Chengdu is known throughout the Murim as the “River City,” a place where water and earth weave together to give life to all who dwell within its walls. Its story begins not with stone or mortar, but with myth and the voices of the ancients. Long before the Ming banners rose over its gates, before even the Han sent their governors westward, the land was held by the Shu Kingdom. Legends say the Shu kings were guided by a celestial ox of gold that plowed furrows into the basin’s soil, marking the place where Heaven’s energy flowed most strongly. Wherever its hooves struck, springs burst forth, creating the web of rivers and canals that still nourish Chengdu today.
The Shu king, following this omen, declared that a capital would be raised upon this basin. It was named “Chengdu” — meaning “to become capital” — a declaration of destiny. Temples were erected to honor river spirits, while farmers laid the first rice fields upon land so fertile that even exiled wanderers could find sustenance. These origins imbued the city with a sense of inevitability: it was not merely a place of men, but a city foretold by Heaven’s will.
Centuries passed, dynasties rose and fell, and still Chengdu endured. The Qin, the Han, the Tang — each left their mark. Fires ravaged its wooden halls, floods carved scars through its streets, and invaders marched against its walls. Yet after every disaster, the city was rebuilt, often grander than before. This resilience birthed a proverb among the common folk: “Break Chengdu a hundred times, and it shall rise a hundred and one.” For this reason, it came to be called the Eternal City of the West.
By the Tang Dynasty, Chengdu had grown into a center of culture. Poets, painters, and scholars flourished, calling it a city of leisure and artistry. Its tea houses echoed with verses of Du Fu and Li Bai, and its silk weaving gained renown across the empire. Yet beneath the refined veneer, the Murim roots had already taken hold. Wandering swordsmen passed through its streets, sect envoys met in shadowed courtyards, and the first whispers of hidden clans establishing footholds in the city began.
In the age of the Ming, Chengdu became more than a city of art and trade. It was recognized as a frontier bastion. With its fertile basin, sheltered geography, and flowing rivers, it became a place where soldiers, merchants, and martial artists converged. Ming officials reinforced its walls, repaired its watchtowers, and stationed garrisons, but the true balance of power was always more complex. For the Murim saw Chengdu not only as a marketplace but as a crossroads of fate.
The Beggar Sect tells stories of ancestors who carried news from Chengdu’s streets to every corner of the empire, making the city their beating heart of information. Tangmen tales whisper of assassins who once sheltered in its alleys, carrying out contracts before vanishing into the countryside. Wudang scriptures speak of their disciples pausing in Chengdu on pilgrimage, finding wisdom among scholars and challenge among its hidden fighters. Even Shaolin remembers Chengdu as a place where monks once preached compassion, quelling violence before it spread beyond the gates.
Chengdu’s origins, then, are not just of one dynasty or one people, but of many. It is a city born from legend, tempered by survival, and shaped by every hand that ever sought its wealth, wisdom, or refuge. To the common people, it is the Eternal River City, a place of rice, silk, and song. To the Murim, it is a crucible where generations of martial wanderers have crossed paths, each leaving an imprint upon its story.
The founding of Chengdu is thus more than a chapter of history. It is the seed of its enduring spirit. A city born under the guidance of Heaven, scarred but unbroken by calamity, and ever destined to rise again. Its stones remember, its rivers whisper, and its walls carry the weight of countless stories. In the Murim, there are few places where destiny feels so alive — and fewer still where the past seems to walk beside the present as it does upon Chengdu’s streets.