“哎，你听说了没，北斗星那边最近又出大事了！” characterized by a salty and slightly theatrical delivery, the voice came from the small, dimly lit teahouse tucked in the bustling streets of a lower ranking market district. Lin Chen, a middle-aged bar owner known for his penchant for exaggerated tales, slammed his teacup hard on the wooden table. The ceramic cup rattled, releasing a petite plume of fragrant steam.

Several of his regular patrons shifted uneasily, some stifling chuckles, others rolling their eyes. This was the third time Lin Chen had brought up the topic, and it was clear that his narrative was wearing thin on their patience.

“Third time’s the charm,” Lin Chen claimed, unfazed by the lukewarm reception. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an conspiratorial whisper. “You see, it all started with this young fella named Qin Feng. Came to town from outta nowhere, claiming he was a descendant of some ancient sect. Spoke of constellations and celestial phenomena like he knew the whole damn sky by heart.”