On the back were several lines of smaller writing:
When the Baima Incident broke out, the roads were strewn with the bodies of scholars. To keep the literary tradition from dying out, disciples of the Inkbound Order fled with books in their arms. Some perished on the road, while others vanished into the wilds. Those who survived cast aside their names as lightly as weeds, willing to live on as dust.
My father lived in Dengzhou and kept a collection of books there. After his death, my elder brother carried on his will, only to die amid the chaos.
After years of hard study, I was finally admitted to the Inkbound Order. Now I return with these books to carry on my brother's wish and fulfill my father's last command.
The worn volumes remain intact, their old ink as fresh as new. So each year I offer lamps and food to the Keeper of Books, and have never once dared neglect the rite.
Within these books lie years of abundance; beneath the grain wait new shoots. Only now do I understand the words my father and brother once left me.
What is stored in these books is the labor of years. What waits beneath the grain is the new growth of generations.
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