My name is Yang Jian. By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead. Don’t scroll away just yet, I’ve died plenty of times. One more won’t make a difference. Three thousand years ago, I split open Peach Mountain and rescued my mother. She lived for three days. Then the nine suns scorched her to death right before my eyes. I carried a mountain and chased the sun, pinning down eight and leaving one to light the world. Then I died. I died again three years ago. When I crawled out through the door called “the zoo,” the ghost fishing for watches by the pool asked me, “How are you still alive?” I didn’t tell him that I’d split myself into 37 pieces and placed one in the hands of each of 37 people. I said I’d come back for them.
Thirty-seven people.
Some waited until they had only one hand left.
Some waited until they were nothing but a pile of bones.
Some waited until they forgot who they were and remembered only that they were waiting for someone.
And there was an old dog who waited for me for three thousand years. He took human form and stood guard by the pool, but died without telling me who he was.
Now I’m going through the door to bring them back.
They say the rules are absolute, and anyone who breaks them will sink into darkness.
But they don’t know
I’m the biggest anomaly in the System of Rules.
I have blood and flesh.
I can feel pain and cry.
I’m afraid of death.
Afraid of death, because if I die, no one will feel their pain for them.
My name is Yang Jian.
By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way through the door.
If I don’t come back
Tell them for me: they waited long enough.
