I am the god of this land.

01: Fish tank

At the end of June, Han Feng, clutching his university degree in communication studies, spent three months in his rented room refreshing job postings on recruitment apps, sending out over a hundred resumes, receiving few replies, and failing three job interviews. When his mother called, he had just turned down an insurance sales position and was lying on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Feng'er, go back to your hometown and tidy up your grandfather's house." Han Ma's tone left no room for discussion. "That house has been empty for more than half a year. It can't just remain deserted forever."

Han Feng wanted to refuse, but swallowed the words back. Anyway, he had nothing better to do, so he might as well take a break.

The next morning, he drove his family's Volkswagen onto the highway. His hometown village was hidden in the mountains of Guangnan. After getting off the highway, he still had to drive for nearly two hours on winding mountain roads. The further he drove, the deeper the mountains became and the denser the trees grew. His cell phone signal was intermittent, and eventually it simply switched to "no service". The bamboo on both sides of the road grew wildly, and its branches and leaves formed a green tunnel overhead. The wheels made a crunching sound as they rolled over the gravel.

The village is called Shimen Village, with only about twenty households. All the young people have left, leaving only the elderly. My grandfather's old house is at the very end of the village, nestled at the foot of the mountain. It is a two-story wooden structure with tiled roof. Most of the whitewash on the exterior walls has peeled off, revealing the yellowish-brown rammed earth inside. The courtyard in front of the house is overgrown with weeds, and the branches of an old loquat tree almost reach into the second-floor window.

He took out his key and fumbled around for a while before finally unlocking the door. A damp, musty smell wafted out, mixed with the scent of old wood and dust. The main room was still furnished as it had been when his grandfather was alive. A set of purple clay teaware sat on the octagonal table, and a faded blue apron was draped over a bamboo chair next to it, as if the old man had just gone out for a stroll and might come back in at any moment.

Han Feng stood at the door for a while, feeling a mix of emotions. He was taking the college entrance exam when his grandfather passed away and missed the funeral. In his memory, the old man always wore reading glasses, sat in the rattan chair in the main room reading a book, with a cup of strong, bitter tea beside him.

He took a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves, and decided to start tidying up the bedroom on the second floor.

The wooden stairs creaked underfoot, like stepping on the back of an old cat. There were three rooms on the second floor. The one directly opposite the stairs was the largest, serving as Grandpa's bedroom and study. He pushed open the door. The room was dimly lit, the curtains were drawn tightly, and a thin layer of dust hung in the air. Against the wall was an old-fashioned wooden bed with its bedding neatly folded. But what truly stunned him was the entire wall—three of the four walls were bookshelves, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, crammed with all sorts of books: yellowed thread-bound ancient books, hardcover archaeological monographs, and stacks of journals and manuscripts. Rolled-up drawings were stuffed into the gaps between the bookshelves, and several dusty bamboo boxes were piled in the corner.

He casually pulled a book from the bookshelf, flipped through a few pages, and found it covered in annotations. His grandfather's tiny, neat handwriting was exquisite. Just as he was about to put the book back, a black-and-white photograph tucked between the pages slipped out and fluttered to the ground.

Han Feng bent down, picked it up, and turned it over.

The grandfather in the photo is very young, probably in his early thirties. He is wearing a faded Zhongshan suit and standing on a hillside with rolling barren mountains behind him. The sunlight shines on his face, making his eyes squint into slits, and the corners of his mouth are slightly upturned. The smile is faint but exudes a spirited vigor.

Han Feng stared at that face for a long time. In his memory, his grandfather had a full head of white hair and a slightly hunched back. He always sat quietly in a rattan chair, like an old bell covered in dust. But the person in the photo was different. He was young and vibrant, and there was something in his eyes that he had never seen before, like certainty and expectation.

He gently placed the photos on the table and suddenly felt a tightness in his throat. The old man lived to be eighty-six years old and had never been without these books and papers, old objects he had found somewhere. As for him, he studied communication but couldn't even find a job that would allow him to stand on his own two feet.

A breeze picked up outside the window, and the branches and leaves of the old loquat tree rustled against the tiles. Han Feng stood in the dusty study for a long time before carefully tucking the photo back into the book and putting it back in its original place.

Han Feng pushed open the windows on the second floor one by one, and the afternoon sun poured in. Dust swirled in the beams of light, turning into dense golden dust. He looked at the sky and saw that the sun was still high, so he decided to take advantage of the moment to move everything that needed to be dried out outside.

He started from his grandfather's bedroom, carrying bedding, pillows, and a few old cotton-padded jackets from the bottom of a trunk to the yard, one trip after another. He propped up the branches of the old loquat tree with bamboo poles, using them as clotheslines. He draped the quilts over them, patted them a few times, and the dust exploded into a small cloud of smoke that slowly drifted away in the sunlight. After working for more than half an hour, he finally cleared out the second-floor bedroom. He then squatted in the corner and began to tidy up the pile of dusty bamboo boxes.

The boxes were stacked one on top of the other, the bottom one was deformed from being crushed, and the lid was crookedly closed. Han Feng pulled it out and lifted the lid. Inside was a pile of porcelain shards and roof tiles wrapped in old newspapers. It looked like the old man had picked them up from somewhere. He took these things out one by one, and when his hand reached to the bottom of the box, his fingertips touched something cold and smooth.

He looked down and saw a fish tank in the corner.

The fish tank wasn't large, and it was completely transparent with thick, smooth walls. It was impossible to tell what material it was made of; it wasn't glass, nor crystal. The surface was spotless, as clean as solidified water. Han Feng held the fish tank up to his eyes and circled it a few times, feeling an inexplicable strangeness about its cleanliness—not a speck of dust on it, as if time had left no trace on it.

He reached into the fish tank and felt around. When his fingertips touched the bottom, he felt a small piece of paper. He pinched it open and found it was a folded strip of paper, yellowed and brittle, the folds almost breaking. Han Feng carefully unfolded it, revealing his grandfather's tiny, neat handwriting. The ink had faded to a light brown, but the characters were still clear.

"To unleash the power of the Creator, one must use my bloodline as a guide, dripping blood into the vat, and the inheritance will begin."

Han Feng read the sentence over and over three times. He almost burst out laughing. Wasn't this a plot device from those online novels? What blood oath, what inheritance activation? Did the old man spend his whole life doing archaeology and now he's obsessed with some fantasy novel?

He turned the note over and found nothing on the other side. He then brought the fish tank close to his eyes to examine it closely. It was still the same clear and smooth surface, without any mechanisms or hidden compartments; it was just a quiet little fish tank.

Han Feng squatted in the dusty corner, clutching the note in his hand. He hesitated for a while, thinking that it belonged to his grandfather. Although the old man was old-fashioned, he never did anything without a reason. Besides, he looked at the small cut on his fingertip. What could be the big deal?

He placed the fish tank on the ground, opened the cabinet, took out a small folding knife, and the blade flashed in the sunlight. He placed the blade against his right index finger, gritted his teeth, and made a decisive cut. A sharp pain shot through him, and blood immediately welled up, pooling and dripping down his fingertip.

A drop of blood fell into the fish tank.

No sound.

But the fish tank lit up.

A beam of light rose from the bottom of the tank, as if something had been ignited deep within the transparent tank walls. The light was not dazzling, but warm like moonlight, spreading up the tank walls in circles and bathing the entire fish tank in a light golden hue. Han Feng instinctively shrank back, his back hitting the wall, staring wide-eyed at the incredible scene before him.

The light lasted for about ten seconds, then slowly receded like water, disappearing without a trace. The fish tank returned to its transparent state, as if nothing had happened.

But Han Feng had something else on his mind.

It wasn't sound or words, but a direct perception, like knowing where your hands are even with your eyes closed. He suddenly understood how to use the fish tank and what it could do. The information at the level of consciousness, activated by the Creator's function, seeped into his cognition like water, silently yet clearly.

He sat in the dust, looking down at the unremarkable little fish tank in his hand, and remained there for a long time.

The sunlight in the courtyard began to shift westward, casting a long shadow from the old loquat tree that slanted across the threshold of the main room. The bedding swayed gently in the breeze, and a few birdsongs drifted from the distant mountain valley. The entire Shimen'ao was as quiet as if nothing had happened.

But Han Feng knew that from the moment he cut his finger, something was different.