On the Qinglin River, a misty haze stretched across the vast waters.
Twilight spread across the horizon like watered-down ink.
A river breeze, carrying a faint chill, swept over the water and stirred ripples in its wake.
A seemingly ordinary merchant ship was moored quietly on the river, its black canopy and gray sails blending into the scenery. Without a closer look, one would assume it was just a common trader taking a brief rest.
Inside the cabin, a middle-aged man in a yellow Confucian robe sat engrossed in a classical text, his expression as placid as still water.
The Taiping Daoist Followers around him, disguised as attendants, stood with bowed heads, their breathing deliberately soft.
The only sounds were the rustle of turning pages and the faint murmur of the river in the distance.
Yet, an invisible pressure filled the air, keeping the Taiping Daoist Followers on edge.
