The cold wind slipped through the window, causing the candle flame to flicker—and with it, the pages of the Atlas of Civilizational Cycles stirred.
The diagrams within traced the rise and fall of every dynasty, all converging under his meticulous hand into a closed circle—like the moon's eternal path across the long night.
Gazing at this circle, Chen Mo suddenly understood: every character in the historical records, every era name, was merely the imprint of a wheel's passage. The wheel itself never ceased turning.
And so, with the last of his strength, he spent his final hours carving a lifetime of realizations onto twelve bronze slips.
Even though he knew—the truth he had chased all his life, these twelve bronze slips meant to withstand the erosion of time—were but a tiny ripple in the river of cycles.
He did it anyway.
