The ruins of the Jade Pavilion lay hidden in the folds of the southern mountains, veiled by mist and forgotten by maps. Once a retreat for Ming emperors, it had long since crumbled into silence—its lacquered beams split by time, its gardens overtaken by wild plum trees. But beneath the moss and stone, something still stirred.
Mei, a traveler with no surname and a scroll tucked into her satchel, stood before the pavilion's broken gate. Her boots were caked in mud, her robes faded from sun and wind. She had followed the dreams for weeks—visions of a wall that spoke in moonlight, of symbols that shimmered like stars. She didn't know why they came to her. Only that they had never lied.
She stepped inside.
---
The air was thick with memory. Petals drifted from the trees like snow, and the scent of old incense clung to the stones. Mei walked slowly, her fingers brushing the walls, her eyes scanning for the mark she had seen in her dreams.
It was near the back of the pavilion, behind a collapsed corridor. A wall stood untouched by decay, its surface smooth and pale, as if carved yesterday. At its center was a symbol: a five-petaled plum blossom.
Mei's breath caught.
She reached out and touched the wall.
Nothing happened.
She waited.
Still nothing.
Then she remembered: moonlight.
---
That night, she returned. The moon hung low and full, casting silver light across the ruins. As its glow touched the wall, the symbol shimmered—and the stone beneath her hand grew warm.
A whisper rose from the wall. Not a voice, but a memory.
> "The truth is written beneath a thousand reigns."
Mei stepped back. The wall pulsed faintly, and symbols began to emerge—etched into the stone like veins of light. They formed a language she didn't recognize, but somehow understood.
She pulled out the scroll from her satchel. It was the Chronicle of the Jade Thread, given to her by a monk in the Temple of Hidden Scrolls. Inside were fragments of stories, names, and symbols—each one tied to a soul who had carried the truth across dynasties.
She placed the scroll against the wall.
The symbols aligned.
---
Suddenly, the wall glowed brighter, and Mei saw visions:
- A woman in green robes on a stone bridge, holding a scroll.
- A scribe in the Song Dynasty, writing in a forgotten language.
- A princess in the Tang court, reciting a poem beneath falling petals.
- A general on the frontier, clutching a letter sealed with wax.
Each vision flickered like flame, then faded.
Then came a final image: Zhao Yun, the scribe, standing in a chamber of scrolls, his eyes wide as he traced the plum blossom.
Mei gasped. She had seen him before—in her dreams.
---
The wall whispered again.
> "You are the thread now."
Mei fell to her knees. The scroll in her hands pulsed with light, and the symbols on the wall began to fade—one by one—until only the plum blossom remained.
She understood now.
The Jade Thread was not a book, nor a prophecy. It was a lineage. A chain of memory passed from hand to hand, heart to heart. Not through blood, but through belief.
And she was next.
---
She stayed in the ruins for three days, copying the symbols, recording the visions, and listening to the whispers. On the fourth day, she packed her satchel and began the journey north—to Bianjing.
She had to find Zhao Yun.
She had to tell him what the wall had shown.
Because the truth was not just written beneath a thousand reigns.
It was waiting to be read.
Next Chapter Teaser :
In the archives of Bianjing, Zhao Yun receives a visitor who carries the same scroll he thought lost to time. As Mei recounts the whispers of the wall, a new mystery unfolds—one that leads not to the past, but to a future that history never dared to record.