Long, long ago, there stood a city called Chiyuan. It was built by bare-handed craftsmen, farmers, miners, and weavers—hewn from blood and sweat. No one knew exactly how they overthrew the old dynasty, only that they had no guns, but fire in their hearts and the future on their backs.

In time, Chiyuan was founded. They placed their most trusted among them upon a grand platform to govern the city. He was neither noble nor priest—a boy who had climbed up from the mine. He forged the people into a united household and named the city “The People’s House.”

They proclaimed: “At last, we rule ourselves.”

But as time passed, the old generation aged, and a new line of successors ascended the platform. They too had once been children of the mines—but now wore pristine clothes, spoke politely, and wrote neatly. They no longer toiled in the fields or sweated at their crafts. They erected tall buildings, set up standards, and divided the city into neat grids, assigning codes to its people.

They addressed the populace: “We are your sons; we are your future guardians.”

Yet behind closed doors, they quietly expelled anyone who most resembled “their former selves.” Those coated in coal dust, speaking coarsely, eyes unbowed—they were labeled:

“This is backward. This is ignorance. This is out of step.”

Someone asked: “But aren’t they your ancestors?”

The new leaders fell silent. They dared not respond. For they knew in their hearts—they were not rejecting workers, peasants, or weavers, but the shadows of their own past. The version of themselves that had eaten scant meals, been scorned, and only dared to shout slogans.

They had forgotten who had helped them out of the mire—and were ashamed to admit their origins.

So they severed themselves from the past.

They built white walls to keep out the dust, instituted new speech so that old accents might never resurface, elevated “clean and elegant” while suppressing “coarse and direct,” even erasing depictions of scythes and hammers from books, replacing them with portraits of leaders singing praises.

Outside the city walls, aging workers still farmed, old weavers still mended tattered garments. Young people no longer believed “The People’s House” was theirs; they began to leave, either in silence or in indignation.

Then one day, a great mirror appeared—its origins unknown—placed squarely upon the central platform. No one knew who had installed it. But the mirror revealed not elegant leaders or modern managers... but a dusty-faced boy, eyes sharp as knives, palms calloused.

The people on the platform stared in shock. “This is an evil mirror!” they cried. “Smash it!”

But the mirror remained unbroken—and shining.

The boy in the mirror spoke:

“You have no right to fear me. You are me. I do not shame my past—you shame yourself.”

If you enjoy this work, please consider a generous tip of 0.001 ETH to show your support. 🙏✨Ethereum wallet address: 0x1ad9120146c11e636d70e3e3d6485f6E0d589E31

Thank you sincerely for your encouragement and support! 💖🚀

Long, long ago, there stood a city called Chiyuan. It was built by bare-handed craftsmen, farmers, miners, and weavers—hewn from blood and sweat. No one knew exactly how they overthrew the old dynasty, only that they had no guns, but fire in their hearts and the future on their backs.

In time, Chiyuan was founded. They placed their most trusted among them upon a grand platform to govern the city. He was neither noble nor priest—a boy who had climbed up from the mine. He forged the people into a united household and named the city “The People’s House.”

They proclaimed: “At last, we rule ourselves.”

But as time passed, the old generation aged, and a new line of successors ascended the platform. They too had once been children of the mines—but now wore pristine clothes, spoke politely, and wrote neatly. They no longer toiled in the fields or sweated at their crafts. They erected tall buildings, set up standards, and divided the city into neat grids, assigning codes to its people.

They addressed the populace: “We are your sons; we are your future guardians.”

Yet behind closed doors, they quietly expelled anyone who most resembled “their former selves.” Those coated in coal dust, speaking coarsely, eyes unbowed—they were labeled:

“This is backward. This is ignorance. This is out of step.”

Someone asked: “But aren’t they your ancestors?”

The new leaders fell silent. They dared not respond. For they knew in their hearts—they were not rejecting workers, peasants, or weavers, but the shadows of their own past. The version of themselves that had eaten scant meals, been scorned, and only dared to shout slogans.

They had forgotten who had helped them out of the mire—and were ashamed to admit their origins.

So they severed themselves from the past.

They built white walls to keep out the dust, instituted new speech so that old accents might never resurface, elevated “clean and elegant” while suppressing “coarse and direct,” even erasing depictions of scythes and hammers from books, replacing them with portraits of leaders singing praises.

Outside the city walls, aging workers still farmed, old weavers still mended tattered garments. Young people no longer believed “The People’s House” was theirs; they began to leave, either in silence or in indignation.

Then one day, a great mirror appeared—its origins unknown—placed squarely upon the central platform. No one knew who had installed it. But the mirror revealed not elegant leaders or modern managers... but a dusty-faced boy, eyes sharp as knives, palms calloused.

The people on the platform stared in shock. “This is an evil mirror!” they cried. “Smash it!”

But the mirror remained unbroken—and shining.

The boy in the mirror spoke:

“You have no right to fear me. You are me. I do not shame my past—you shame yourself.”

If you enjoy this work, please consider a generous tip of 0.001 ETH to show your support. 🙏✨Ethereum wallet address: 0x1ad9120146c11e636d70e3e3d6485f6E0d589E31

Thank you sincerely for your encouragement and support! 💖🚀