Empires rose and fell, cities flourished and crumbled, yet the name of the blindfolded king lingered in whispers. Merchants spoke of him in quiet tones; soldiers invoked him when their courage wavered; scholars debated whether he had been mortal at all or something closer to myth.
The world, once tethered by fear and blood, now moved under a new rhythm. The scars of unification remained, etched in the mountains, rivers, and roads, but life had found its own way. Crops grew where famine had reigned. Children laughed where silence had settled. The Tuktan generals walked the borders and mountains, guardians of an ideal rather than subjects of a throne, enforcing balance with the impartiality of immortals freed from obligation.
And yet, the king's absence was a lesson that no empire could ignore. The people learned endurance. They learned responsibility. They learned that no ruler, no matter how mighty, could carry all burdens alone. His creed had been carved into jade, engraved in bones, whispered in temples, repeated in court, and remembered in every act of justice:
A true king never bends, never wavers, never relies on others—and always protects his people.
Legends multiplied. Some said he meditated beneath the capital, binding the fractures of the world with unseen chains. Others claimed he walked among the suffering, blindfolded, feeling the pain of all who cried injustice, healing it with presence alone. Mothers told children that when they were in trouble, a man with covered eyes might appear—not to punish, but to guide.
Meanwhile, the laws of Ethereal Lock became parable, their danger and power teaching generations not through fear, but through understanding. Warriors spoke of it as a path of endurance; mystics as a reminder of empathy; kings and emperors as the ultimate measure of leadership: to bear, to shield, and to step aside when the world could rise on its own.
History tried to capture him, to define him, but it could not. He was emperor, yet never ruled as men expected. He was sovereign, yet his throne required no crown. He was king, yet the empire learned to stand without him.
And in the quiet moments, when the stars aligned in particular patterns, a whisper would drift through the empire:
The King of the Beginning walks still.
It was not prophecy, nor warning. It was assurance. As long as suffering existed, as long as injustice breathed, the blindfolded shadow would move, unseen but present, anchoring the world in endurance, in hope, in quiet guardianship.
Time passed, generations came and went, yet the law of the beginning endured. Empires rose, fell, and were reborn. Kings were crowned and dethroned. Gods were worshiped, defied, and forgotten. But the people never forgot the lesson etched in chi, blood, and sacrifice:
Power is not domination.
Endurance is not weakness.
And a true king—
never bends.
never wavers.
never relies on others.
always protects his people.
Thus, the Beginning never truly ended. It had only shifted, becoming legend, law, and living memory. And somewhere, beyond the sight of any mortal, the King of the Beginning moved still—blindfolded, listening, enduring, and keeping the world anchored, so that it might walk unafraid into its own destiny.