Six years ago
In the ancient temple of Tiānshèng (天聖), the Grand Monk sat on the cold stone floor of the quiet courtyard, wrapped in his saffron robes. He was lost in his nightly prayer, hoping to end the terrible drought that had ruined the province for months. Beside him knelt Zhì'ān (志安), the governor of Yáng (陽). His face looked thin and gaunt from worrying about his people.
Suddenly, the mountain silence was shattered by a savage gale. The votive candles before them were swallowed by darkness, one after another. Terrified, the monk opened his eyes; the moon, that brilliant pearl of the night, had turned the colour of clotted blood. A panicked murmur rose from those present, but moments later, something stranger occurred. Masses of heavy, black clouds rose from the horizon with unnatural speed, and covered the moon's face.
For a moment, the Grand Monk hung between fear and hope; was this the answer to their prayers, the herald of rain?
Yet a colossal roar from the heavens robbed him of thought; a bolt of violet lightning, like the lash of Léilóng (雷龍)'s wrath, struck down and shattered one of the massive stone lanterns. The lantern fell and broke, and sparks quickly set the old wooden pillars on fire.
Shouts of 'Fire!' rent the air; monks scrambled toward the well while guards rushed through the smoke to shield the governor. In the blink of an eye, the temple hall was transformed into a blazing hell.
Zhì'ān, concealing his trembling hands within his costly robes, turned to the monk and asked with a trembling voice:
"What is the meaning of this?"
The Grand Monk, with red flames dancing in his eyes, whispered:
"Something terrible is coming, but... I know not what it is!"
Hold on a moment!
It's me… Can you just let me have a word with you?
I have to start this dark story myself; it's like a seven-headed dragon that I know, in the end, will devour even me.
That empire... you know it better than I ever could. Writing about it has broken my heart more times than I can count and filled my eyes with tears.
My darling, I'm writing this only for you. I have no doubt you'll be reading it, because there is something between us—and you know it well. It's as if we are one soul in two bodies. In a way, this is the blunt confession of that pure love of mine, even if you still insist on calling it ruinous.
The Empire of Lóngshén (龍神) was born from the union of four great peoples:
the powerful Northern State of Lán (嵐), sheltered among unyielding mountains and bone-biting cold; a land that forged men of steel and raised fearless warriors in its embrace.
The magnificent, Eastern State of Jīn (金), a dreamland for merchants, with vibrant markets where any rare commodity could be found, from the distant islands of Japan to the heart of the Persian realms.
And finally, the warm and secluded southern State of Yáng, where its people, blessed by a generous climate, passed their days in farming, herding, and the tending of gardens.
These three realms encircled the central State of Guǎng (廣); the political sovereign and the beating heart of the Empire.
"But from that night forth, what manner of fate was to unfold?"
Well...
At that very moment, far from the clamour of power, in a small town, the sound of a hammer hitting hot iron broke the silence of the night.
Shénwǔ (神武), the High General of the previous Emperor, who was now working as a blacksmith, stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His gaze shifted outside the forge; and when he saw the red moon casting a bad omen on his anvil, his hand froze in mid-air.
The strong muscles of his shoulders tightened under the heavy weight of memory. He looked away from the sky and stared at the glowing iron on the anvil... as if his uncle's legacy was thirsty for blood again.