Chapter 12: The Birth of Writing

Liang Yuan had not actually left; instead, he remained in place, silently observing everything. He watched as Quan Xian finally breathed his last before departing.

Liang Yuan could largely guess at the emotions that surged within Quan Xian in his final moments. Regarding his feelings toward Liang Yuan, he must have been filled with complexity—perhaps reverence, gratitude, and even a measure of jealousy and resentment. Compared to this, Liang Yuan had little to take issue with—after all, the man was gone. All things had passed.

As for the new king of the Mermen, Liang Yuan felt that perhaps Quan Xian’s son would rule better than his predecessor. The child born of the first and second Mermen to gain wisdom possessed, from birth, the greatest intelligence of their kind. The royal court he would lead would likely surpass that of his father.

Shaking his head, Liang Yuan’s figure gradually faded from the Mermen’s royal court.

Mountains, rivers, the Four Seas, and the Nine Provinces. For Liang Yuan, the Nine Provinces still mattered most. Yet he continued to keep watch over the Mermen’s court, for they were the first intelligent race, and he was keen to see how their kind would develop and what fate would ultimately await them.

Besides, the formation of the Feathered Ones would take at least a millennium, and the development of the Sacred Wood would require even more time. Across the Nine Provinces, only the Mermen’s court was worth anticipating.

At this moment, the corpse of King Quan Xian was being laid to rest. Having sensed his end long before, Quan Xian had employed over a thousand slaves years ago to build himself a tomb. Thus, he was swiftly entombed in the place he had crafted with his own hands.

Following Quan Xian’s death, the second-generation Mermen king, Quan An, often sat upon the throne deep in thought, especially when alone. Frequently, fear kept him from sleep. His fears differed entirely from his father’s.

His father wielded the power of giant sharks, capable of quelling all unrest. Quan An had nothing of the sort; he had never even met the Primordial God. This led him, time and again, to doubt whether he had been overlooked by the deity.

With this anxious mindset, Quan An spent several years, during which all remained calm—no miracles, no divine wrath. By then, his heart had slowly settled.

He began to ponder another question: how to fulfill the late king’s dying wish—how to ensure future generations knew their history?

Should he choose a Merman to memorize all events and pass them down, generation after generation? That had been his initial plan.

Until, five years later, the Merman tasked with recording their history fell gravely ill and died suddenly, without ever finding a worthy successor to whom he could entrust all he knew.

Afterwards, Quan An sought out several others, only to find that each omitted something, more or less. So he decided each should record only a part, thus avoiding the risk of forgetfulness due to the workload.

A few more years passed, and Quan An discovered that the Mermen had begun altering past events, exaggerating achievements that did not belong to them, and even inserting themselves into stories at pivotal moments.

Quan An understood then. Each Merman had a vanity of his own; upon learning that these records would be passed to their descendants, they subconsciously embellished their roles. This act was called boasting.

Since oral transmission could not reliably preserve their history, was there another way?

One day, King Quan An was walking among the coral reefs when he noticed two children huddled together, scribbling on the sand in a crooked, uncertain manner. Curious, he approached and recognized his elder brother’s children.

Ever since the former king had handed over the throne, Quan Xi had fallen into deep silence. His once lively temperament was gone, replaced by a newfound steadiness. Yet, at one hundred and fifty years of age, Quan Xi already had two children.

Quan An had heard that Quan Xi was following the old king’s path, single-mindedly trying to evolve legs so he could set foot on land. Quan An was powerless to intervene; his brother had always been determined, and nothing could deter him once his mind was made up.

Regaining his composure, Quan An bent down to look at his nephews, who were using shells as tools to draw and scribble on the sands.

Seeing this, Quan An fell into deep thought.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

The older child, mischievous as Quan Xi had once been, replied, “King, we’re drawing!”

“This is me, this is my brother, those are enemies—we’re together…” They narrated their invented story to Quan An, who found himself lost in contemplation.

Yes, if oral transmission was unreliable, why not use drawings to record everything?

Sand could not preserve records for long, but carvings could be made on walls, shells, turtle shells, or even pearls.

If their development had followed a natural course, the Mermen should have possessed written language long ago. But their progress had been forced, so even after the establishment of their court, they still had no script of their own.

If spoken language freed the Mermen from the instinctive ways of animals, then written language would usher them from primitive ignorance into civilization.

Once he understood this, Quan An became abnormally excited. His whole body trembled, as if solving the riddle left by the former king had brought him great joy.

Upon returning to the palace, he immediately issued an order: “Select skilled artisans. On both sides of the palace interior, carve thirty-six murals, beginning with the former king’s encounter with the deity!”

Once the craftsmen were selected, Quan An promptly summoned the royal clan. Though the court had entered an era of kings and ministers, most of the ministers were members of the royal family.

The reason was simple: ordinary Mermen and slave Mermen lacked the necessary intelligence; only the royal clan possessed the wit to govern affairs.

When the royal family gathered, Quan An eagerly shared his ideas. Using a shell as a medium, he sketched a simplified fish tail, then added a trident: “This represents the Mermen.”

He then drew a crown atop the symbol: “This is the king.”

The other royals widened their eyes, chattering excitedly as they began to invent symbols.

“This is a fish!”

“This is the sun, this is the moon!”

“This is me, hehehe…”

“You think you deserve a special symbol? Erase it at once!”

With great enthusiasm, the royal clan created symbols together. Quan An gazed at their collaborative work with satisfaction and declared, laughing, “Let’s call it script.”

“The script belonging to the Mermen!”