Chronicles of Wangchuan

For three thousand years, we believed history was written by the victors.

We were wrong.

History is erased by the victors.

A Chen is the last gravekeeper on the western frontier's Gobi Desert. He has no name and no past. For twelve generations, for twelve hundred years, his family has done one thing: on the wasteland outside Fengshi City, they gather the unclaimed white bones scattered among the sand and stones and bury them, one by one.

No one knows whose bones they are. No one remembers that a civilization once existed that could speak with the stars. They built seventy-two cities reaching to the heavens and mastered the power flowing through the veins of the earth, then vanished without a trace overnight.

No war, no natural disaster, no record of anything at all. As if they had never existed.

Until the shovels of the Dasheng Dynasty broke through the gray soil cursed for three thousand years.

It wasn't a demon that had awakened. It was memory returning.

The waters of the River of Forgotten Souls flowed into the Grand Canal, and three thousand years of suppressed memories swept across the continent like a flood. People began dreaming of strangers, speaking languages lost to time, and seeing the truths erased from the history books.

The dynasty's order collapsed overnight.

At last, A Chen understood why he had been guarding the graves. He wasn't burying the dead. He was waiting for them to return.

And the secret sealed away by the star-born civilization through the existence of its entire people is slowly opening its eyes, along with the first memory to rise to the surface.

This is a story about forgetting. About how much we are willing to sacrifice for peace. About whether, when everything you believe in is proven to be a lie, you still have the courage to choose the truth.