drifting leaf. At its bow stood a young man in a blue cotton gown, around twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Tall and upright, with clear, handsome features, he stood firm despite the wind and rain.
