The Qin Dynasty Chronicle

In the thirty-seventh year of the First Emperor’s reign, the imperial procession set out on a tour and reached Yunmeng. Ji Cheng, a minor clerk, was temporarily assigned to the procession’s outer perimeter, where he handled incoming and outgoing documents for the government office. He was close to the emperor, close enough to hear the horses and carriages pass, yet far away, unable even to decide when a document was officially received. Yesterday, his superior told him to mark a letter that had not yet arrived as “received.” Today, the courier arrived with the letter. Two arrival records now lay side by side on his desk. One was false, and he had written it. Anyone could erase it later; if he kept it, he would have to account for every word written the night before. From that moment on, Ji Cheng was swept into the empire’s largest machine. He handled the most inconsequential ledgers, but behind those ledgers stretched mountains and rivers as vast as the land itself. The history books record emperors and generals. He only wants to understand one thing: where did all those who left no names behind go?