I died in a fire, holding a history book without words in my arms.
After I woke up, it gave me a line of cinnabar characters: In the 23rd year of Kangxi's reign, Fujian, Post Station.
I began to enter the history books as an unknown person. Not a flying general, not a prime minister, not anyone around the emperor—just a postman, a jailer, a stone carver, and a cake seller. Every time I enter a dynasty, I can only do one thing: write three lines of words for the person whose name has not been left.
Later I discovered that this history book had been altered. Someone erased the page where Qin Shihuang unified the text. Some people hid Kangxi's achievements and Zhu Yuanzhang's crimes. They created perfect saint kings and absolute tyrants in the history books.
And I want to go all the way back along history, from the Qing Dynasty back to the Qin Dynasty. Because if the page of the source is burned, the words, roads, laws and unity for the next two thousand years will all become coincidences.
I must go to the last night of Qin Shihuang before the historians delete it.
