The waters of Shou Lung

Kareem tucks the heavy gold deeper into the bag and leaves the gate business behind. By the time he reaches the Silk and Linen District, the bath has softened the grit from his skin and the market hum has settled into a calm, evening rhythm.

Lanterns glow over cedar-scented stalls, and bolts of dyed cloth spill from shelves like captured rainbows. Master Weaver Hwan studies Kareem’s worn clothes with the calm precision of a man who has measured a thousand hems and a thousand lives.

Kareem steps closer, letting the weaver see the wear at the cuffs, the road dust still hidden in the seams. Hwan’s attention sharpens, not judgmental, just practical.

A wooden rack turns beside them, showing a plain robe, a sturdier tunic, and a travel cloak lined for cool nights. Hwan gestures toward the fabrics, inviting Kareem to choose by feel as much as by sight.

Kareem runs two fingers over the cloth, then settles on a bolt that breathes and a darker weave that will take hard use. He asks for something he can work in and still look proper, and Hwan’s measuring tape flicks out with practiced speed.

The weaver circles him once, pinning the shape of Kareem’s shoulders in careful glances. A bit of chalk marks the cloth, and the rack creaks as Hwan pulls free a plain robe, a fitted tunic, and trousers cut for movement.

Hwan nods, and the shears flash once. He lays the finished pieces aside with a satisfied tap, then folds them into Kareem’s arms. The fabric feels light, but firm, meant to move without splitting.

The price is exacting, and the last of the small change he meant to keep for the street disappears into the counter. Hwan ties the bundle with a fresh cord, studying the foreign man now dressed for Shou Lung instead of the road.