Prologue

The Gobi Desert, freshly washed by a rain, was so clean it could intoxicate the soul.

Never mind the poplars, whose leaves had turned yellow in the daylight; even the clusters of camel thorns were so lush and green that they stirred a touch of warmth in the heart.

Doing nothing, lying lazily atop the sun-warmed stones, simply watching the sun set beyond the horizon—mist seemed to rise there, finally devouring the red orb entirely, and another day was squandered in vain.

A stubborn star, always appearing next to the sun by day, now shone even more brilliantly as the sun dipped below the earth. Before the moon emerged, it was the most powerful presence in the sky.

But night would inevitably cloak the land, and then legions of stars spilled forth, densely carpeting the heavens and winking triumphantly at all who looked up. That brightest star, not long after sunset, would slip out of sight with the earth’s rotation—a star rising and setting with the sun, its greatest sorrow.

There are many kinds of suns. Some formidable beings, though not called suns, have a presence much like one: when they begin to shine, all others must fall silent.

There are many ways to silence others. For instance, being thrown onto the Gobi, drugged and helpless, is one such method.

There was little to complain about; the truth that the victor is king and the loser is outlawed had been clear for a long time.

It was just that those people acted rather hastily… It was only after many years that he realized his life had contained more obscurity than joy. Even moments to quietly admire the stars had been rare.

Now, at last, he could gaze upon them…

Yet the brilliance of the stars was ultimately cold; under their light, the stone beneath him cooled, and eventually even his thoughts were locked in the chill of that radiance.

The stars are in fact very far from us—so distant that their spans are measured in light-years. A light-year is, of course, a measure of distance, but more often we prefer to use it as a unit of time. This may defy physical knowledge, but what does it matter? Science is always evolving. Who can truly say what is right?

The beam of cold light falling into the eye—who knows from what year its information comes? But to us, it is all the same; we cannot decipher what it carries.

We refuse the starlight because it is too cold, too indifferent, too real, and too merciless.

We would rather see the world ahead with eyes full of heat than let the stars pour their icy histories into our minds. However marvelous those tales, that bone-chilling cold is the deepest wound.

If we were to describe the process of dying in detail, without question, coldness would be its best epithet.

The messages carried by starlight are always cold, tidings of things long dead, fit only to be enshrined in the golden pages of history for our veneration.

If possible, we’d rather know what lies ahead in our destiny than look back at the past. Mistakes, once made, should be left as they are. Whether one was a great minister or a marquis means little now; what matters is that they once existed.

Rotten things reeking of coffins are unfit for the young to savor.

They prefer what is new—from new brides to newborn infants.

A wandering beam of light enters the eye. Who knows how long it’s drifted through time? Strangely, it has not grown cold. It carries a hint of warmth, soothing the heart, bringing joy…

Naturally, one’s gaze follows this warm light back to its source. When light meets light, sparks are inevitable—especially when both are burning bright.

Warmth is best. Like infants, we throw ourselves into a mother’s embrace, fragrant with milk.

Riding the strength of light, we travel through time and space.

The sun is warmth. Here, light is refracted as it should be, skimming past the speeding Mercury, dodging the searing Venus, plunging straight into a blue planet…

With light, day breaks.

The light gradually spreads across the sea, then climbs the mountains, illuminating the world!

Sadly, the sun’s golden rays cannot always pierce the thick clouds…

Ink-black clouds hung over the city of Tokyo. Though it was day, it was as dark as dusk; rain poured down, drenching the world.

It was a disastrous weather. Lightning split the sky, thunder exploded overhead…

The torrential rain ravaged this city of light. Crowds thronged the embankment—haggard, desperate, clustering like ants along the riverbank, plugging the dreadful breach with mud, sandbags, stones, their bodies, even huge boats.

A massive three-tiered barge lurched and heaved through the raging Yellow River. The old boatman, barefoot at the prow, his face twisted, shouted commands. Over a dozen thick hemp ropes bit deep into the bulging muscles of hundreds of shirtless men. Chanting in low, steady voices, they strained to haul the barge slowly toward the breach.

Seeing the barge reach the gap, the old boatman gripped the quivering rudder with all his might and bellowed, “Yuan Yi, Yuan Wu, break the hold, move!”

Two sturdy middle-aged men hurried to the reserved space at the bottom of the barge, hefted their heavy hammers, and smashed the last plank of the hull. With a single blow, a crack appeared in the thick boards, muddy water spurted in, and the whole barge groaned monstrously.

Without hesitation, the two men turned and, urged on by the old boatman, leaped into the Yellow River. The younger surfaced, shouting toward the rapidly sinking barge, “Father!”

As the barge went under, the old boatman saw his two sons emerge. His tense face finally relaxed. Waving, he shouted, “Go, go…”

Loaded with sand and stone, the barge lodged crosswise in the great breach. Waves crashed over the deck, sweeping away everything in an instant. The old boatman vanished from sight.

Sandbags rained into the water. Huge bamboo baskets filled with stones were levered into the breach by the men on shore. Gradually, the torrent slowed. Laborers and officials on the embankment cheered, their hands working ever faster.

With a sharp crack, a forked bolt of lightning struck a willow on the riverbank, splitting the tree in two like a sword. The people sheltering beneath it instantly became balls of fire.

The towering embankment trembled, silently splitting open a tiny fissure. Then, with a thunderous roar, a vast section collapsed; the muddy river, like a herd of wild horses, tore open an even more terrible chasm. The workers barely made it a few steps before being swallowed by the flood.

“Ah! Ah! Heaven—!”

A green-robed official raised his hands to the sky, howling in rage, before leaping into the surging waves. The muddy water spun him once and swallowed the small offering with ease.

The river above ground, the river above ground!

If you lay on the embankment and looked along its flat expanse toward Tokyo, you would see the third tier of Tokyo Tower. Now, the Yellow River’s embankment had collapsed…