📖 Vertical Monument Record

Joined the army at fifteen, fought in over a hundred battles, and shot and slayed countless Liao soldiers, earning him fame as a peerless marksman. And yet, in eight years of war, he never once returned home. Do his aging parents know that their son now lies buried as bones beneath foreign soil?

She was a Liao pipa player. Upon hearing that her husband died on the battlefield, she played the pipa for three days nonstop, until she coughed up blood and passed away. Her music was filled with sorrow and regret, as if she was crying and lamenting. Hearing her music, the birds stopped flying, and the white wolves shed tears.

Once a national champion, he traveled thousands of miles to join the Cloudcrest Fortress's affair upon knowing it. Throughout his life, he made countless moves, driven by the desire to serve the ruler, the people, the kindness of his teachers and friends, and the pursuit of justice in the Martial World. He regretted not a single move.

He taught himself the Overlord Spear Technique, wandering across mountains and rivers in search of worthy foes to temper his spear. Yet while his spear brimmed with dominance, it lacked the grace of true kingship. The fiercer the battle, the more his spirit unraveled. Overlord such a name carries weight. But in all the lands, is there anyone who truly deserves it? Across all of history, how many can rightfully be called "Overlord?"

No name. No kin. No past. No one remembers him save for his long blade, a jug of bitter wine, the endless northern sky, and a few birds soaring overhead.

In this dynasty's reign, the court favors scholars and scorns the sword. All don crimson robes and hold ivory tablets yet who, then, shall guard the nation? After ten years of study, he laid down the brush and took up arms. With blood as ink and heaven and earth as his canvas, he wrote his legacy in sacrifice, leaving behind a loyal heart to shine through the centuries.

Three sons joined the army, and all of them perished. Their mother died from grief, and their father enlisted as well, never to return. The thatched roof was torn off by the winds, leaving the household abandoned along with its lost members. Moss now creeps over the tiles where the hemp rolls remain, serving as shrouds for the fallen.

This village dog was steadfast and loyal. Its master had starved to death by the roadside, but the dog still kept vigil and fasted beside the corpse till death claimed it too ten days later. Many should feel ashamed before its loyalty: an unbroken bond, or even friendship, that endures.

The term "stele" (碑) originates from "sorrow" (悲). In ancient times, wooden markers were used for burials; later, inscriptions were added to honor deeds, and people, unwilling to remove them, called them steles. From Qin and Han onwards, even the living had steles, but stone replaced wood, losing its true meaning. My stele marks a wild shrine, not for deeds or governance, but merely to lament commoners exhausting themselves for nameless idols of clay and wood! ...These idols, in form, steal our people's wine and offerings they are indeed nameless; these idols, in intellect (i.e., the officials like them), steal our sovereign's ranks and emoluments how can they be revered! Officials feast while people starve who dares call it unjust? Behold my stele and mourn the decay of this age! Lu Luwang of the past dynasty wrote Stele for a Wild Shrine, an inscription for a village temple. Steles once honored the departed for their virtues; now they flatter the wealthy, their falsehoods despicable. Beneath the prosperity lies ruin, a gilded shroud over decay. The court is ruled by sycophants who deceive the Emperor and oppress the people, treating lives as mere chaff. As the poem laments: With the riverlands drowned in war, how could commoners find peace? Speak not of titles and glory for every general's success, ten thousand bones bleach in the fields. Perhaps history will one day reveal the truth, honoring the righteous. But countless souls, like dust on a desolate road, remain forgotten. Though the bones lie unmarked, they deserve remembrance. I follow the ancients not bound by nation or rank, justice or treason to erect steles for the nameless dead. I have carved five in the stones of Mogui City. Yet fate is merciless disaster struck, the earth raged, and rocks thundered down, trapping me here. In five days, I carved three more, but now my tools are broken, my ink nearly dry, and my task unfinished. Woe! If any future traveler finds these words, I beg you carry my remaining three steles into the open. Fulfill my wish, and all the treasures upon me are yours.