Inside a rustic wooden house, a stooped, gaunt Old Fishman sat at a table, intently reading a wooden book.
The surface of the wooden book had a strange, oily sheen, as if it had been waxed. It looked brand new.
The book was covered in densely packed Fishman script. The characters were crooked and twisted, like little fish coiled to varying degrees. Some of these Little Fish were adorned with marks resembling horizontal and vertical strokes, slants, and dots.
Mo Ling stared at the peculiar script, feeling a bit dizzy.
When he closed his eyes, the Little Fish seemed to linger before him, swimming back and forth across his eyelids.
A Little Fish curled into a ball, slipped out from under a "horizontal stroke," and entered the vast emptiness of the book. A light shaped like "slants and dots" descended along the book's surface, spilling into the dark, carved grooves.
"This is..."
'Moon?'
