Before he died, his master said just one thing: "Don't ask. Go as far away as you can."
Bai Zhou listened and ran for two years. Two years later, his master's handwritten notes arrived in his hands, but someone had torn out the last page.
He returned to the old street, where no one thought much of him: no degree, no connections, no credentials.
Then, squatting outside Zhaoji's shop, he lifted the paper covering a basket of vegetables. "The paper in the middle is dry, but there's a damp ring around it. These vegetables were left overnight, and someone sprayed them with water on the road to make them weigh more."
Those hands of his had done too much.
