Chapter 2: The Ministers of Destiny
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The night had been sleepless for many. The air of Great Qing was alive with strange new energy, as if the earth itself had been reborn. Even in slumber, villagers dreamed vividly of rivers of gold, skies torn by dragons, and their children standing as heroes.
But for Khan, there was no rest.
He sat within the central hall, lit only by the pale glow of spirit torches that had sprung into existence when the village rose to Level 3. Before him stood the three ministers, manifestations of fate, each bearing expressions of reverence.
"Your Majesty," said Zhao Yun, his voice like iron striking stone, "the heavens have granted us a head start. Yet, the Primordial World is merciless. Every day wasted is a day lost to stronger rivals. We must begin forging our warriors at once."
Khan nodded, fingers drumming the arm of his chair. He had long expected this truth. In a world where fate itself roared for conquest, power was not a luxury but a necessity.
Mei Ling, robed in deep green, adjusted the scrolls before her. "Before swords are raised, wisdom must guide them. The structure of our governance must be set in order. Our people must be educated in loyalty, faith, and the laws of Great Qing. Otherwise, unity will crumble at the first taste of hardship."
Her eyes gleamed as though she could already see centuries into the future, where ink and parchment guided empires more than spears and shields.
Wei Shan gave a grunt, folding his arms. His shoulders were broad as a mountain, and the smell of earth seemed to cling to him even indoors. "Laws and warriors mean little if bellies are empty. The soil of this world is richer than any I've known. If we sow it wisely, it will feed armies and trade with kingdoms. But if neglected, famine will kill us long before an enemy's blade."
The ministers' voices rang with urgency, but Khan felt no fear. Instead, a sense of clarity bloomed. These were not mere advisors—they were the pillars of his empire, the arms of his will.
He rose slowly, the Fate Dragon shimmering faintly above his head, and spoke:
"Zhao Yun, you will forge our first warriors. Not mere men with spears, but protectors bound by honor. They shall be the first scales of the dragon."
Zhao Yun struck his chest with a fist, bowing deeply. "It shall be done."
"Mei Ling," Khan continued, "you will record every decree, every law, every victory. Our people must learn pride in their name. The world will not remember us for strength alone, but for the order and wisdom we create."
Mei Ling lowered her head gracefully. "The ink of Great Qing shall not fade."
"Wei Shan," Khan said at last, "tend to the land. Make the rivers flow with grain. An empire cannot rise on hunger."
Wei Shan's grin was as wide as a plowshare. "By the next harvest, Your Majesty, you will see fields stretching like oceans."
The hall filled with a palpable aura. With ministers at his side, Khan felt the first sparks of empire ignite.
The following days were a storm of activity.
Under Zhao Yun's command, the strongest youths of the village gathered in the training yard. Spears of wood and stone were clutched in trembling hands, but under his roar, their movements grew sharp, their eyes steady. The air cracked with discipline as drills rang from dawn to dusk. The villagers soon began to whisper of the Iron Guard, the first warriors of Great Qing.
Meanwhile, Mei Ling established the Hall of Records. Children gathered, wide-eyed, as she taught them letters carved into spirit-imbued tablets. For the first time, peasants learned to write their names, to record their births, their lineage, and the decrees of their sovereign. "An ignorant man is easily broken," she told them, "but a learned man cannot be chained."
Wei Shan was no less tireless. He oversaw the plowing of new fields, the construction of granaries, and the channeling of rivers. Villagers who had once struggled to reap meager harvests now marveled at stalks of grain that grew taller than their waists. Livestock fattened swiftly, drinking from clear streams enriched with spiritual essence.
And at the center of it all, Khan walked among his people. He listened to their concerns, his presence calming fears. He was not a distant king upon a throne but a sovereign who shared their burdens.
Still, shadows lurked beyond the light.
On the third night after the Awakening, the Fate Dragon stirred uneasily. Khan was roused from sleep by its low growl reverberating through his soul. Stepping outside, he saw torches flickering along the walls—Zhao Yun's men on edge.
From the forest beyond came howls. Not the cries of wolves, but something deeper, guttural, and hateful. The trees shuddered as figures slinked between them.
"Beastmen," Zhao Yun spat, spear already in hand. "They've smelled our blessing."
Khan's eyes narrowed. The heavens had warned that the Primordial World was not only for man. The beast clans, born of fur and fang, were among their greatest rivals. These creatures would not allow humans to grow unchallenged.
As the howls grew closer, Khan raised his hand. The dragon above unfurled its wings, its light casting defiance into the darkness.
"Tonight," he said, his voice carrying across the walls, "Great Qing faces its first trial. Stand firm, for we do not fight only for ourselves—we fight for our children, and their children yet unborn! Let the world know: Great Qing does not bow!"
The villagers, who had moments ago trembled, now roared as one. Spears steadied, shields locked. The Iron Guard, though newly trained, stamped their feet in unison, shaking the very earth.
And as the first beastman burst from the trees, snarling, spear raised to kill—Zhao Yun leapt like thunder, his weapon flashing in the moonlight.
The war for survival had begun.