The world is a chessboard, and all living beings are its pieces. I am the one who intends to flip the board.
Seventy-two ancient tombs in the Qinling Mountains opened at once, and the “remnants of the previous era,” who had slumbered for countless ages, returned to the world.
Deep in the Kunlun Mountains, a being in an ice-sealed jade coffin slowly opened its eyes, stars rising and setting reflected in its gaze.
Above the Sleepless City of Chang'an, on New Year's Eve at midnight, the phantom of a white chess piece stretching a thousand meters across silently appeared.
Only then did Chen Guanqi learn that the world he was born into was no more than the most insignificant corner of the “Eternal Chess Game,” spanning 127 eras.
The players set their pieces, wagering civilizations on the board of eras.
The box guardians wield swords, but what they protect is not all living beings. It is the blade that can slay the players.
The watchers sit high above in the clouds, smiling as they watch the pieces and players struggle and sink into endless cycles of reincarnation.
And he, a box guardian who should have quietly protected the game's workings, saw his father's final words, written in blood, when he turned to the second page of The Opening:
“Guarding the box is a pretense. Slaying the players is the truth.”
