A Message to the Readers

Traditionally, an author should strive to remain as invisible as possible outside the main text of their work. Yet, in the realm of online literature, the distance between writer and reader has become remarkably close. Readers can sense the author’s daily anxieties, while the author can perceive the readers’ daily joys and sorrows. In such a landscape, maintaining the aloof reserve expected of writers is nearly impossible. Thus, at the very beginning, I wish to speak more openly with those who choose to read this book.

I am an admittedly imperfect online novelist, fully aware of this fact because I cannot write the kind of stories typically expected in this genre. Traditional online fiction aims to entertain: to immerse readers fully, making them laugh heartily, feel exhilarated, and leave behind all worries—a simple, pure joy. But I cannot produce such works. It is not out of disdain or inability, but simply because I am not the kind of person who finds that kind of writing satisfying.

No matter how much one wishes to serve the readers, writing ultimately remains an act of the author’s own creation. I can only write what I am capable of, what I desire to see in literature—and my aesthetic sensibility happens to be somewhat unusual.

In my previous work, "Ji Han Zhangwu," I endeavored to craft a purely virtuous sage character. Over two years, I wrote two million words and felt content with the result, though its reception was modest at best. I harbor no regrets, for creating such a character was a conviction born from years of reading. Even if not a single reader had followed, I would have continued writing. Yet upon completion, a new question emerged: What should I write next?

Without that deep-seated conviction, I wanted to write something I personally enjoyed, but which was not overly private or obscure. Yet the scope was too broad to crystallize into a coherent novel, and I found myself trapped in indecision.

One day, while scrolling through a Q&A platform, I stumbled upon a question: "After the War of the Eight Princes in the Western Jin, why did the Eastern Wu forces in Jiangdong attempt to revive their kingdom, while Shu Han did not? Does this suggest that Shu Han’s unity was merely an illusion?" I have long since forgotten the questioner’s name—likely just a casual critic of Shu Han. As a devoted fan of the Han dynasty, I found the question absurd and intended to write a brief three-thousand-word rebuttal.

But as I wrote, a thought struck me: what if I reversed the question and turned it into the premise for a novel? The idea seemed compelling, so I began preparations to write a traditional time-travel story, where the protagonist would inhabit the body of Duke Anle during the War of the Eight Princes and strive to restore the Han dynasty.

Soon, however, I sensed something was amiss. By that time, nearly all figures connected to Shu Han had passed away. A time-traveler descending upon Duke Anle, wielding modern knowledge, would hardly evoke genuine emotion in reviving the Han dynasty. Even if forced, the sentiment would feel contrived. Thus, I resolved to make a bold decision: the protagonist would be a native inhabitant.

This was a daring choice, for historical online fiction almost universally follows an unspoken rule: the time-traveler must be an outsider. Whether a modern visitor or a figure from another era—like Li Shimin inhabiting Liu Chan’s body, or Cao Cao possessing Wu Dalang’s—only then would readers accept that the traveler has the power to alter history and reshape the world. Yet I yearned for a more authentic sentiment, believing that within our own history lies the latent power to change destiny.

To convince readers that this native protagonist truly possesses the power to transform the world, I must begin from birth, allowing everyone to witness his growth and leaps forward. Such a narrative is challenging and goes against most readers’ habits, but to pursue this heroic ideal, it is indispensable.

When I reached this point in planning, I hesitated for a long time. Though the story brimmed with passion and love, the odds of failure were high. Yet I firmly believed this was a worthwhile endeavor, a story I wanted to tell. As Kennedy once declared when committing to the moon landing: “We choose to do these things not because they are easy, but because they are hard.” As an author, if I retain even a flicker of affection for writing, I ought to strive to make my novel better—and I believe this approach is truly worthwhile.

Thus, this book came into being, serving as my confession before the story truly begins. If you, dear reader, believe that the blood of heroes flows within our nation and that the spirit of miracles is nurtured among us, then what I write will be about heroes and miracles. This journey will be long and may bring moments of discomfort and tears, for the path to greatness is never smooth. Yet all of this is to reach the highest summit. May you and I encourage one another along the way.

And now, everything begins. The death of Jiang Wei moved heaven and earth (Prologue II). Heaven decides to grant Duke Anle’s family a child—a new chance (Chapter One). Nearly ten years later...