During the Warring States period, Zou Yan, a Yin-Yang philosopher from the state of Qi, conceived the theory of the “Five Cyclic Virtues” (五德终始论). These virtues corresponded to the Five Elements—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—and symbolized their cyclical dominance, an endless rhythm echoing the natural order.

Throughout the year, each of the Five Elements governs a season in turn: Wood prevails in spring, Fire in summer, Metal in autumn, and Water in winter.

Ancient scholars believed human activities must mirror this cosmic rhythm. Rulers had prescribed duties and prohibitions according to the dominant element of the season. During mid-spring, for example, sovereigns were expected to express benevolence, refraining from warfare. Thus, the Five Elements not only marked natural transitions but served as a compass guiding human conduct and political actions.

When Qin Shi Huang unified China, scholars from Qi presented him with Zou Yan’s Five Cyclic Virtues. Adopting this theory, he wove cosmic legitimacy into the foundations of his reign.

Each virtue aligned with a distinct color: Metal with white, Wood with green, Water with black, Fire with red, and Earth with yellow. Dynasties rose and fell following the cycles of mutual generation or conquest among these elements, each shift heralded by auspicious omens signaling the mandate of heaven’s transition. Emperors embraced these cosmic cycles, wrapping themselves in the divine mantle of “heaven’s chosen.”

The Five Elements linked the natural world intimately with human society. Rulers proclaimed themselves not merely political leaders but integral parts of a sacred cosmic order, thus imbuing their rule with unquestionable, divine authority.

Across civilizations, rulers have long invoked divine authority to justify power. Hammurabi attributed his rule to the Babylonian sun god Shamash; Egypt’s pharaohs were deemed incarnations of Ra; Chinese emperors claimed the heavenly mandate of the Five Elements; medieval European kings asserted their right as divinely bestowed by God. Whether nature gods or anthropomorphic deities, the concept of “divine right” universally legitimized rulership through spiritual resonance.

Chinese dynasties each adopted an elemental virtue, defined through cycles of mutual generation or conquest. After violent revolutions, successor dynasties often adhered to elemental conquest: Water overcoming Fire, exemplified by the Qing (Water) supplanting the Ming (Fire). Conversely, the cycle of generation saw Wood birthing Fire, as illustrated by the Song dynasty (Fire), succeeding Later Zhou (Wood), hence the poetic epithet “Fiery Song.”

Yet, to my perception, the Song dynasty exudes a strong Wood essence. It evokes elegance and refinement, thriving in Wood-associated arts such as calligraphy and literati painting. The Song era encouraged cultivating forests; tax obligations were offset by the act of planting trees. Among all dynasties, Song best embodied the free and flourishing spirit of a Wood kingdom.

Dynastic symbols chosen by emperors were intended to secure their rule and legacy. However, the true essence of an era transcends the elemental cycles. Dynastic fortunes are shaped profoundly by the deeper social currents and the emergent tides of popular sentiment—forces often independent from elemental constraints.

What, then, defines the true color of an era?

China’s history is long and winding, yet most dynasties resonate deeply with the Earth element. Rooted firmly in the expansive Central Plains, China embodies Earth’s stability, centeredness, and enduring potential. Han civilization itself is a civilization of the Yellow Earth, and no matter how rulers have tried to repaint it, the clay beneath remains unchanged, a canvas laid by geography.
Even the name “China”—with porcelain shaped from clay—reflects this fundamental tie to the earth, signifying how earthen materials have shaped Chinese character and sensibility.

During the Ming and Qing dynasties, this terrestrial civilization met the rising surge of maritime cultures. Zheng He’s fleets returned with exotic goods and ideas from Southeast Asia, South Asia, and Africa, yet their voyages were less about curiosity than imperial vanity. As the Ming dynasty tightened its maritime prohibitions, China gradually closed upon itself, returning to its self-contained, Earth-based traditions. Under Qing rule, isolation persisted, shielding China from profound global transformations.

Earth represents cultivation, internal reform, and an endless present—an existence rooted in cycles but often unmoored from visions of a future. Maritime civilizations, in contrast, speak of conquest, exchange, and restless synthesis.

China historically harnesses earth’s steadfast power. When maritime trade flourished, China anchored itself inland; when the Information Age dawned, it built digital walls instead of bridges. A distrust of flow, of motion, of the unpredictable knowledge that arises through open communication, persists even now.

Curiosity toward oceans, toward open exchange, remains a slender thread in Chinese culture today. The land itself is vast enough to absorb generations of formalism, craftsmanship both genuine and contrived, rituals tying present to ancestral shadows. Compared to the sea’s restlessness, the soil beneath one’s feet—and the rubble left when great edifices fall—feels familiar, almost comforting. Blood and tears buried under dust evoke neither shock nor rebellion, but a weary, quiet endurance.

Every era carries its own dominant hue, illuminated by interests and desires. New fields arise, vivid and seductive, capturing the dreams of the time and shaping the mainstream imagination.

Yet even as the world spins forward, many stories remain unchanged. Embedded within compulsory education and charged with nationalist fervor, these tales imprint themselves deeply into collective memory. And when confronted with the real face of culture—imperfect and affecting—those inherited tales, detached from the breath and heat of living beings, often fall silent.

Imperial stories are not our stories. But the suffering of this land—and of countless lands—is undeniably ours.

The weight of long-held beliefs shapes the identities of people across the world. And whether in China or elsewhere, the temptation to retreat into familiar tales rather than face the complex, uncomfortable truths of the present remains a powerful, deeply human instinct.