A story spread across the Great Chu—a story spread by tongue and page, delivered to all of the age. The words therein spoke of a victor, a conqueror, a fearless leader of the young and old whose name rung bold. He travelled the lands and sea, spurred forth by heaven’s guarantee, to bring the glory of their empire to another land’s history.
The tale, of course, spoke of the emperor.
With heaven’s winds guiding them and the emperor presiding them, an army divine soared to lands not yet explored. Awaiting these soldiers were this lands’ present holders—elves and men, gods and their followers, standing head and shoulders taller. Clash their armies did, thrash they tried… and out of their crowd, the barbarian king stepped proud. With hair as black as the abyss, he stepped forth to resist.
The emperor presiding advanced forth gliding, and the skies shone with lightning and fire as the war kept tightening under the weight of man’s ire. The barbarian king’s black blood stained the snowy soil, dripping and gleaming like oil. Yet just as he bled, the emperor himself spilt red. Two masters at their summit, one fated to plummet.
Yet in the end, who before has ever dashed the hopes and dreams of the empire supreme?
As the barbarian king inflicted a blow most sound, the son of heaven delivered an attack profound. The king crumpled, downed… yet as he lay dying, his gray eyes defying, the emperor merely stood above sighing.
“What a waste,” said the emperor, “A warrior of your stature I must fracture. Tell me, great king, why you resist me, when you might assist me?”
“I resist,” said the king loudly as he died there proudly, “So that the sun persists to grace my people, that we might one day rise an eagle.”
“The sun, you say,” mused the emperor as he gazed upon this icy bay. “But as the suns move, so does the moon prove that light does not always exist. As surely as light comes, so too does it flee. We must strive to thrive when light deigns not dive. While we wait for light to revive, we must survive. Your light is dimming, noble king, yet your tale may be just beginning. I have no need for this land of endless cold, for it is a place that cannot be controlled. Will you and yours embrace the moon and become my boon?”
And though the king had bled, he’d not yet lost his head. He assented, and his people relented, contented. To honor the king’s spirit and talent inherent, the emperor bestowed a name: Sun, that the king might be the light he so wished for his people. The king rose again with the strength of ten men, abandoning title and lands not idyll to follow the son of heaven. Even in lands unknown, those with sense recognize heaven’s own.
Who but the emperor could inspire such loyalty that even royalty follow him joyfully?
Elves, men, gods and their followers, swore their fealty—every man, every deity. They promised him loyalty, and he promised them realty. Indeed—to a people that roam, what better promise than house and home? A quaint deal, perhaps, yet quite a steal. Back the son of heaven sailed with a greater reward than had been detailed. What use is land without the man?
Yet when heaven’s own arrived back ashore, things were dissimilar from before. Those he had brought home were loyal and true, yet back home ambitions ignited anew. The imperial court, relishing in luxury, well unused to drudgery, mistook their mere presence for heaven’s guidance of the Great Chu.
“What use have we for the emperor,” they sneered, “When he fancies himself an adventurer? We are the empire’s operators, its moderators; what right has a brute of ill repute to enjoy the fruit of our pursuit?”
Even as heaven’s son landed, the imperial court commanded. “Fire upon him,” they insisted. “The emperor is dead, his body desisted. Should you see him, he is a pawn, his mind gone and soul withdrawn. Elves storm our shores, far different from ourselves. Kill them in twelves, fortify in delves, and ensure none pass our grass.”
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The people, blinded, struck out misguided. A plight awaited heaven’s son, for a fight would kill heaven’s faithful one-by-one. And so, by response, a great fortress arose, built by Grand Commandant Sun to oppose. This site? Sun’s Dawn.
The emperor, baffled, stop atop his fort’s scaffold. From it, he called out to all the devout throughout the opposing redoubt. “Why do you fight, good men? Am I not beyond your ken?”
Yet the court and its wiles had plans for any trials. Abandoning heaven’s own son, they sought an empire redone; themselves at the top, their reign never to stop. They abandoned their master, walking headlong toward disaster. To whom did they turn in wake of their spurn? Gods of great concern, who sought to see all lands burn.
So did these gods descend upon good men, blinding and grinding as their winding binding was finding its purchase across the whole surface of the empire set fire. But the emperor’s new servants, disgusted by this observance, were eager deterrents of the court’s ignorant servants. They rose up to be counted, demonstrating Sun must be accounted, as the emperor toiled to avoid making his home despoiled.
Three times heaven’s son called for peace, three times he offered mercy. Yet three times he was refused, three times called unworthy. Heaven was watching as this court kept botching, and through the evil gods’ darkness pierced the emperor’s sharpness. Eight commanders he entreated, yet four of these men fell cheated. Through their sacrifice, the emperor’s message reached his acolytes.
Rise up, people of the Great Chu!
Rise up and greet the dawning Sun!
Rise up, tired and weary souls, to mend the countless holes! There is respite in the light, and there is safety in its might!
Glory to the son of heaven!
Glory to the Sun of heaven!
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Argrave kneeled beside Ji Meng as he greeted the loudest crowd Argrave had heard. They stood in the long, winding hills of the Great Chu’s southern coast, yet instead of residing within the Sea Dragon along the coast, they stood in the heart of the fortifications carved from the earth. And rather than enemies, each and all arrayed before them were exuberant allies.
Ji Meng had small few opportunities to say anything at all as the innumerable voices expressed enthusiastic praise. It was like a prophet come to walk among them, offering salvation in their darkest hour. As he looked upon Ji Meng, he wondered how a man could grow so utterly loved, could garner such rabid loyalty.
But then, perhaps Argrave understood it well. He had received such praise before after doing battle with the tribes of Vysenn. This was a man whose lifetime had been spent winning such battles, spent a lifetime appealing to the primal desire of man to win, to triumph over enemies, and to stand gloriously with the remains of the defeated remaining behind only as memories. That story was partially true—Ji Meng was a victor, a conqueror.
Yet even as the men cheered, Ji Meng turned to Argrave. He walked toward him, lowered himself slightly, and raised Argrave up. Clutching his arm, Ji Meng raised Argrave’s fist proudly in the air. The cheers did not wane, did not relax—rather, they grew all the more enthusiastic. Argrave was their emperor’s most loyal servant, his greatest defender—a supposed testament to Great Chu might, yet in reality, its would-be puppeteer.
“Look at them,” he heard Ji Meng’s voice above the din of the crowd, barely audible in his ear. “The exaltation of the crowd. The near-worship. It’s intoxicating, infectious.”
Argrave turned his gaze to look at Ji Meng even as the crowd continued to cheer.
“But it rattles the mind, Argrave,” he continued stoically. “It makes you duller. Dumber. Slower. It’s the sweetest wine; no taste is purer, no high is better… yet you grow intoxicated, inebriated, all the same. At some point, there’s a choice to be made. Will things remain as so—slow, dumb, yet happy? Or will you again plunge into the realms of power?” His black eyes fell upon Argrave. “I was too far gone. Will you make the same mistake, some day? Perhaps not. I plunged, yet managed to crawl out of the waters. I don’t intend on making the same mistake again. The waters are cold. You can brave them for me, while I enjoy everything. I’ll be sure of that.”
Argrave looked at the crowd, the emperor’s talk of juicing fruits gaining some clarity. Ji Meng didn’t intend to struggle anymore—that was what he was conveying. But was it another game that he was playing, or the genuine truth? Argrave would have to ask Anneliese if she had been witness to anything.
Emperor Ji Meng broke away, taking his place at the head of their impromptu stage. As the crowd’s cheering waned, he declared, “The regency is over! We are returned!”
