One morning in the sixth year of Jian'an, I fell into the war smoke of the late Han Dynasty from in front of the desk of the 21st century. Becoming a staff member in the Shu Han camp who knew the outcome, from being exiled in Xuzhou to Baidi Tuogu, from the dialogue in Longzhong to the fall of the stars in Wuzhangyuan, I planned with modern wisdom, but saw history rolling over all struggles like a railroad track.
I helped improve the Shu brocade trade, made suggestions to improve the Liannu, and promoted farming in Hanzhong - these will eventually become Prime Minister Zhuge's political achievements in the history books. I foresaw the defeat of Guan Yu, the death of the First Lord, and the loss of the street pavilion, but I could only remain silent at the right time, becoming an anonymous footnote behind those "natural conspiracies."
In the past forty years, I have gone from being a passionate reformer to a recorder full of vicissitudes of life. When the flags were finally erected at the gates of Chengdu, I held the bamboo slips that recorded the rise and fall of Ji Han in my hand, and finally realized: the meaning of time travel has never been to change the situation, but to witness with my flesh and blood what it means to "know that it is impossible and do it" in the late night game with Kong Ming, and in the wind and snow of Qishan Mountain with Jiang Wei.
Today, when I woke up in front of the glass cabinet in the museum and saw the scroll "The End of Jihan" written in a familiar handwriting, I finally understood - I have not changed history, but I have been chosen by history to give the final testimony to the benevolent and righteous lamp that has persisted in burning for forty-three years in troubled times at the cost of a lifetime of hesitation.
