The year is 929. More than two decades have passed since the fall of Nanzhao;
power has changed hands again and again, and no new dynasty yet holds.

Below Jizu Mountain, the road splits three ways. Whether they travel for trade or flee for their lives,
those crossing the mountains stop here for the night.

At the fork stands a nameless inn. You are its keeper.

You boil the water, lay out the food, light the lamps, and receive your guests. You do not question them—
there is no need, and no place for it.

You only watch, and listen, in the spaces between pouring tea and
banking the fire.
Everyone who steps through the door carries a past. Some will tell it; most will not.

And yet, on one night or another, you come to see who they truly are.