Li Daoxuan frowned at the narrow field of view inside the diorama box—until he suddenly remembered something. Five days ago he had installed a tiny surveillance camera beside the display. It recorded on a loop. Whatever happened last night should still be in the footage.
He grabbed his phone, opened the camera app, and scrolled through the recordings.
He himself hadn't gone to bed until after two in the morning, so anything suspicious must have happened after that.
It didn't take long before the truth of the "water theft" revealed itself.
Under the dim moonlight, a ragged crowd—dressed almost exactly like the poor villagers of Gaojia Village—crept toward the big pond with buckets on their backs. They tiptoed to the water's edge, filled their pails, and hurried off into the darkness.
An hour later, they came back.
Then again.
Three trips in total. By the time dawn approached, they had siphoned off a good half-foot of water.
Li Daoxuan let out a breath, caught somewhere between amusement and helplessness.
He lowered his phone and could still hear the villagers muttering anxiously:
"Whoever these thieves are, they're too bold—stealing the sacred water our Heavenly Lord bestowed upon us!"
"We should track them down. Look, their footprints go straight out of the village!"
"Catch them, beat them, and take back our water! Otherwise the Heavenly Lord will blame us for failing to protect His divine gift!"
Daoxuan sighed.
"Yi-ye," he spoke down into the diorama, "tell everyone there's no need to pursue this matter."
High atop the village square, Gao Yiye froze mid-rant. She had been loudly condemning the water thieves along with the others, but the thunder-soft voice from the heavens startled her so badly she yelped, craned her neck upward—and saw the faint silhouette of their "Heavenly Lord's" young, handsome face forming in the clouds.
She immediately bowed.
"Heavenly Lord, Your gift has been stolen. Are You… not angered?"
Her shout silenced the entire village. Every villager clamped a hand over their mouth and stared at her, realizing she was receiving divine instruction.
Daoxuan spoke again:
"Tell them: these thieves belong to another village. Their water has run dry. They were desperate. The amount they took is nothing—I can refill it anytime. Do not chase down a group of people who are one step away from dying of thirst."
Gao Yiye relayed every word.
The villagers immediately abandoned thoughts of violence. One after another they knelt and kowtowed:
"Our Heavenly Lord is merciful!"
"Divine grace upon all!"
"Boundless compassion!"
"Protector of the suffering!"
It was a strange mix of Buddhist and Daoist praise, all shouted with absolute sincerity.
Li Daoxuan rubbed his temples.
Saving only the forty-two residents of Gaojia Village clearly wasn't enough. If he truly wanted to help, he would have to rescue many more. And these water-thieves—these desperate refugees—would be the next.
If only his bank account could keep up.
That night, after the village returned to rest and the diorama settled back into its "non-active" state, Daoxuan didn't sleep. Instead, he sat at his computer reading late-Ming-era historical materials, occasionally glancing toward the northern edge of the display—the direction the water thieves had come from.
Hours passed. The modern city outside his window never quite slept. Cars rushed along the highway, and crowds outside the neighborhood were still clinking beer bottles and shouting over barbecued skewers.
At three in the morning, Daoxuan ordered some late-night BBQ. And just as he hit "confirm," movement stirred inside the diorama.
From the northern border, a small, rag-clothed figure crawled into view. He surveyed Gaojia Village from afar, then gestured behind him. One by one, more miniature people emerged, each with a bucket hanging from a pole across their backs. They stooped low and crept toward the village like frightened animals.
Daoxuan closed his window to block out the city noise and pressed his ear to the display. Inside, all was silence—their tiny footsteps made no sound at all.
Within minutes, they reached the giant "pond," the enlarged Lock&Lock container.
The leader, a wiry man surnamed Wang, peeked into the water and let out a startled "Eh?"
A younger man whispered, "Brother Wang, what's wrong?"
Wang pointed at the pond, bewildered.
"We drained this water last night. And Gaojia Village surely used more today. The level should be even lower. But look—it's full again!"
Daoxuan smirked.
Of course—it took him only one cup of water to completely refill it.
The refugees gathered around the pond, staring blankly at the perfectly restored water level, then at the sky.
"It hasn't rained…"
"How did it refill?"
"Impossible!"
"What sort of pond regenerates water?!"
Even Wang looked dazed. But as the leader, he could not stand there gaping forever. He clapped his hands sharply.
"Forget it! Fill your buckets before someone wakes up! If Gaojia Village catches us, we'll die of shame on this very spot!"
That, at least, made sense.
They scrambled to the water's edge. Some dipped buckets. Others immediately shoved their heads into the pond and gulped down mouthfuls of water with audible desperation.
Daoxuan's heart tightened. These weren't thieves—they were survivors.
His gaze drifted toward the bag of rice beside him. He considered dropping a handful down, but paused. Inside the diorama, grains became colossal, half-meter long rice logs. Their wooden buckets couldn't hold such monstrous things. And he couldn't very well have these starving refugees rolling giant rice bars across miles of terrain in the dead of night.
Better not terrify them.
He needed something small enough to be usable.
His eyes moved from the rice bag… to the sack of flour.
Modern flour is finer than sand. Enlarged two hundredfold, it would simply become coarse grainy powder—not huge, not scary, still usable.
Yes—perfect.
While the little people were busy drawing water, Daoxuan quietly pinched a small bit of flour between his fingers.
Then, with careful finesse, he sprinkled it down behind them in the diorama—no sound, no disturbance—forming a modest hill of pale flour at their feet.