Some manuscripts went even further back—mentioning the fall of Atlantis.
All of it written. All of it preserved. All of it recorded by members of his family—generation after generation, without interruption.
And none of it—not a single word—recognized or recorded in official Chinese history.
Yong Liang decided to ask his father, Yong Sheng, about the origin of the books. But his father didn’t know.
So, Yong Liang went to his grandfather, Yong Rui, hoping for answers. His grandfather told him the books had been passed down to him by his father, Yong Hao, who received them from his grandfather, Yong Jun. That was as far back as Yong Rui could recall.
The books, he said, had simply always been there—passed through the family line without question.
Yong Liang decided to bring the books before the Elders of Gahaizhen, hoping that maybe the oldest among them would know more.
But when the Elders saw the books, they were just as baffled as he had been.
They opened the fragile pages. They read the ancient texts. They held the physical proof in their own hands.
Then came the silence. Followed by stories.
The Elders began to speak of stories, tales, and folklore’s that had drifted through the generations—spoken in kitchens, shared in festivals, whispered in fields. Stories that had never been written down. Stories that didn’t exist in the official record.
They were fascinated.
But they could not help the young man. None of them had ever seen books like this before.
So, Yong Liang did what any curious man would do in this age.
He turned to social media.
He scanned a few pages. He took a few photos. He organized a post. And under a quiet headline— “What if we’re wrong about The Battle of Red Cliff?” —he uploaded his family's hidden legacy for the world to see.
Sina Weibo was punishing and unforgiving.
The first wave came like a flood.
“Bro really said ‘What if we’re wrong about 220 A.D.’ like he discovered gravity. Sit down, Confusedfucius.” Wrote 半杯奶茶的夜
深海里的阿木 wrote, “Oh wow, a dusty box in grandpa’s basement means 5,800 B.C. now? Somebody take this man’s incense away.”
User 西瓜拌饭少女 joined in, “This moron read one scroll and thinks he’s the Emperor of Time Travel. Delete your account, Yong.”
Yong Liang tried to hold his ground.
He posted photos. He showed the calligraphy, the aging of the pages, the family seal, the detailed entries. He explained how the dates didn’t line up with the official history. He explained the implications.
Weibo didn’t care. Chinese social media can be more brutal than Twitter
国潮燃爆小战士 shot back, “You out here rewriting dynasties, but can’t rewrite your love life? Go outside, find a wife, and stop bothering historians.”
“You lonely, ain’t you. Ain’t no man with a happy girlfriend arguing about river maps from 5,800 B.C. at 2 a.m.” wrote 铁拳出击老马
“北境守望98 shot at Yong, “This fool really opened a dusty lunchbox in his granddaddy's attic and thinks he unlocked Chinese Wakanda. Sit your ancestor-ass down.”
Still, Yong Liang kept posting. Day after day. The scans got clearer. The arguments got tighter. But the mobs? They got meaner.
“Bro found some moldy scroll behind the rice cooker and think he Indiana Zhang. Boy, if you don’t go fix your grandpa’s roof…” fired 硬气青年张三
“Yong read one calligraphy chicken scratch and talkin’ 'bout ‘this changes everything.’ Fam, the only thing that changed was your employment status.” Said 龙虎山下的豹
But Yong Liang kept posting but Sina Weibo kept mocking him.
And then…
It happened.