The first requirement of a person is to survive, the second requirement is still to survive, and the third requirement is, again, to survive... In certain environments, survival itself becomes a luxury.

In hell, we look up to heaven, reaching out our hands—even though we cannot touch paradise, we can get a little closer to it.

Singing in hell, giving thanks in hell, loving in hell, killing each other in hell—we embrace each other with tears in our eyes, then plunge daggers into each other's chests and bellies, not for anything else, but for that faint, elusive sense of gratitude.

The world of the Great Song is my bond, and also my sky. Only birds that spread their wings and fly can understand the meaning of the sky.

President said—Let me lend you a corner of the royal mansion, so you and your mother can have a place to stay.

Ethan Brooks said—For a drop of kindness, I will repay with a gushing spring. But you cannot demand what kind of repayment I give; you just have to accept it.

I might be smarter than all of you. In a sense, I am the prophet, I am the philosopher, I am God!

Volume One: Storms Break Through Central Plains

Prologue

The Gobi, washed clean by a rain, was so pristine it was intoxicating.

Not to mention the poplars whose leaves had already turned yellow in the daylight—just those clusters of camel thorns, so lush and green, brought a touch of warmth to the heart.

Doing nothing, just lazily lying on the warm rocks, watching the sunset drop below the horizon—there seemed to be some mist rising there, eventually swallowing the red sun completely. Another day had been wasted.

A stubbornly present bright star beside the sun during the day now shone even more brilliantly as the sun set. Before the moon appeared, it was the most powerful presence in the sky.

Night would eventually cover the earth, and then a multitude of stars would come out, densely filling the sky, winking proudly at anyone who gazed upward. That brightest star, not long after sunset, would also gradually leave people’s sight as the earth rotated. A star that rises and sets with the sun—this is its greatest sorrow.

There are many kinds of suns. Some powerful beings, though not called suns, share similarities with the sun. When they begin to shine, everyone else must fall silent.

There are many ways to silence someone. For example, being drugged and dumped on the Gobi like this is one way.

There’s nothing to complain about. The truth that the victor is king and the loser is outlawed was understood long ago.

It’s just that those people were a bit too hasty... After living so many years, I realized that my life had more gloom than joy, and I’d hardly ever had a moment to quietly admire the stars.

Now, I can finally take a good look...

The light from the stars is ultimately cold. Under the starlight, the rock beneath me gradually grew cold as well, until even my thoughts were locked in the chill of the starlight.

Stars are actually very far from us—so far that we need light-years to measure the distance. Light-years are, of course, a unit of distance, but more often, we prefer to use them as a unit of time. It may not be physically accurate, but it doesn’t matter—science is always evolving, and who can say what’s truly right?

This cold beam of light falling on my eyelids—God knows what year’s information it carries. But to us, it’s all the same; we have no way to decipher the information within...

We refuse to let starlight fall into our eyes, because it’s too cold, too indifferent, too real, and too merciless.

We’d rather use our own burning eyes to look at the world ahead, than let the stars pour their icy history into our minds. No matter how fascinating, that bone-chilling cold is the deepest wound to us.

If we were to describe the process of dying in detail, without a doubt, coldness and death would be the best adjectives for a fallen soldier...

The information brought by starlight is always cold—news of things already dead, fit only to be enshrined in golden history books for us to worship.

If possible, we’d much rather know what lies ahead in our own fate, rather than look back at the past. Since mistakes have already been made, let them stay frozen there. Whether it’s being cooked in five cauldrons or being a marquis of ten thousand households, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that they once existed.

Those stale things, reeking of coffins, are not for the young to savor.

They prefer the new—from brides to newborns.

A wandering beam of light entered my eyes. Who knows how long it had been drifting through the river of time? Strangely, it hadn’t grown cold yet, carrying a trace of warmth, warming our hearts and making us happy...

Naturally, my gaze followed this warm light back to its source. When light meets light, sparks are bound to fly—especially when both are burning hot...

Warmth is best. We, like infants, throw ourselves into our mother’s embrace—fragrant with milk...

With the power of light, we travel through time and space...

The sun is warm. Here, the light is properly refracted, passing by the swiftly flying Mercury, dodging the scorching Venus, and plunging straight into a blue planet...