In the West, wisdom often walks with wings or scrolls—Hermes with his words of silver, Thoth recording truth in ink and stone.
But in the East, knowledge took the form of a beast—white as dawnlight, eyes like twin mirrors of the world. It was called Bai Ze, the Beast of Ten Thousand Names.
They say it appeared once, when the earth was still raw and the mountains bled fire. The Yellow Emperor, weary of endless war and restless spirits, wandered through the mists of Mount Dongwang, seeking counsel not from gods, but from silence itself. There, amid the swirling clouds, Bai Ze emerged.
It bowed its great horned head and spoke—not in voice, but in thought that resonated like a bell within the emperor's mind. "The world is filled with things unseen," it said. "Demons that whisper, hungers that gnaw. But each has a name, and to know that name is to hold power over it."
For nine days and nine nights, Bai Ze spoke, reciting the knowledge of all spirits—those that dwelt in shadow, in river, in heart. The emperor wrote every word, ink trembling under the weight of revelation. By the tenth dawn, Bai Ze's fur had turned translucent, and its body shimmered with the light of departing truth.
"Will I see you again?" the emperor asked.
Bai Ze smiled—a patient, knowing smile. "Only when you forget what you have learned." Then it vanished into the mist, leaving behind a single white feather.
The emperor returned to his people and shared the scrolls, teaching them the names and natures of every hidden thing. From that day on, mankind learned not just to fear the dark, but to understand it.
Yet centuries passed, and the scrolls were lost. The words faded, the names forgotten. Still, it is said that sometimes, when a scholar dreams of light in the shape of an animal, Bai Ze walks again—soft-hooved, radiant, whispering secrets the world once knew.
For knowledge, like a spirit, never dies. It only waits—to be named once more.