Beyond the tranquil peaks of the mountains and the golden lands of the Ming Dynasty—where rivers danced with milk and honey—lies a cursed realm to the east, a shadow upon the earth, barren and broken.
Here, the soil is a thief of souls, cold and unyielding, offering neither comfort nor life.
Smoke rises in blackened plumes, coiling like serpents to choke the once-blue sky.
The green hues of the fields are now memory, buried beneath a carpet of blood and ash.
"Don't!"
"-Never..Yield!"
"Niáng, please don't wait at the door everyday."
(traditionally means "mother" or "mom," and is often used as a term of affection or respect.)
"It-hurts, there are no slashes but it…hurts…"
Screams pierce the air and last messages echo the air, faint and dying, as steel clashes with steel and shadows fall in the wake of a strange and vengeful thunder. No storm brews above; the thunder lives here, striking from the ground, echoing across the desolation.
What remains of the land is a visit of death. Broken bodies lie scattered, their faces frozen in anguish, their stories ended before their final chapter could be written. The flames devour freely, licking at the flesh of the dead and the ruins of what once stood proud. Red rivulets spill like ink from torn scrolls, staining the earth with the final words of the fallen.
Among the ruins stumbles a lone figure, his shadow flickering in the firelight like a ghost. A scout, the last survivor of his regiment.
His breath comes in ragged bursts, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear. His legs falter beneath him, betraying the will that still clings to life. He collapses, his knees striking the blood-soaked ground, and the soil beneath him with the sound of splashes, not of water but of blood. As the silence was disturbed with the splash, the thunder noises slowly approached his direction.
As the thunder approaches. Not the wild, chaotic kind born of storms, but measured, deliberate, purposeful, seemingly coming from one thing.
The sound grows closer, a drumbeat of dread. Through blurred vision, the scout sees a figure emerge from the smog—a man, yet more than a man, draped in terror and shrouded in blood.
The conqueror.
He strides forward with the calm authority of a victor made flesh, his presence overwhelming, his form cloaked in shadow and smoke. Blood drips from his blade, and another weapon, a stick that emits smoke on his right. He looms over the fallen scout like a specter of death itself.
"As the great scholars of yours says, Fate spares the living," the conqueror says, his voice quiet but heavy, "not to grant them mercy, but to prolong their suffering. I grant this to you." The conqueror sheathed his blade on his scabbard and looked at the scout.
With a single motion, he grips the scout by the throat and lifts him from the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather. The scout's body dangles helplessly, his eyes wide with terror. The conqueror's voice lowers, sharp as a dagger pressed to the throat.
"Take this message to your emperor," he commands. "Tell him this: A thousand years of his dynasty's creation will crumble, one conqueror is what it takes to tremble. If he does not surrender, I will rise and take his throne…After All, I am that conqueror, and in thirty days, his lands will be mine."
Without another word, the conqueror releases the scout, who crumples to the ground like a broken puppet. His gasps for air are drowned by the fading echoes of thunder, many footsteps receding into the black haze. As he sees blurry silhouettes follow the fog of the conqueror.
For a moment, the scout lies still, his trembling hand clutching his side where blood pours freely from a wound that does not come from blades. But his will remains unbroken. Slowly, agonizingly, he drags himself forward, his fingers clawing at the dirt. Pain blossoms in every nerve, yet he presses on. He must. The emperor must know. The enemy has weapons that do not use scrolls nor martial arts….it is terrifying than mystics.
Time loses meaning as the scout stumbles through the wilderness, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness. The air grows cooler, the scent of pine and damp earth replacing the acrid stench of smoke and death. Ahead, the ancient trees of the forest rise like guardians, their gnarled branches forming an archway of solemn silence.
Among these trees stands the Tree of Serenity, its towering trunk like a pillar of eternity, its leaves rustling in a language older than the empire itself. The Budhi tree, sacred to the Ming Dynasty, marks the threshold between the chaos beyond and the sanctuary within. Its roots grip the soil tightly, as if to hold the land together in defiance of the storm brewing just beyond its borders.
The scout sees the tree and feels a flicker of hope, faint but persistent. He clutches one of the leaves with a special blade in his hands and immediately uses the leaf on his wounds, a faint golden green emits from the leaf and slowly cover the wound, yet he knows this is temporary
"How long am I walking? I see…two suns and one night." He murmured.
With a thought, he continued to drag his body, as he reached one of the Tree of Serenity, the sacred product of the Ming.
And beyond it lies the capital, the heart of the empire. If he can just reach the gates, if he can just speak the words...
He staggers forward, his vision swimming. Each step feels heavier than the last, his legs wooden and unresponsive. Finally, his body gives out. He collapses on the cobbled road that winds through the forest, the sacred tree casting its shadow over him like a silent sentinel....
...
.....
A merchant passes by, his cart rattling on the stones. At first, he does not notice the crumpled figure on the road, but a faint groan catches his ear. Startled, he turns and sees the bloodied man lying motionless in the dirt.
"Wèi Shù!" the merchant shouts, his voice rising in alarm. "Wèi Shù! Call the Mén Wèi from the border!"
(Wèi Shù - Guard or Garrison Troops) (Mén Wèi - Gatekeeper or Watchman)
The gates of the Ming capital stand nearby, their pristine white walls glowing in the sunlight. The guards rush forward, their armor clinking as they move. They kneel beside the scout, their faces hardening as they recognize the uniform—a Zhēnchá Bīng of the border regiment. His tunic is torn, stained with blood and soot, but the insignia remains intact.
(Zhēnchá Bīng - Reconnaissance Soldiers)
"Speak!" one Wei Shu urges, his voice tight with urgency. "What happened? What news do you bring?"
The scout's lips tremble, and his voice is little more than a whisper.
"Let the emperor... hear me," he rasps. "The border... has fallen. My comrades... all gone. Let me speak... to His Majesty."
His words trail off as his body succumbs to exhaustion, his head lolling to the side. The guards waste no time. They lift him onto a stretcher and hurry toward the palace, their expressions grim.
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....
.......
The Emperor's Council
Within the circular chamber of the council house, built of ancient bricks and lined with scrolls of wisdom and law, voices clashed like steel in battle. The air was heavy with the tension of an unresolved argument, and the chamber, though vast, felt suffocating under the weight of the elders' quarrels.
Around the central table sat men of rank and authority, the keepers of the Ming Dynasty's future. Each wore robes that denoted their station—deep greens and crimson silks, embroidered with golden thread in the shapes of a tree coated by a golden dragon. Their faces, carved by years of power and decision-making, now twisted in conflict.
"This cannot be allowed to continue!" the Minister of imperial education boomed, his voice carrying the sharpness of a sword. "We will never permit such blasphemy to infiltrate our schools. The sanctity of our traditions is at stake!"
The assistant minister nodded, his tone grim but measured. "Your Majesty, the academy stirs with discontent. The students murmur in agreement—they will not stand for this unorthodox way of learning to poison the next generation."
The room murmured with agreement, a chorus of discord that grew louder and faster until it threatened to burst.
At the center of it all stood the emperor, his presence alone a silent command for order. His robes shimmered with hues of purple and gold, the finest silks draping his form like flowing water. A jade tiara rested upon his brow, its design simple yet elegant, befitting a ruler of unmatched grace. His face was calm, but his eyes—a dark, stormy brown—betrayed his irritation at the quarrel unfolding before him.
With a single gesture, he raised a hand, and the room fell silent as if the walls themselves obeyed his will.
"We have more pressing matters to attend to than quibbling over one man," the emperor said, his voice steady and firm. "If I recall correctly, this person in question is a dear friend to one of my imperial sons. Let us not waste time chasing shadows."
The elders exchanged uneasy glances, their faces marked with disapproval. It was clear that this subject touched not only the politics of the academy but also the future of the dynasty's lineage.
Before the tension could deepen, another chancellor interjected, steering the discussion elsewhere. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice softer yet urgent, "we should turn our attention to the economy. Our trade is rising, but it remains fragile—especially with the neighboring territories in turmoil due to neighboring wars. Perhaps we should limit exports to key regions and raise our prices to strengthen our reserves."
A man across the table scoffed, his sharp eyes narrowing. "How opportunistic of you," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "If we cut ties and raise prices now, what message will that send? That we see our neighbors as mere plunderers of wealth? An income resource!? No. We must maintain our relationships. The Ming Dynasty thrives because we are neutral and balanced—let us not jeopardize that."
The chancellor then refuted back, " Chancellor Sun, how long do you think this neutrality will hold, we are just waiting for deaths from both sides! We need to cross bridges here!"
The man then glared and refuted, "We still hold the most prominence in power Chancellor Zhang, as long as neutrality holds, both sides will not aim their arrows at us, but at each other!"
"An arrow that might travel to Ming?!"
"You are choosing your own side of the bow, Chancellor!"
The emperor listened in silence, his expression unreadable. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for the scribe seated in the corner to record the discussion. The scribe, clad in simple black robes, dipped his brush into a pool of ink and began transcribing onto scrolls with swift precision.
"Enough on trade for now," the emperor said after a moment. "What of our internal affairs? What do we know of the people and their state?"
A councilor rose to speak, his voice firm but tinged with worry. "Your Majesty, the number of warriors within the academy rises steadily, but the number of scholars has diminished. The chaos in the neighboring lands has sown fear, and many are choosing the sword over the brush." he then added, looking at Chancellor Zhang, "It looks like they are quite aware of neighboring wars of Qin and Han Dynasties, and they are preparing for what will become."
Another elder added, "The people are growing restless, Your Majesty. News of conflict from the borders spreads faster than we can contain it. I believe we must prepare a stronger defense—war may soon be unavoidable. Neutrality will not protect us if the chaos spills into our lands."
Yet another voice rose in opposition. "And yet, Your Majesty, neutrality is what has made the Ming strong. We have prospered by keeping ourselves out of needless wars. Let us focus on what we know best: culture, trade, and development. The people within the middle provinces flourish because we have avoided entanglements in foreign disputes."
"How about our outer areas?" another councilor asked.
In which the other opposition sneered, "Our hands cannot cover the sky, scouts are enough to watch the developments in the outer areas. Strategic Guards are already surrounding the areas, especially where our trees grow, Tree of Serenities."
"Surely, surely, Tigers are worse than lions, they don't care about their mountains…"
"Trying to spout nonsense!"
The emperor steepled his fingers, his gaze distant as he considered the words. The sacred tree, the Budhi, was central to the empire's stability—both spiritually and economically. Its bark, leaves, and roots were sought after by many nations, providing a steady flow of wealth and reverence. But the Ming's strength also made it a tempting target.
"Your arguments are well taken," the emperor said at last. "But we must tread carefully. Our position in this region is delicate—too much force, and we risk upsetting the balance of power. Too little, and we appear weak. For now, we focus on internal stability. The Ming must remain unshaken, even as the winds howl beyond our borders."
The room nodded in agreement, especially in the side of Chancellor Sun, though not all faces were satisfied.
"Your Majesty," another councilor spoke up, "in one month's time, the crown ceremony will take place. All the nobility will gather for this great event. It will be a chance to show our strength and unity to the world. However, with chaos at our borders, we must also use this time to train and prepare our warriors to defend the land. Let the ceremony be not just a display of grandeur, but of readiness."
The emperor inclined his head, acknowledging the wisdom of the suggestion. "It will be so," he said.
But before another word could be spoken, a knock echoed through the chamber, sharp and urgent. The room fell silent, heads turning toward the great wooden budhi doors.
A Jìn Wèi Jūn stepped inside, his face pale and his armor spattered with dust from the road. He dropped to one knee before the emperor and spoke in a low, trembling voice.
(Jìn Wèi Jūn - Imperial Guard)
"Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty, but the scout has returned from the borderlands."
The elders stirred uneasily, some muttering under their breath.
The guard continued, "He is gravely wounded, but he insists on speaking to you. He carries dire news and his lighted candle is not long in this world."
The emperor stood, his movements swift but composed. "I will attend to him," he said. He motioned to the scribe. "Record everything from this session. I will return when I have heard what the scout has to say."
With that, he left the council chamber, his robes trailing behind him like the shadow of a gathering storm.
The royal clinic is a place of quiet reverence. The walls, painted in white and red, gleam softly in the light of lanterns, their colors a reflection of the empire's duality—purity and bloodshed, peace and war.
The scout lies on a silk-draped bed, his face pale, his body broken. Scholars and healers surround him, their hands moving swiftly as they attempt to staunch his wounds.
The emperor steps into the room, his presence filling the space like the stillness before a storm. He approaches the bed, his eyes fixed on the dying man. Slowly, the scout's eyes flutter open, and his lips move with effort.
"Your Majesty..." he whispers, his voice trembling. "It... is coming."
The emperor leans closer. "What is coming?" he asks, his voice steady.
The scout's hand twitches, grasping at empty air. As if something was coming out from the scouts.
An imperial guard noticed an anomaly and immediately ripped a scroll in fast hand, in the scroll was a poem written in special ink.
[His throne, our pledge to shield and save,
From threat and ruin, we are brave.]
Immediately a light glow emitted and forms a thick luster of lights that envelop the emperor.
The scouts screamed as dozens of ink marks formed in his body, and slowly his skin was pale. In his last words;
"Majesty…Thunder…Weapon…Sticks, Warning, 30 days, Conqueror…" with the key words, he slowly spit blood in his mouth.
And with that, his body falls still.
The emperor face straightens, his face looking at the scout.
"Your Majesty?" said the guard.
And the emperor finally utters a word after a long pause, "A conqueror? To the Ming?" He sighed and finally spoke, "Another one is proclaiming again…" The emperor then calmly leaves, heading back to the council hall.