I, Li Qinglian, woke up one morning as the poetry immortal Li Bai.
I thought I could amaze the world with my words, embody the glory of the High Tang, and spend my days blissfully drunk among the clouds.
But before I could even raise a cup and sing, a cold-faced accountant showed up and flung a "Ledger of Cause and Effect" at me.
He told me my title as the "poetry immortal" had been pawned by my predecessor. To redeem it, I owed a debt of one hundred thousand, not in gold or silver, but in a full one hundred thousand poems destined to be passed down through the ages!
To make it through the day, I sold "Quiet Night Thoughts."
Guess what?
That immortal homesick poem, sung for a thousand years by generations to come, was worth just five copper coins in that beat-up ledger.
I stared at the few rusty coins in my palm and thought of the crushing debt of one hundred thousand poems hanging over my head. My vision went dark.
How long would it take to sell enough? Would I have to write every poem in China's five thousand years of history ahead of time?
But the accountant's icy voice kept ringing in my ears:
"Your deadline is near. If you cannot pay it all back..."
"What you owe is more than just a debt."
"It is the national fortune of the entire Tang dynasty."
