'Good sir, good sir, may I ask of thee a ladleful of water to drink?' 'Here, here, not too much now... If you drink that whole ladle, all my effort today is gone to waste.' 'Hm? Mayst thou explain?' 'On this mountain's shone side are three thousand mu of fertile fields, and in its shade, thirty thousand qing of lakewater, but Mt. Mang stands straight in-between rising to the clouds, cragged and long, troubling even fowl to cross. The seedlings need water, so I have no choice but to draw water from the north side to irrigate the fields on the south, and I have only this single ladle to use.' 'Hence why thou makest such arduous journeys in such unending succession? But until when wilst thou bear this ladle?' 'Well-asked. Until when, hm...' So replied the old man as he sat down on a mountain boulder, letting out a sigh. 'Ah! Then allowest me to help thee, good sir!' 'You would?' 'I have given it some thought, and believe what thou hast said to be wholly reasonable. Were it a spade at hand, thou wouldst find a canal to dig through Mt. Mang from north to south. Wert thou of Arts that could shift towering earth, thou wouldst employ such powers to move the mountain, and let lake and field border one another. Yet at hand thou hast but a ladle, so scooping water turn by turn beest thine only option. A task faces thee, and a tool is at thy hand—as it must be done, so one is bade to do all they can. 'Tis as such.' 'But the fields that way are so wide one cannot gaze to their end, and the trail over Mt. Mang is so perilous and winding, one loses their way in the fog. You may be decades younger than my decrepit self, but what could you accomplish even giving the rest of your life?' 'I seek not to be able to irrigate the fertile fields. Should I walk the mountain path once, that is one refinement of my spirit. To pour a ladleful of water is but the fortune to do so.' 'And more, the ladle thou gavest me in kindness was destiny in turn. I am young and hale, and my pace quick. 'Tis only natural that I help here!' So spoken, with more than half the ladle still filled, Saga took it into her steady hands, and turned and went for the mountain's shade. 'Truly, what a fool.' A gust of wind blew by, cloud and ink scattering, the mountain path long and unending, and all trace of the old man had vanished. 'Foolish and naive, but devout and sincere. She can go as she wishes.'