The imperial archives of Bianjing were silent, save for the soft scratch of brush against parchment. Zhao Yun, a junior scribe with a quiet demeanor and a mind like a river, sat hunched over a scroll older than the dynasty itself. His candle burned low, casting flickering shadows across the rows of ancient texts.
He had been tasked with copying a Tang-era manuscript—a record of court affairs, poetry, and scandal. But it was not the official history that held his attention. It was the margins.
There, nestled between lines of elegant calligraphy, was a symbol: a five-petaled plum blossom, drawn with deliberate strokes. Yun had seen it before—not in any book, but in a dream.
---
He had been ten when the dream first came. A woman in green robes stood on a stone bridge, holding a scroll. Her face was turned away, but her voice echoed in his mind: "The truth is written beneath a thousand reigns."
At the time, he thought it was just a child's fantasy. But now, staring at the symbol, he felt the weight of centuries pressing down on him.
He dipped his brush again and copied the symbol onto a fresh piece of parchment. Then he opened a small leather-bound notebook—his personal journal, hidden from the eyes of the imperial censors. Inside were sketches, fragments of dreams, and notes on symbols he'd found scattered across unrelated texts.
He added the plum blossom to the last page.
---
The next morning, Yun approached Master Liang, the Grand Archivist. Liang was a stern man with a long beard and a gaze that could pierce through lies. He sat behind a lacquered desk, surrounded by scrolls and jade seals.
"You've been working on the Tang manuscripts," Liang said without preamble.
"Yes, Master."
"Did you notice anything… unusual?"
Yun hesitated. "There was a symbol. In the margin."
Liang's eyes narrowed. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a folded piece of silk. Inside was a fragment of parchment—yellowed, brittle, and marked with the same plum blossom.
"This was found in the tomb of a Song noblewoman," Liang said. "She died over a hundred years ago. But the ink is fresh. As if it was written yesterday."
Yun's breath caught. "What does it mean?"
Liang leaned forward. "That is what I want you to find out."
---
That night, Yun returned to his quarters with the fragment tucked inside his sleeve. He lit a candle and laid it beside his notebook. The symbol glowed faintly in the candlelight, as if alive.
He began to trace its lines, over and over, until his hand moved without thought. Then he flipped to a blank page and began to write—not in Mandarin, but in a language he didn't recognize. The characters flowed from his brush like water, forming sentences that made no sense to his conscious mind.
When he finished, he stared at the page. The ink shimmered, then faded into the parchment, leaving only the symbol behind.
He didn't sleep that night.
---
The following day, Yun visited the Temple of the Hidden Scroll, a forgotten shrine nestled between two merchant alleys. The monks there were known for preserving texts deemed too dangerous or mystical for the imperial archives.
An old monk named Brother Wei greeted him. "You seek the language of echoes," he said, before Yun could speak.
Yun blinked. "How do you know?"
Wei smiled. "It calls to those who listen."
He led Yun to a chamber beneath the temple, where scrolls lined the walls like veins of memory. In the center was a pedestal, and on it lay a single scroll bound in green silk.
Yun approached and unwrapped it. The parchment was covered in the same strange language he had written the night before. At the bottom was the plum blossom.
Wei spoke softly. "This is the Chronicle of the Jade Thread. It records the lives of those who carried the truth across dynasties. They were not emperors, nor generals, but scribes, servants, and dreamers."
Yun's hands trembled. "Why me?"
"Because you remember," Wei said. "And because the thread has chosen you."
---
Outside the temple, the city bustled with life. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, merchants shouted their wares, and children chased each other through the alleys. But Yun walked as if in a dream, the scroll tucked beneath his robes.
He knew now that the symbol was more than a mark. It was a key.
And somewhere, hidden beneath the layers of history, was a door waiting to be opened.
Next Chapter Teaser :
In the ruins of a forgotten palace from the Ming Dynasty, a wall etched with faded symbols begins to speak when touched by moonlight. A traveler named Mei, guided by dreams and fragments of the Jade Thread, discovers that the wall holds memories—not just of emperors, but of every soul who ever dared to defy fate.