The day of the next great announcement arrived. The groundwork had been laid. The first, discreet driving schools had been established, their instructors trained, their curriculums finalized. The legal framework, a masterpiece of Yanfei's tireless, caffeine-fueled genius, was in place. It was time.
Ningguang stood once more on the grand, public balcony of the Yuehai Pavilion, the same spot from which she had announced the dawn of the age of the man-made Vision. A massive, expectant crowd had gathered in the plaza below, their faces a sea of curious, hopeful anticipation. They knew, from the whispers and the rumors, that another great, world-changing announcement was coming.
She began, her clear, calm voice amplified by the familiar, adeptal-powered devices, echoing through the silent, listening city. She spoke of progress, of Liyue's boundless, mortal ambition, of their constant, unyielding drive to build a better, more prosperous future.
And then, with a grand, theatrical flourish, two large, silk sheets were pulled away from objects that had been sitting, unseen, on the balcony behind her.
One was a sleek, dark grey hoverboard. The other was the magnificent, beautiful, and utterly impossible, Cloud-Piercer.
A collective, city-wide gasp of pure, unadulterated, and completely and utterly baffled, shock went through the crowd.
Ningguang, a slow, satisfied smile on her face, explained. She spoke of the hoverboard, a tool for personal, rapid transport. She spoke of the hovercar, a vehicle for families, for commerce, for a new age of travel. She spoke of a future where the roads were no longer confined to the earth, but were open to the endless, boundless sky.
The crowd erupted into a roar of pure, ecstatic, and almost delirious, excitement. The idea was intoxicating. To fly. To soar over the rooftops of their own city, to travel to neighbouring regions in a matter of hours instead of days. It was a dream, a fantasy, a fairy tale, and the Tianquan was telling them it was now a reality.
But then, she raised a hand, and a calm, authoritative silence fell once more.
"But this new freedom," she continued, her voice now turning serious, her tone that of a wise, and very strict, ruler, "it comes with a new, and very serious, responsibility."
She then laid out the rules. The regulations. The complex, and to many, deeply, and annoying, paperwork.
She spoke of the driving schools, of the mandatory training, of the rigorous, practical tests. She spoke of the need to earn a license, a small, official piece of paper that would be the key to this new, aerial kingdom. She spoke of the age limits, of the registration system, of the number plates.
As she spoke, the initial, delirious excitement in the crowd began to shift. It was still there, a bright, powerful undercurrent of hope. But it was now tempered by a new, and slightly more… antagonistic, feeling.
A low, grumbling murmur began to spread through the plaza.
"A license? I've been driving a cart for thirty years! I don't need a license to fly!" a burly merchant grumbled to his friend.
"Training? What a waste of time! How hard can it be? You just… go up!" another scoffed.
"An age limit? That's not fair! My son is the best cart driver in the whole harbor!" a proud father declared.
The people of Liyue, a city of merchants, of sailors, of fiercely independent and self-reliant individuals, had been offered a beautiful, wonderful, and utterly, wonderfully, free-spirited, dream. And now, the Qixing was telling them that their dream came with a rulebook. And they were, to put it mildly, not entirely happy about it. The age of the hovercar had dawned, and with it, the first, glorious, and utterly inevitable, traffic jam of public opinion.