The year was nearing its twilight, and yet the heavens burned as though the world itself had been cast into a furnace. Across the wide expanse of northern plains, the sky was stained a deep crimson, neither of dawn nor of dusk, but of something far more ominous an omen whispered in hushed tones by the old and feared by the young.
Villagers looked upward with trembling voices. Mothers clutched their children. Farmers dropped their tools to cross themselves with ancient charms, warding off misfortune. For in the lore of Han, when the heavens turned red, it foretold not mere storm or fire, but the birth of warriors whose fate would be bound to blood and steel.
That very night, in the quiet hamlet of Changshan, a child drew his first breath.
Inside a humble dwelling of clay and timber, a woman labored under the flickering light of an oil lamp. Her cries of pain mixed with the chanting of midwives, their voices rising against the howling wind that lashed against the shutters. Outside, a tempest swirled, carrying the red hue of the heavens into the very walls of the house.
The child emerged as thunder cracked. His first cry echoed like the call of a dragon roused from slumber. Those present felt the air thicken, as though unseen eyes from the heavens had turned upon them.
The midwife gasped and nearly dropped the newborn. Upon the child's chest, over his beating heart, was a mark an intricate birthmark shaped like a coiled dragon. Its faint crimson glow shimmered in rhythm with the storm outside.
"A dragon's son…" the elder midwife whispered, her wrinkled hands trembling. "This child carries the fate of kingdoms."
The mother, pale but smiling through tears, held her son close. "Zhao… Zilong," she murmured, giving him the name that would one day echo through the annals of history.
The Omen Spreads
By morning, the storm had passed, but the crimson sky lingered for three full days. Word spread quickly from Changshan to the neighboring towns. Travellers carried the tale: a boy born under the crimson sky, marked with the dragon's seal.
Daoists spoke of prophecies, recalling ancient scrolls that foretold of a warrior who would rise when the Han fractured. Astrologers consulted the stars, their brows furrowing in dread and awe. Even wandering monks paused in their journeys to bow toward Changshan.
But not all whispers were of reverence. Some muttered of curses that such a child was born to bring calamity, to stir wars that would drown the land in fire. For the empire was already faltering. Eunuchs corrupted the court, warlords sharpened their swords, and the Mandate of Heaven trembled like a candle in the wind.
Childhood of the Dragon
Zhao Zilong's early years were marked by both wonder and unease.
From the moment he could walk, he displayed a spirit unlike other children. Where others feared the dark, he walked into it with steady steps. Where others wept at storms, he laughed and reached for the sky. His father, a farmer of modest means, often found the boy gazing at the mountains, his small hands gripping a wooden stick as if it were a spear.
At the age of five, he was already unmatched in games of mock battle among the village youth. His movements were fluid, his strikes precise, as though instinct guided him where training had not.
But it was not only his strength that set him apart. There was a kindness in his heart, rare among those destined for bloodshed. He would share food with hungry neighbors, defend the weak from bullies, and show reverence to the elders with a solemn grace that belied his years.
Yet even in kindness, his destiny whispered. One evening, as he returned from helping an old shepherd, he looked up to see the crimson sky once more though no other saw it. To his eyes, the heavens burned as they had on the night of his birth. And from the heart of that red sky, he thought he heard a voice.
"Child of the dragon, steel shall be your cradle, and battle your path. But guard well your heart, for it is in mercy that true strength lies."
Terrified, yet unable to speak of it, Zhao Zilong held the vision close, never forgetting the weight of those words.
The Master of Blades
When he reached the age of twelve, fortune or fate delivered him into the care of Master Tong, a wandering warrior who had once served as a general before retreating from the world. The old man, hearing of the dragon marked child, came to Changshan to see for himself.
Zhao Zilong bowed deeply to the stranger, sensing in him a greatness hidden beneath his humble attire.
"Boy," said Master Tong, studying him with piercing eyes, "they say you were born beneath a crimson sky, with a dragon coiled upon your breast. Tell me do you believe yourself destined for glory?"
Zilong met his gaze without flinching. "I know not of destiny, honored master. But I know I must wield my strength not for myself, but for those who cannot."
The old man's laughter rang like a gong. "Then you are worthy. Come let me forge your body into steel, and your heart into jade."
Thus began years of rigorous training. From dawn until dusk, Zhao Zilong learned the art of the spear, the sword, and the bow. He mastered horseback riding, archery at full gallop, and the discipline of breathing to steady his strikes. Master Tong taught him not only war, but the philosophy of balance that a warrior who sought glory alone would perish, but one who fought for righteousness would endure.
The boy grew into a young man of striking presence. His frame tall and lithe, his eyes sharp as blades, and his bearing noble though he wore simple robes. Villagers began to look upon him with reverence, whispering that he was no longer merely Zhao's son, but the Dragon Reborn.
Shadows of War
But destiny is never content with peace.
The empire trembled. News reached even the secluded valleys of Changshan the Yellow Turban Rebellion had risen, their numbers vast as locusts, threatening to tear apart the Han. Warlords gathered armies, their banners rising like storm clouds on the horizon.
Zhao Zilong, though still young, felt the pull of fate. The dragon mark upon his chest often burned at night, as though urging him toward the path of battle.
One evening, as he sparred with Master Tong beneath the blood red setting sun, he spoke at last: "Master, the world cries out. Can I remain here, hidden, while the innocent suffer?"
The old warrior lowered his blade, his weathered face heavy with sorrow and pride. "You cannot. For the dragon within you will never allow it. Go, Zilong. The time has come to test your heart against the world."
And so, beneath a crimson sky once more, Zhao Zilong took up his spear. With the blessings of his master and the prayers of his village, he set forth toward chaos, toward legend, toward the destiny written upon his very skin.
The road to destiny is never paved with silk, but with thorns and blood. Zhao Zilong left Changshan with nothing but his spear, a satchel of dried food, and the teachings of Master Tong echoing in his heart. The wind carried him forward, whispering across the mountains and valleys as though guiding his steps.
Yet even the heavens seemed unsettled. Each night, the stars shifted in strange patterns, constellations bending as though watching the lone traveler. And always, when the moon was veiled by clouds, the dragon mark upon his chest would pulse faintly, glowing like a coal beneath the skin.
The First Encounter
It was not long before the chaos of the empire revealed itself.
On the third week of his journey, Zhao Zilong came upon a village reduced to ash. Smoke still curled from smoldering rooftops, and the stench of blood lingered in the air. Scattered bodies lay among the ruins peasants cut down where they had fled.
At the center of the carnage, a band of Yellow Turban rebels laughed as they looted what little remained, their yellow scarves marked with dirt and blood. Among them, women and children cried, dragged in chains like cattle.
Zilong's hand tightened upon his spear. His master's words echoed: A warrior who fights for glory dies hollow. A warrior who fights for righteousness endures.
He did not hesitate.
From the ridge, he descended like a storm. His voice rang out like a battle gong."Release them, or face the wrath of heaven!"
The rebels turned, mocking laughter on their lips until they saw the figure before them. A young man in plain robes, yet his stance radiated command, and his spear gleamed as though it drank the sunlight itself.
They attacked with savage roars.
But Zhao Zilong moved like water, fluid and unyielding. His spear swept in arcs of steel, each thrust precise, each strike fatal. He disarmed the first with a flick, sent the second crashing with the butt of his weapon, and pierced the chest of the third with unerring accuracy.
In mere moments, the band was broken. The survivors fled, screaming of a demon in human form.
The captives fell to their knees, weeping in gratitude. But Zilong lifted them gently to their feet."Do not kneel to me," he said, his voice steady. "Kneel only to justice."
Yet even as he spoke, he felt the dragon mark upon his chest burn fiercely. And in the distance, the crimson hue of the sky flickered once more though none but he seemed to notice.
The Burden of Fame
Word of his deed spread as swiftly as fire on dry grass. By the time Zhao Zilong reached the city of Ye, whispers of the dragon-born warrior with the silver spear had already taken root.
Officials eyed him with interest. Warlords sent emissaries with promises of gold and command. Even common folk bowed as he passed, calling him Zhao the Protector.
But fame weighed upon him like armor in the sun. He had not left Changshan to seek renown, but to follow the path of righteousness. And yet, every step he took seemed to draw him deeper into the web of politics and war.
Meeting the Lords
It was in Ye that Zhao Zilong first encountered two men whose fates would intertwine with his own: Gongsun Zan, the White Horse General, and Liu Bei, the wandering noble of Han descent.
Gongsun Zan, fierce and ambitious, looked upon Zilong with approval."You have the strength of ten men and the heart of a hundred," he declared. "Serve me, and I shall raise you high among my ranks."
Liu Bei, by contrast, spoke with gentleness. He offered no riches, no titles only a vision."The empire is crumbling, good sir. The people suffer under corruption and war. I seek not power, but to restore peace under Heaven. Will you aid me in this cause?"
Zilong bowed respectfully to both, but his heart stirred only at Liu Bei's words. For in them, he heard the echo of his master's teachings the true path of righteousness.
The Trial of Blood
Before he could choose, fate once more tested him.
One night, the city of Ye came under sudden assault. Rebel forces swarmed the outer gates, their torches turning the night into a sea of fire. Panic spread through the streets as steel clashed and arrows rained from the walls.
Zhao Zilong did not wait for orders. Mounted on a white stallion, spear in hand, he rode forth to meet the tide.
The battlefield was chaos. Rebels surged like waves, overwhelming defenders with sheer numbers. Amid the din, Zilong shone like a beacon. His spear danced, cutting through the horde with elegance and fury. He became a dragon incarnate, each thrust splitting through shield and armor, each sweep felling three men at once.
But destiny demanded more than valor.
Near the southern gate, a group of rebels had broken through, threatening the civilians fleeing within. Among them was a young boy, no older than seven, frozen in terror as a blade arced toward him.
Without thought, Zilong spurred his horse forward. His spear flashed, striking the rebel down. He lifted the child into his arms, shielding him as arrows rained. Through fire and blood, he carried the boy back to safety, his white horse streaked with crimson.
The sight burned itself into the eyes of all who witnessed it. From that day forth, the people of Ye would speak of him not merely as a warrior, but as a guardian one who bore the burdens of the helpless upon his own shoulders.
The Crimson Vision
After the battle, exhausted and wounded, Zhao Zilong looked to the heavens. The night was clear, yet once again he alone saw the sky burn red.
In the sea of crimson, the dragon of his birthmark appeared, coiling among the stars. Its eyes blazed with fire as it spoke within his heart:
"Child of the dragon… your spear shall carve a path through rivers of blood. Kingdoms will rise and fall upon your shadow. But remember: the fate of the empire does not rest in steel alone, but in the mercy of the heart that wields it."
The vision faded, leaving Zilong trembling. He fell to one knee, clutching his chest, where the mark still pulsed with faint light.
Was this his destiny to bring salvation, or to unleash ruin?
The Choice
The next day, emissaries from both Gongsun Zan and Liu Bei came to his quarters.
"General Gongsun offers command of a hundred riders," said one."Lord Liu Bei offers only his brotherhood," said the other.
Zhao Zilong stood silent, his gaze fixed upon the horizon where the crimson sky had lingered. His path was clouded, yet his heart knew the truth.
He turned to the emissaries and spoke with calm resolve:"Tell your lords this: I will follow the man whose cause is just, not the one whose purse is full. The dragon's path is not of greed, but of righteousness."
The emissary of Liu Bei bowed deeply, understanding.
And thus, the first step of Zhao Zilong's true destiny was set. The crimson sky that had heralded his birth now blazed once more within his soul, guiding him toward the path where his name would be etched forever in history.
Closing Lines of Chapter 1
Far across the empire, storms of war gathered. Heroes rose like stars, and warlords sharpened their blades. Yet in the humble heart of Changshan's son, beneath the seal of the dragon, burned a fire that would not be extinguished.
The crimson sky had chosen him.
And so began the tale of Zhao Zilong—the Son of the Dragon.