The border between Baishui and Chengcheng counties was alive with the sound of drums, hooves, and the murmurs of nervous officials.
Liang Shixian stood at the head of more than a hundred attendants — clerks, constables, and county aides — all sweating under their ceremonial hats. They waited respectfully beneath fluttering banners, eyes fixed on the approaching procession that glittered in the distance like a moving treasury.
At the forefront strode a man whose very posture shouted imperial authority. His robe gleamed with embroidered cranes, his nose tilted heavenward as though sniffing divine approval. Behind him marched an entourage of household guards, soldiers, and porters pushing carts piled high with crates of silver and sacks of grain.
Censor Wu Shen had arrived.
Appointed by the imperial court to "deliver Heaven's grace," he carried a hundred thousand taels of real silver — no paper, no promises. His steps were confident, even theatrical. If someone had played a fanfare, he might have matched his stride to the beat.
As his retinue entered Chengcheng County, the man's arrogance shone like fresh lacquer. He basked in the collective awe of local officials — until, quite suddenly, his gaze fell on the countryside ahead.
The earth was green. The air fragrant. Birds trilled from fat, healthy trees. Fields shimmered with moisture.
This — this was supposed to be a disaster zone.
Wu Shen blinked, then frowned in disbelief. "This place… why is it like this?"
Liang Shixian immediately understood. He stepped forward, bowing with both hands raised. "Your Excellency, this county has been blessed by—"
He caught himself. It wouldn't do to mention Dao Xuan Tianzun. To the imperial court, that name might sound suspiciously like heresy.
So he quickly revised: "—by divine favor! The Dragon King has seen fit to bless our land with rain."
Wu Shen snorted softly, brushing off the idea. He'd heard every sort of superstition from famine victims, and this one barely ranked. Most likely, Chengcheng had simply been lucky — a patch of wet earth in a sea of dust.
He sighed, deflated. Another county that doesn't need saving.
"It seems your region has been spared Heaven's wrath," he said with faint irritation. "No need for relief funds, then."
This disappointed him more than he cared to admit. On the road from province to province, every magistrate had treated him like a living god, bowing, flattering, begging for aid. To dispense grain and silver like a minor deity — that was power. But here? Here no one wanted anything from him. It was almost insulting.
Liang Shixian smiled politely. "Indeed, our needs are few. Perhaps Your Excellency could extend those precious supplies to other counties still suffering?"
Wu Shen's frown eased a little. "Very well. I shall pass through Chengcheng and continue on to Heyang County for relief."
Liang bowed again, hiding a smirk. Perfect. Go burden Feng Jun instead.
He was just about to dismiss the crowd when a drowsy voice drifted from the roadside grass.
"Ahhh… what a lovely nap."
Wu Shen's guards instantly tensed. "Who's there?" Swords rasped from scabbards.
The grass rustled — and out stepped a ragged monk. His robe was tattered, his straw hat half-collapsed, his sandals worn thin. In one hand he held a cracked wine gourd; in the other, a broken palm-leaf fan that stirred not even a whisper of wind.
Liang Shixian and his entourage froze. They knew that face.
Dao Xuan Tianzun — though now disguised as a slovenly monk.
No one dared to acknowledge him aloud, of course. Instead, the Chengcheng officials dropped their eyes, praying that the imperial envoy wouldn't notice their sudden collective panic.
Wu Shen's guards, however, had no idea. They merely exchanged uneasy glances. A wandering monk… perhaps a trickster? Or a spy?
The ragged figure adjusted his hat, fanned himself with his broken fan, and smiled slyly. "Wu Shen, from Xinghua, Jiangsu. Jinshi of the forty-first year of Wanli. Dismissed in disgrace during the Tianqi reign for offending Wei Zhongxian. Only recently restored to office. How's the temper these days?"
The road went silent.
The guards' swords leapt up with a hiss. "Insolent monk!"
Wu Shen himself went pale. No one — no one — was supposed to know those details. That dark chapter of his life had been buried under official records and shame.
A random monk emerging from the roadside grass, knowing his past and speaking it aloud? It chilled the blood.
"Seize him," Wu Shen snapped. "Alive! I want to know who sent him!"
The guards surged forward, blades flashing.
But the monk merely laughed and stepped back into the tall grass.
They rushed in after him — and found nothing.
He was gone.
A moment later, someone shouted and pointed: the monk now stood atop a tree several zhang away, smiling down at them, fan tapping against his shoulder.
"How—how did he—?"
"After him!"
They charged again, stumbling through thorns and branches. The monk leapt — vanished into the grass — and reappeared on another tree even farther away, as though mocking them.
To the guards, it looked like teleportation.
To Liang Shixian, it looked like divine mischief.
To Li Daoxuan — sitting comfortably outside the diorama box — it was simply physics.
He moved the silicone puppet with his hand.
And since his hand could move five meters per second, the puppet's apparent speed inside the miniature world translated to roughly a kilometer per second — nearly two li.
To the people within, that meant instant travel. Immortal magic.
The guards froze, trembling. Even Wu Shen's face turned gray.
Then, before their stunned eyes, the monk floated.
Not jumped — floated. Rising three or four zhang into the air, he drifted lazily forward, the tattered robe fluttering like the wings of a lazy crane.
He landed softly before the imperial envoy, fan flicking open. "Well, Wu Shen," he said, grinning, "still intent on capturing me?"
No one moved.
A guard opened his mouth. "What kind of demon—"
Another guard clapped a hand over his mouth, whispering fiercely, "Fool! He's not a demon. He's… he's Monk Ji Gong!"
And thus, on the dusty border of two counties, an imperial envoy, a hundred guards, and a handful of trembling bureaucrats bore witness to the first recorded instance of "teleportation" — courtesy of Dao Xuan Tianzun and a particularly amused giant hand.