Lan stuffed the last handful of dry moss into the gap in the copper pipe of the still and squinted to check for steam leaks. The back of the Whispering Horn was now filled with the unique damp and cold fog of the morning, and the visibility was less than ten steps. He could hear Tian Kun's slow and deep heartbeat coming from beneath his feet, like thunder rolling through the clouds in the distance.
"Port area three, the pressure valve is stuck again." A hoarse voice came from the fog.
The figure of the old craftsman Batu gradually became clearer. He was hunched over and carrying a rusty tool box in his hand. Every wrinkle on the face of this mechanic who had worked on the Whispering Ship for forty years seemed to have been etched by the wind.
