The Chinese people never waited for saviors. Kuafu, a giant, saw drought devouring his tribe’s crops. He chased after the sun, through deserts and rivers, until his dying breath became the wind and his body became the forests that still shade us. Jingwei, a drowned princess reborn as a lone bird, grabs a pebble each dawn and hurls it into the Sea, vowing to bury the waves that swallowed her. The ocean laughs, but she returns every sunrise. Dayu confronted the fury of the Yellow River as it ravaged his homeland. He did not kneel in prayer; instead, he waded waist-deep in silt for thirteen relentless years, cutting channels with bare hands until the flood submitted and the nation stood. In the ancient Chinese myths, almost no saviors descends from heaven, no divine decree promises salvation. Only mortals who refused to surrender, only ordinary people who fight relentlessly for their own destiny. Empires may whisper prophecies of doomsday, but Chinese people believes in building futures ourselves. The suns we chase, the seas we fill, the floods we tame, are the only gospels worthy of our faith.