Six years ago,
In the ancient temple of Tiānshèng (天聖), the Grand Monk sat upon the cold flagstones of the secluded courtyard, his saffron robes draped around him. The heavy scent of sandalwood mingled with the biting mountain air. He was immersed in the trance of a nightly prayer, seeking an end to the devastating drought that had ravaged the province for months; beside him knelt Zhì'ān (志安), the governor of the state of Yáng (陽). His face gaunt with worry for his people.
Suddenly, the mountain silence was shattered by a savage gale; a wind that bore no scent of rain, but rather the smell of ash and omen. The votive candles before them were swallowed by darkness, one after another. Terrified, the monk opened his eyes; the moon, that brilliant pearl of the night, had turned the colour of clotted blood. A panicked murmur rose from those present, but moments later, something stranger occurred. Masses of heavy, black clouds rose from the horizon with unnatural speed, veiling the moon's face like a dark shroud.
For a moment, the Grand Monk hung between fear and hope; was this the answer to their prayers, the herald of rain? Yet a colossal roar from the heavens robbed him of thought; a bolt of violet lightning, like the lash of the former Emperor Léilóng (雷龍)'s wrath, struck down and shattered one of the massive stone lanterns. The lantern crashed to the earth, and defiant sparks took hold of the ancient wooden pillars.
Shouts of 'Fire!' rent the air; monks scrambled toward the well while guards rushed through the smoke to shield the governor. In the blink of an eye, the temple hall was transformed into a blazing hell.
Zhì'ān, concealing his trembling hands within his costly robes, turned to the monk and asked in a voice cracked with dread:
"What... what is the meaning of this?"
The Grand Monk, with red flames dancing in his eyes, whispered: "His shadow still lies heavy upon this land. This is the beginning of a catastrophe."
In Wēichéng (巍城), the imperial capital. Emperor Chénggāng (承剛) reclined upon the Jade Throne; though illness had weathered his frame, the formidable majesty of a sovereign remained etched in his very posture. The tremor in his shoulders was born not of fear, but of an internal struggle between an unyielding will and a body that had begun to fail him. A deep cough fractured the silence of the hall, staining his white kerchief with a spot of dark blood, yet he gripped the marble armrests with exemplary resolve to rise. He sought still to flaunt his steadfast grandeur against the heavens; though his limbs were as heavy as lead, his gaze spoke of a king who refused to surrender to fate before the battle's end. He remained a prisoner within his own weary form, even as his empire fell into the grip of a sinister phenomenon.
In the palace's main courtyard stood Crown Prince Huìwén (惠文). A savage gale toyed with the dignity of his midnight-blue imperial robes, his long hair lashed by the wind. Unlike his father, he felt the shuddering of the empire's foundations with every fibre of his being. He knew only too well what this signified in the culture of his ancestors.
In the powerful northern state of Lán (嵐), Governor Liángwáng (良王) stood upon the veranda of his manor like a stone statue. His hands were hidden within the wide sleeves of his black robes, and his face was so cloaked in a mask of indifference that none could discern the intent behind those sharp eyes. He had not expected this event, yet not a tremor was seen in his limbs. With a shrewd gaze, Liángwáng stared not at the sky, but at the shadows dancing upon the floor; he had retreated into silence so that none might know which pieces were being moved across the board of his mind.
In the wealthy eastern state of Jīn (金), His Excellency Yìfēng (逸風) gazed at the crimson orb of the moon with a calm that reeked of danger. Amidst the roar of the gale whistling through the marble columns, his advisor crept from the shadows and reached his side. The advisor leaned in close to the Governor's ear, his voice barely a murmur against the whistling wind, delivering a message that seemed to be the missing piece of Yìfēng's puzzle. A moment of silence prevailed. Then, the furrow in Yìfēng's brow vanished, and a quiet, mysterious smile of sheer satisfaction touched his lips. He toyed with his silk sash and looked back up at the bloodied sky with a triumphant gaze.
In a small, remote town, the rhythmic strike of a hammer against glowing iron broke the night's peace. Shénwǔ (神武), the grand General of the former Emperor who now lived in obscurity as a blacksmith, straightened for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. His gaze fell outside the smithy, and seeing the red moon casting an ill-omened light upon his anvil, his hand froze in mid-air. The seasoned muscles of his shoulders tightened under the weight of memories. He looked from the sky down to the red-hot iron upon the anvil; it was as if the legacy of his uncle—who had united these four lands with blood and iron—had become thirsty for blood once more.