The autumn rain in the thirteenth year of Zhenguan turned Chang'an into a dream submerged in water.
Raindrops tapped the roof tiles of the library at Xuandu Temple, a steady, monotonous sound, as if counting down the passing hours. In a corner on the western side of the attic, Li Zhe, a Chinese literature graduate student from the twenty-first century, now known as Li Yunxiao, abruptly lifted his head from a pile of yellowed Daoist scriptures.
His head throbbed with pain.
Two sets of memories writhed like snakes, biting at each other inside his skull. One was bright, filled with concrete buildings and electronic screens: the library, his thesis defense, and a bizarre car accident that had sent him through time. The other was drab, belonging to this sixteen-year-old novice Daoist: sweeping at dawn, reciting scriptures, and learning rudimentary health exercises alongside his senior disciples.
“I...” He opened his mouth, but only a dry rasp came out.
His throat tasted of dust. He lowered his eyes to his hands: a boy's hands, with distinct knuckles, calluses on the palms, and a faint ink stain on the side of his right index finger from grinding ink. He wore a blue Daoist robe, washed until it had faded white, its cuffs fraying at the edges.
This wasn't a dream.
