### Chapter 2: The City Measures Worth
The rain had eased to a fine mist by morning, the kind that clung to everything without falling hard enough to drive people indoors. Xia City woke slowly under it—roofs steaming faintly, stone streets slick and shining, the wide Lantern River swollen at its banks, carrying the night's debris downstream in lazy swirls.
Li Shui left Willow Rest before the others stirred. He moved through the eastern districts with his usual quiet stride, the half-and-half cloak drawn close against the damp. The deep-blue left half absorbed the mist without a trace; the pale water-blue right half caught stray glimmers from lantern reflections, its wave patterns shifting like something half-awake.
The market was already stirring. Vendors raised canvas awnings that dripped steadily onto the cobblestones. Fishmongers shouted prices over the hiss of oil in pans; herb sellers arranged bundles tied with red string. A line of laborers queued at a porridge cart, bowls steaming in their hands.
No one spared Li Shui more than a glance. Plain robes, no house sigil, cloak odd but not expensive—another orphanage boy running errands. He passed unnoticed, as he preferred.
Near the river bridge, two guards in scaled armor leaned against the railing, sharing a smoke. Their voices carried over the water.
"...another tribute increase this year," one grumbled. "Imperial academies take the best talents, then demand more coins for 'protection.'"
The other spat into the river. "Better than the sects. They just take what they want—no tribute, no questions."
Li Shui paused at a notice board nailed to a post. Fresh parchment, still crisp despite the mist. Imperial seal at the top—a coiling dragon in gold ink.
All youths reaching sixteen years must present for resonance evaluation at the Central Pavilion. Failure to appear will result in family or guardian penalty.
Below it, older notices layered like scales: recruitment posters for Azure Tide Academy ("Masters of the Flowing Path—Seek Harmony in Water"), Stormedge Forge ("Temper Your Spirit in Thunder's Embrace"), Serpentcoil House ("Join the Coil—Rise with Ancient Blood").
A group of well-dressed youths clustered nearby, laughing too loudly. One waved a jade token.
"Father says Azure Tide's inner pools are reserved for eighth-grade and above. The rest get the outer ditches."
Another snorted. "Stormedge doesn't care about grades—they break you and rebuild you. My cousin went in with seventh-grade fire, came out General-stage... but missing two fingers."
They glanced at Li Shui as he read, then away—dismissive. One muttered, "Orphanage kid. Probably fifth-grade at best. Outer ditches or labor corps."
Li Shui moved on.
Further into the central districts, the streets widened, buildings taller—white stone with tiled roofs, banners of minor houses fluttering damply. Here, the air carried the faint hum of resonant energy: instructors in flowing robes demonstrating basic arts to clusters of students, water spheres hovering, small flames dancing on palms.
A notice on an academy gate caught his eye: "Resonance determines path. High grades enter inner courts. Low grades serve in outer halls or military auxiliaries. Untalented remain common."
He stood reading longer than necessary.
An older student brushed past him, shoulder bumping without apology. "Move, commoner. Some of us have actual potential to prepare."
Li Shui stepped aside without reaction.
The river ran alongside the main avenue here, wider and slower, spanned by arched bridges. He stopped at one, leaning on the railing as he often did. The water below was murky from the rain, but steady—always moving forward, no matter what fell into it.
He thought of the cloak against his back. Of the woman who had wrapped it around a starving child. Of the single year of silence and safety she had given him.
Tomorrow, the city would measure him.
High grades meant academies, resources, a path upward.
Low grades meant labor, or service in some house's outer halls, or worse—the military corps sent to the borders.
Untalented... remained untalented.
He had no bloodline. No resources. No patron.
If he was ordinary, he would live as one.
The thought did not frighten him. It settled, cool and heavy, like the mist on his skin.
A bell tolled in the distance—deep, resonant, from the Central Pavilion. Practice for tomorrow, perhaps. Or a reminder.
Li Shui pushed off the railing and turned back toward Willow Rest.
The city continued its slow waking around him—vendors calling, students boasting, guards grumbling, notices fluttering in the damp wind.
All of it waiting for tomorrow.
When the world would measure worth in light and power.
And Li Shui, cloak trailing silently behind him, would step forward to be measured.
The river kept flowing beneath the bridge, patient and endless.
Just like the days ahead.