Autumn of 676 AD, South China Sea.
The wind is crazy and the waves are insane. The sky is like a rag soaked in ink, pressing firmly on the sea. Wang Bo clung to the railing of the boat, digging his nails into the slippery wood grain, and his knuckles were frighteningly white.
"Mr. Lang! Go back to the cabin -" the boatman's roar was torn apart by the wind.
Another wave hit, and the ship groaned under the weight. The draft of "Preface to Prince Teng's Pavilion" in Wang Bo's arms was soaked in the salty sea water, and the ink stains spread on the silk, like the dilated pupils of a dying person.
His father was still waiting for him in Cochin.
