In the West, the Norse spoke of Yggdrasil, the World Tree whose roots drank from wells of fate, whose branches held the heavens. Heroes climbed it to glimpse destiny, mortals dreamed of its shade.
But across the seas, in the earliest age of China, there stood a tree not for men to climb, but for heaven and earth to meet—Jian Mu.
Its roots sank into the bones of the earth, and its crown pierced the vault of the sky. Gods walked along its trunk to counsel with the Celestial Emperor; spirits descended its branches to visit mortals. For centuries, the tree held the balance of the world. But envy and ambition are older than order.
One age, rival gods clashed for dominion of the skies. Lightning split the clouds, and their fury struck Jian Mu's trunk. The tree shuddered violently; stars fell like embers through its leaves. The heavens tilted, rivers roared beyond their banks, mountains quaked.
A mortal sage, seeking wisdom, braved the storm to reach Jian Mu. He climbed its trunk, hand against bark, heart against fear. When he reached the highest bough, he saw the heavens bleeding through the cracks. Jian Mu trembled, yet it did not collapse; it held the worlds together even as chaos raged.
The sage whispered, "Great tree, how do you bear eternity?"The wind carried no answer, only the rustle of nine thousand leaves. And in that silence, he understood: to exist between heaven and earth is to shoulder creation itself—never to rest, never to yield.
Even now, when the wind sighs through distant mountains, some say it is Jian Mu remembering its fall, longing to reunite the sky and earth once more.