The Ethereal Lock was not merely a technique. It was a covenant with the world, a living law that bound judgment, compassion, and consequence into a single, unbearable thread. Ying Zheng had forged it from the agony he absorbed, the justice he demanded, and the unflinching discipline he imposed upon himself.
He taught no one freely. Those who sought to replicate the Lock without the king's guidance fractured under its weight, their bodies twisting, their spirits splintering, until some vanished entirely from history. Power without burden was a poison, and the Ethereal Lock revealed that truth with unerring precision.
Yet there were those chosen—not for their strength alone, but for their endurance. The first champions of the Lock were forged not from ambition, but from fidelity to the creed that had guided the king since birth: protection without reliance, endurance without surrender, judgment without malice.
Among them were names that would echo through the ages:
•General Ao, Immortal of the Eastern Gate, whose momentum never faltered and whose strike carried the weight of mountains.
•General Ren, Immortal of the Northern Silence, whose presence froze armies with the mere threat of intent.
•General Cai, Immortal of the Western Flame, whose chi burned rather than cut, consuming corruption and vice.
•General Shu, Immortal of the Southern Deep, whose mastery of tides and blood alike ensured no threat could pass unmeasured.
Each champion was bound to the king by something deeper than oath or fear. Their chi flowed through him, and his through them. The more the world suffered, the greater their endurance became, yet they were never free from the cost. When one fell in battle, he felt it as the loss of a limb, the twisting of his own soul. They were loyal not to empire, nor to throne, but to the ideal of a ruler who bore all pain so that none might endure it alone.
Ying Zheng demonstrated the Ethereal Lock not through spectacle, but through necessity. Assassins, tyrants, and monsters of the world fell to him not with armies, but with a single touch of judgment. The Lock measured each soul as precisely as a jeweler measures a gem, weighing ambition, fear, guilt, and hope against the scale of eternity.
Even the gods had come to notice. Celestial envoys whispered of the mortal who had made empathy into weapon, and the divine law trembled at the audacity. Yet Zheng never wavered. He did not strike for glory, nor for vengeance. He struck because the world demanded it, and he, and he alone, could bear the cost.
The champions became extensions of the Lock, walking embodiments of the king's unflinching creed. Together, they formed the first defense of the empire—not of walls and spears, but of endurance, judgment, and the unyielding will to protect those who could not protect themselves.
And in the silence between battles, the blindfolded king would sometimes loosen the silk, letting the weight of every life pressed upon him fall into his hands. He wept—not for weakness, but for understanding. For he had learned, before any crown or title, that power is measured not by dominion, but by what one is willing to carry, silently, alone.
It was here, amidst the first champions, that the Ethereal Lock truly became a living law. Not just a technique. Not just a weapon. But a covenant between ruler and world. A reminder that even in the face of insurmountable pain, endurance—and compassion—could carve order from chaos.
And so, the king and his champions moved forward, each step a testament to the creed: a true king never bends, never wavers, never relies on others, and always protects his people. The empire, unshakable, began to learn what it meant to live under such a king—not in fear, but in quiet reverence, anchored by the unseen hand of endurance and sacrifice.