Myrkas was having fun. The Summer Solstice Festival was the best: the bestest ever. All Myrkas had hoped for and more. Music and cheers filled the streets. Colours abounded everywhere, from lanterns to banners passing by streams of flowers. Temporary stalls constructed of cloth and bamboo lined the town squares and wider alleys. Seasonal snacks teased Myrkas' nose and stomach with their mouth-watering scents. The festive atmosphere was only enriched by Martine Kroush dragging him around, the little girl acting as the boy's personal guide. It was sweet of her, the way she affectionately bossed him around. Her "poor Myrkas who doesn't remember the Summer Festival!" It was almost too nice—for a tiny devil escaped from the deepest of Hells.

Myrkas' first summer solstice post-transmigration was now engraved forever in his heart and mind. The Solstice Ceremony had been imprinted beneath his eyelids. The images coming easily to his mind as soon as he closed his eyes.

Before high noon, people had gathered in the temples' courtyards all over the city. Dressed in their most colourful robes, kaftans, and overskirts, they had all come together to celebrate the longest day of the year. The day when the Empire's Sun, the Ascended Allrikh, watched over them all with a benevolent glow.

When the sun had reached its peak, a gong had resounded. The sound had originated from every temple in synchronicity. Together, the citizens had revealed their paper offerings. They had released the folded desert sparrows in unison, illuminated by the highest rays shining above, and accompanied by the gongs' notes resonating about. The delicate paper birds had flown upwards on warm air currents. They had risen above heads and buildings, soon lost in the glaring sunlight. Once they reached their apex, they combusted, vanishing in a flash of purple flames. Each had carried a secret, known only by their bearer and Allrikh himself.

Myrkas' paper sparrow had risen later than the others, so transfixed was he by the ceremony. Nonetheless, his bird had caught up to Martine's, and they had burned together. The ashes had flown to the skies, carrying their messages with them.

The whole estate had been present, each with their own rendition of a small desert sparrow. No bird had fallen back to the ground. A mystical and magical event. One Myrkas would never forget, whether the First Emperor in the above Heavens truly heard his prayer or not. The closest Heaven was still quite far away, after all, with it being in an entirely different dimension and all that.

While curious about everyone's secrets, Myrkas respected the solemn tradition. He refrained from pestering anyone, even Nirrina. Each message was kept silent, without exception. Children drew instead of writing if they did not know how. Babies would leave their hand or footprints on their paper before their parents folded them. In this event, secrets were sacred.

A wonderful tradition, Myrkas thought.

More festivities followed. As the sun started to set, Myrkas' coin-string was nearly empty. Few pieces of copper were left, and not one tael. They had disappeared so fast during the day. If the boy had not kept his hand solidly on his string throughout the day, he would have believed he had been robbed in broad daylight. But there were so many games, and food, and acrobats, and musicians. A whirlwind of new experiences. Ones Martine did not let him miss. Her giggles had carried them from stand to stand and street to street. A deserved reprieve from the boy's effort with cultivation. A breath of fresh air.

Martine had succeeded in convincing Myrkas to bring his two rabbits along. The girl had developed an unduly delight in sneaking flowers into Myrkas' hair and watching as the two balls of fluff climbed him to chew on the floral snacks. Worst, Myrkas found himself completely unable to get mad at any of his three female companions. The trio had perfected the art of being forgiven by leveraging their cuteness. Martine had learned extremely fast how to get Lilac and Snow to cooperate with her schemes, getting away with performing the most devious acts: such as stealing the last cookie, the one Myrkas had preciously reserved for his breakfast. Despicable. There was nothing the boy could do. Those big emerald eyes were ruthless in their cuteness. The Kroush girl was one fearsome foe. A true Master Mind growing up before Myrkas' gaze.

The two children and their animal friends had time and coins for one last game before they needed to head home. Martine had begged Myrkas to win the biggest, brightest ribbon for her. It was the one prize she wanted most of all. Much more than any other he had already won for her earlier in the day. The little devil had used her ultimate attack: a sincere "please" while holding Lilac. The combination of reddish-brown hair and silver fur was deadly. Way too adorable for Myrkas' ongoing well-being. The boy had instantly melted, like a toddler's ice cream in a canicule. All his remaining sternness dripped to the pavement. From then on, Myrkas had acquired a new purpose, to obtain the most beautiful, fanciest ribbon ever.

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The game in question was simple in appearance. However, Myrkas had learned that such looks were deceptive. Those festival games extended deeper than one expected, aimed to trick and swindle their brave opponents. The laws of the jungle prevailed. Stand owners squared against humble practitioners, much too eager to please their loved ones. The Game Masters didn't hesitate to ally with unscrupulous little ones to empty more pockets. For they too had families to feed. Ruthless. Ruthlessness in the name of love!

The one standing in front of Myrkas combined higher concepts than the average game. It provided a true test of a challenger's ability. Baskets of different sizes were affixed on rails and poles. The participants had one hourglass by attempt to throw as many balls as they could. However, it was not enough to hit the baskets, the ball also had to remain inside. Furthermore, the projectiles given differed in size and weight from each other. One had to adjust their throw each time. Worst, the balls had the inopportune tendency to roll back out if thrown a touch too hard or with the wrong angle.

A tricky task indeed. An opportunity for Myrkas to prove his growing skills, his superior aim. He had to succeed. Martine's latest dream rested on his young shoulders. Myrkas took a slow breath and recited his mantra to center himself. This was his first real try, the previous one did not count as it had been a practice one. This time, Myrkas would try to keep a meditative state throughout. The boy had practiced chanting his mantra in the back of his mind since his debatably fortunate bath incident. The "meditative reflex" helped to keep him calm and focused. As he did, his awareness of his inner Qi flow increased. While the process did not do anything so noticeable, it had to help. It was a known fact: in a cultivation world, meditation always helped. A profound, irrefutable wisdom no one dared to contradict.

This time would be the one, Myrkas could feel it. Sense it deep in his marrow. His heart beat with power. The boy was harder, better, faster, stronger. His secret technique was ready. Myrkas had learned it painfully in his past life. Many carnivals and a few amusement parks had witnessed his relentless training, resulting in the ultimate technique: the underhand throw. With the perfect curved angle and a soft vector upon landing, it remained the only way to successfully deposit the balls within the baskets without them bouncing back out.

Centered, focused, ready, Myrkas nodded to the game attendant. The boy suspected all those around him could somewhat perceive his hidden power. The talent of a legend "en devenir" could not be contained. Myrkas' potential seeped around the boy, shimmering with power in his mind. He could hear the crowd holding their breath in anticipation. Victory awaited him!

The attendant, visibly impressed by Myrkas' determination and concentration power, turned the hourglass at once. The simple timekeeper knocked on the wooden counter and Myrkas began. He threw ball after ball, all the while succeeding in maintaining his meditation technique in the background. Unfortunately, this resulted in the projectiles thrown on the "harder" and "stronger" beats to fly right back out of their basket's embrace.

Naysayers would comment on the predictability of such an outcome. Nevertheless, Myrkas had made progress compared to his practice attempt. However, with only half of the balls secured in a basket, the youth did not have enough points to win the desired prize. Already, Martine, with her evil genius, had calculated his failure. Before Myrkas was able to say anything, the girl had grabbed his embroidered kaftan, directing his attention to her big, tear-filled emerald eyes and trembling lower lip. Another critical hit.

Whatever Myrkas had meant to say got stuck in his throat. He couldn't give up, would not. His pride, his honour, and a little girl's dreams hang in the balance. Myrkas knew from deep inside his being that he would do better next time, be better. All he needed was one more attempt, just one. He stood at the edge of a breakthrough. Possibly enlightenment.

But his coin-string was empty. The harsh truths of capitalism blocked his way to greatness. They robbed a cunningly sweet little girl of her brightest smile. Helas, such was life. A harsh but necessary lesson to learn for both of them.

As Myrkas was gathering his courage and resolve to inform Martine of their coinless circumstances, a large shadow fell over the two children and the pair of bunnies. An ominous chill travelled down Myrkas' spine. Forbidding any chance at escape, a large, calloused hand landed on the boy's shoulder, instantly immobilizing him. Myrkas' bad premonition was concretized once he heard a best-forgotten baritone voice.

"Well, well, well, look who we have here! If it isn't my new, favourite disciple!" exclaimed Suna Ranil, with his uneven smirk crinkling his eyes.

Myrkas sighed in resignation. The evening's adventures were only beginning it seemed…