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\title{Fluctuations · The Black Tide}
\author{New Millennial Wayfarer}
\date{}
\begin{document}
\maketitle
\begin{center}\small\textit{Translated by GPT}\end{center}
Heaven was about to perish.

The thought came to Black Two-Three out of nowhere. Or perhaps it had long been buried in him, frozen beneath thick ice. Days of endless marching had finally scuffed away the glacier under his feet, layer by layer, bringing that terrible thought ever more plainly into view.

And I will die soon, too. Yes. One after another, his fellow travelers had dropped dead along the way. Getting this far was an achievement in itself. Black Two-Three's lower limbs were stiffening; more and more cracks split his frozen body, their edges growing hard. At least there was no night in this world. Somehow one could keep going. Only the Sun was growing stingier, its grudging gifts of light ever weaker. Yes, the Sun. What else did it mean for Heaven to perish? It was the Sun's weakness that let the black tide advance from the world's rim toward its center, that had made Gray Two-Three into Black Two-Three, that had driven them out to the edge of the world and straight into the oncoming tide.

O Sun, can you fall ill, too? Black Two-Three could not blame it. It was sacred, and so very far away. Besides, who under Heaven did not depend on the Sun for life? Before the black tide, it had poured forth light and heat without stint, sustaining all the people of the world. Now it was sick. Surely its weakness was understandable. In its place, he would not share his precious warmth when the black tide came either. He could blame only his birth among the Grays, and his descent now into the lowest rank of all, the Blacks. Jade, White, Silver, Turbid, Gray, Black: these were not merely the colors of their bodies. They were their distances from the Sun. The order of rites and laws laid down by the ancient sages embraced everyone, each rank neatly in its place. From the center of the world to its outermost edge, every color had its proper station. The rites governed all beneath Heaven, unchanging through the ages, as eternal as the Sun suspended at the center of the sky.

And now it had all gone wrong. Those of Jade and White rank lived at the center of the world, nearest the Sun. Their lands were fixed by strict allotment, exactly as the sages' rites prescribed. The foremost of the Jade was foremost of all the people, and made the sacrifices to Heaven and Sun: the Son of Heaven. In reverence for the heavenly Sun, the Jade took none of what it gave, reflecting it all back as homage to Heaven. Thus they were the purest and most translucent; everything they needed was supplied by those below. Those of White and Silver rank held their own fiefs around the center. They took only a sliver of the Sun's gift and sheltered the subjects beneath them---who, of course, owed taxes and service in return. The Turbid and Gray occupied the vast middle and outer rings. Here the Sun no longer stood directly overhead, and the farther one traveled toward the rim, the less it gave. Its divine favor could therefore be received directly. These were the world's most hardworking, uncomplaining commoners, receiving ever less while still giving much. Those of Black rank scarcely counted as people at all. They lived at the edge of the world, where the Sun hung low and light was scarce. Every one of them wished to clutch all the light and heat there was, letting nothing escape. That was precisely why Blackness meant greed and filth. They knew nothing of honoring Heaven and Sun; they were creatures outside the civilizing reach of the rites. Black Two-Three's mind grew hazier. He could recall only these increasingly indistinct pieces of common knowledge. When had he learned them? A long time ago, surely, when Black Two-Three was still Gray Two-Three. Gray Two-Three had an ordinary background and did ordinary work, cultivating and harvesting light and heat. The Turbid official in charge of his district had been quite capable. Taxes and labor dues were paid in full, and the work of moral instruction went well enough. That was when Gray Two-Three had first learned of a world beyond the harvest. Had things gone on that way, perhaps he might even have passed the examinations and won a degree, changing from Gray Two-Three to Turbid Ershan. Black Two-Three struggled to remember, but those distant memories were slowly freezing, wearing away in the cold.

Then the black tide came. The Sun weakened, the harvest slowly diminished, but the taxes stayed the same, and the burden on the Gray people grew. One could still get by. But it was only the beginning. Some said the black tide came because the heavenly Sun was displeased: give it offerings, and it would make the tide recede. The Jade and White nobility took nothing from the Sun and were to return twice as much in homage. Naturally, the offerings would have to come from taxes on those below. Others went further. The heavenly Sun was displeased because monstrous men at court were overturning the laws and making trouble, turning Heaven's order upside down. Purge the traitors, restore the proper order, and the tide would go away of its own accord. Still others said the taxes had risen because of distant rebellions. In the far outer ring, Turbid and Gray people had risen together and willingly sunk to Black rank. The armies of Silver and Turbid soldiers naturally needed extra light and heat for the long march to suppress them. That meant more taxes. Gray Two-Three paid no attention to these rumors. His own life could still go on.

The neighbors could not bear the burden. Household by household, they disappeared. Gray Two-Three knew they had turned Black and fled toward the frontier to escape the famine. But with the black tide coming, would it not grow colder and darker the farther they went? They were only seeking their own deaths. Naturally, those who stayed had to pay the taxes of those who fled. Refugees were pouring outward from the inner rings, many of them Turbids reduced to Gray. But people who had lost their roots could no longer pay taxes; they would simply flee again. The demands on the law-abiding local people grew harsher still.

The rites broke down. Disorder spread across the world. Each brief spell of peace vanished in an instant. First came rumors of refugees rebelling nearby, then news that the army of pacification was approaching. Ahead of the army came orders to levy supplies. The fragile arrangement that had barely kept life going shattered at last. The Turbid official abandoned the district and disappeared, and its people were declared accomplices of the rebels. Black Two-Three joined the great stream of refugees, swept along toward the black tide. He could never go back. He was good at enduring things; years of oppression had numbed him. Yet leaving his homeland like this stirred something in him after all. The little surge of feeling soon subsided, as still as the wasteland over which the black tide had passed.

Black Two-Three found he could barely keep pace with those around him. Was he finally going to die? He knew what would happen next. Like the others who had fallen along the way, he would gradually solidify in the cold, a black, frozen statue. Never allowed to rest in life, he might endure forever in death. Then let him die. Black Two-Three's awareness slowly sank beneath the black tide. Cold and darkness without end washed over him.

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