Four centuries had passed since the great Immortal Gate of Caepia's capital crumbled under the weight of war and betrayal.
In that time, countless empires had risen and fallen like sandcastles before a tidal wave. Heroes were born and vanished without song or monument. Tyrants once ruled vast skies, only to be devoured by time and forgotten.
Brutes, Marcus, Azeri—names once carved deep into the annals of history—now linger only in moss-covered stone statues, in sorrowful lullabies whispered by mothers in the dark, in ink-stained pages of schoolchildren's notebooks, or in tragic plays performed every festival season in the town square.
Year 1700 of the Shangyang Calendar.
That night, in the Imperial Sacred Palace of the Kingdom of Yi, the heavens raged with a storm. Thunder boomed like the war drums of the netherworld. The wind howled through the golden-inlaid corridors of the Trần household, sounding like wailing ghosts lost in the long night.
Inside a lavish chamber aglow with dozens of enchanted lanterns, flickering blue-white light cast shadows like phantom fire. Upon a bed draped in violet silk embroidered with gold thread, a woman writhed in the agony of childbirth. Sweat streamed down her brow, soaking her brocade robe. Her delicate hands clutched the mattress, knuckles white with strain.
"AAAH!" Her cry tore through the storm — the scream of a soul caught between life and death.
An elderly midwife, eyes sharp as blades beneath silver hair, barked orders with unwavering focus:
"Breathe, milady! The baby is almost here! Do not stop — just a bit more!"
Trembling maids surrounded her. Some wiped sweat, others prepared warm water, one held a long silk cloth, hands quivering but determined to stay steady.
Beyond the door, in the fury of the storm, a man in a crimson cloak paced restlessly. His long, deep-red hair whipped with every savage gust. Lightning flared, illuminating a face etched with tension — clenched jaw, eyes burning with fear no battlefield had ever drawn from him.
He was Trần Uy — a renowned general who once crushed southern rebels in the Battle of Wine River. But tonight, no enemy was more fearsome than death lurking behind that wooden door — where his beloved wife cried out in agony.
Then came a scream so piercing it shattered the storm:
"AAAAAAAH!"
Silence followed.
Trần Uy froze. His heart clenched. The world vanished. All he saw was that door — and the hope it might soon open.
Then, a sound broke the stillness — a baby's cry. High-pitched, fierce, yet delicate — announcing its arrival into a world ruled by chaos.
The door swung open. The midwife emerged, arms cradling a newborn swathed in blood-streaked ivory silk.
"My lord... it is a boy." Her voice trembled — from exhaustion or emotion, no one could tell.
Trần Uy took the child in arms accustomed to sword and shield — but now trembling in awe. A father for the first time, he gazed upon his son, eyes shining. That tiny, innocent face stirred something deep within — a flame of joy, pride, and love. A new heir. A living legacy. A spark of hope for generations to come.
His son. Born of love, pain, and months of yearning.
"My son..." he whispered, voice hoarse.
But joy was fleeting. His gaze darted around.
"And... the Lady?"
"She is unconscious... but alive. Her strength is spent, but her life is not in danger," a maid replied, relieved.
At once, he handed the baby back to the midwife and stormed inside.
On the embroidered bed lay his wife, pale and still. Her lips dry, yet her chest rose with shallow breaths — she had survived. He knelt beside her, shoulders finally slackening, heart adrift in the quiet after the storm.
He turned to the maids, his voice low:
"You've done well. Rest now. If we need anything, I will call."
"Thank you, my lord," they said in unison, then bowed and left quietly.
The chamber fell still — just the couple, and the soft drizzle outside, whispering like the voice of fate.
Night ebbed.
When the first light of dawn crept through the window and the rooster crowed in the distance, Trần Uy stirred from his daze. He ran to the well, splashed cold water on his face, and rushed back upstairs.
Inside, he saw his wife's eyes flutter open — weak, but filled with warmth.
"My love... where is our child?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"The midwife is tending him. He'll be brought shortly. But you — are you still in pain?" he knelt beside her, gently scanning every trace of exhaustion on her fragile frame.
"I am alive... and that is enough," she smiled faintly, trying to mask her weariness.
He stood after a quiet moment.
"Wait for me. I'll bring you some congee."
She gave a slow nod. He dashed downstairs, where servants were preparing breakfast — the fearsome general now a frantic husband.
Within minutes, he returned with steaming chicken and lotus seed congee. Carefully, he helped her sit up, cooled each spoonful, and fed her with a tenderness that no battlefield could forge.
As she finished, the midwife reappeared, cradling the now-sleeping infant.
"My lord, my lady... the young master is resting peacefully."
"Lay him in the cradle," Trần Uy said, his tone gentler now.
When the door closed behind her, the wife exhaled:
"He's real... our child…"
Trần Uy looked at the infant, his eyes softening.
"It's time... to give him a name — one that will carry all our hopes, dreams, and blessings. And I want you to choose it."
She smiled:
"Let him bear your family name — Trần. And I shall name him Sĩ, so that he may grow wise, strong in both mind and blade."
"Trần Sĩ..." Trần Uy repeated, a strange, powerful feeling swelling in his chest. "A name worthy of a century."
From that moment on, Trần Sĩ took his first breath in the world of Caepium, bearing the burning hope of two souls amidst a world ever shifting with the tides of history.
But will that light be strong enough to lead him through the dangers and shadows lying ahead?
Only time will answer that question.
But for now, let this family bask in their fleeting moment of joy.