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Far to the north.
A young Emperor, clad in dragon robes, was riding steadily forward on horseback.
Behind him, the imperial army had just crossed out of the Kingdom of Qi’s borders.
The rebellious kings who once stirred unrest were gone and erased.
The lands behind the young Emperor had been reclaimed and redrawn, folded neatly back into the territory of Great Zhou.
His head held high, he rode through blooming spring fields, the wind at his back.
Above the rivers and mountains, streaks of golden light shimmered like threads of destiny, all converging on his figure.
From behind, he looked every bit the picture of majesty. But from the front, his face was monstrous.
His army was a ragtag collection, assembled from forces subdued along the way.
Yet despite their mismatched banners, not a single one of the tens of thousands of soldiers or their dozens of generals dared show even a flicker of disrespect.
Because they had seen the Emperor in action. They had witnessed it. And what they saw was not human. It was divine.
Just then, a scout galloped up from the front lines and dropped to one knee.
“Your Majesty,” he reported, “the borders of the Kingdom of Han are just ahead. The barbarian army has already breached the kingdom. The kings of Chu and Wei have fallen in battle. The King of Han has fled, his whereabouts unknown.”
The young Emperor fell silent.
The scout remained kneeling, frozen in place, not daring to mov...
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