The thousandth night after unification was quiet, impossibly so. The capital slept beneath a sky untouched by lightning, untouched by war, untouched even by the faint whisper of chi. In the palace, the corridors were empty. Servants dared not linger. Courtiers whispered of the emperor, blindfolded and unyielding, walking alone into chambers no one had permission to enter.
Ying Zheng moved like a shadow, silent as the chi that hummed beneath the earth. He passed the throne room, where the echoes of a thousand judgments still lingered, and descended staircases carved into the bedrock beneath the city. Each step drew him farther from the empire he had united, farther from the immortals who had pledged their eternity to him, farther from the world he had bound together with pain and vision.
The air grew heavy, thick with the residue of centuries. He passed through chambers lined with scrolls that no mortal eye could fully read, scripts written in chi and memory. He passed the Tuktan resting in their sanctuaries, now freed from his tether yet aware of his passage, sensing the subtle pull of his presence.
Finally, he reached the deepest chamber, a room untouched by time, untouched by Heaven, untouched even by the ambition of men. Here, he paused. The ground beneath him hummed with the life of the empire—its joys, its sorrows, its victories and losses—all anchored in threads of chi that stretched into every city, every village, every mind.
He knelt. Fingers traced the cold stone. He could feel the empire breathing, shivering, waiting. And he knew then that he had done all he could do. He had endured. He had ruled. He had carried all the pain.
But to remain would bind the people forever to a king who could endure more than any mortal should. They must learn to stand. They must learn to bear the world without him.
He left a final inscription, etched into the stone with chi, his own blood mixing with the magic of his presence:
If I remain, the world will never learn to stand.
Then he rose. The blindfold was pressed tight once more. The threads of chi quivered in acknowledgment, then settled.
Ying Zheng walked into the darkness beneath the capital. The corridors stretched endlessly, leading to places no man had charted, no god had touched. He moved without sound, without trace, without farewell. Behind him, the empire remained. The Tuktan stood sentinel, no longer bound but still watching. And above, the stars held their quiet vigil.
Some say he entered eternal meditation, sustaining the empire through unending endurance, absorbing the pain of the world even now. Others say he walks unseen among cities and villages, feeling injustice wherever it rises, stepping silently to prevent suffering before it can bloom.Some say he entered eternal meditation, sustaining the empire through unending endurance, absorbing the pain of the world even now. Others say he walks unseen among cities and villages, feeling injustice wherever it rises, stepping silently to prevent suffering before it can bloom.
Children whisper of a blindfolded man, a shadow who appears when the world tilts too far toward cruelty. They say he does not speak, but they feel him. They feel a weight lifted from their hearts.
And the empire endured, anchored not in power, not in fear, not in obedience—but in the memory of a king who bore all pain so others would not have to.
The King of the Beginning had disappeared. The legend had begun.