In the vast expanse of the Eastern Realm, there stood a kingdom so powerful, its name alone brought trembling silence to its enemies — The Empire of Jiǔtiān, the Kingdom of Nine Heavens. Towering mountains wreathed in mist formed its natural borders, and beyond them, deep rivers cut like veins through rich, jade-green lands. Here, power was not merely inherited — it was born, trained, awakened.
Ruled by Emperor Long Diān, a sovereign both feared and revered, the Empire's foundation was built on two things: martial excellence and spiritual strength. From the lowest foot soldier to the Emperor himself, all who trained in the sacred arts were capable of awakening supernatural abilities, known as the Essence of the Dragon Vein.
They called them Xuánli (玄力) — mysterious forces woven into one's bloodline and cultivated through discipline, suffering, and destiny.
In this world, one's Xuánli was as unique as their soul. Some wielded flame with a snap of their fingers, others could bend shadows to their will, and a few — the rare few — could manipulate time, sound, or even the elements themselves.
But in the palace at the heart of Jiǔtiān, among golden walls and phoenix-adorned pillars, resided a family like no other. The royal bloodline, bound by fate and fractured by ambition. From the noble Empress Han Meiyin, to the clever and calculating Consort Li Xiu, the palace shimmered with elegance and trembled with rivalry.
Even the Empress herself was a force to be reckoned with — her power, the Crimson Petal Domain, could steal the breath from an entire room, weaving illusions so beautiful they could kill. The Second Queen, Consort Li, was not far behind; her ability to manipulate silver threads of qi allowed her to control the movements of others like a puppeteer of fate.
But no one — not one prince, not one general, not even the Emperor in his prime — was as different as the First Prince, Long Wei.
He was not like the others. He did not awaken his powers through years of grueling cultivation, nor was his strength the result of palace blessings or ancient scrolls. No. From the very moment he took his first breath beneath the blood moon on the night of the Winter Solstice, the heavens themselves shook.
The palace walls cracked.
A phoenix-shaped flame blazed across the sky.
The imperial physicians fell to their knees.
The child had been born with Xuánli already flowing through every vessel, godlike and raw, unable to be measured. They whispered that he was a curse. Others whispered louder — he was the Empire's final blessing.
By age seven, he split boulders with his fists.
By ten, he had mastered five internal energy paths.
At the tender age of twelve, when most children still played in palace courtyards with paper lanterns and sparring staffs, Prince Long Wei stood at the edge of destiny.
The day began like any other — quiet, still, the morning sun spilling across jade tiles like golden ink — until a single sound shattered the calm:
A royal decree.
Delivered in haste, the scroll bore the Imperial Seal of Nine Claws, an emblem rarely seen outside the Emperor's War Chamber. The message? Simple, clear, and thunderous.
"Let the First Prince, Long Wei, lead 200,000 imperial troops to the Northern Border. Defend the kingdom. Drive back the enemy. Victory or death. By order of His Majesty, the Son of Heaven."
When the messenger knelt in the Empress's residence, silence fell like snowfall. Even the wind held its breath.
The Empress, Han Meiyin, held the scroll in trembling hands, her fingers clutching the edges too tightly. Her gaze shifted to her son — still a boy in years, but already taller than many guards, already too quiet for someone his age.
She said nothing at first.
Then she stood.
And together, mother and son marched to the Emperor's palace — a journey of few steps, yet weighed down by centuries of tradition, secrets, and fear.
Inside the Court of A Hundred Voices
The news had already spread like wildfire through the royal halls. Ministers and generals, scholars and advisors filled the jade-pillared court, debating loudly beneath the golden dragons etched into the ceiling.
Some hailed the decree as brilliant.
"He is the Dragon's chosen! Let him prove it!"
"Born with power beyond comprehension — who better to lead?"
Others, however, whispered doubts into their sleeves.
"He is only a child."
"What if this is not a mission… but a trap?"
The Third Prince, Long Rui, merely ten years old, stepped forward with surprising clarity.
"Then let me go with him," he said, voice calm like still water. "I can support my brother. I've trained for this."
Gasps echoed. It was noble. Brave. But foolish.
The Emperor declined the offer without emotion."One prince is enough on the battlefield."
The Empress bowed low, still trying to disguise the storm rising in her chest.
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice delicate but edged like porcelain, "the First Prince is still young. Though gifted, this burden—"
"—is necessary," interrupted Shi Wenxu, the Imperial Adviser. His robes flowed like ink behind him as he stepped forward. "The border trembles, the demons press forward. The people call for a symbol. The First Prince is not merely a warrior — he is a message to our enemies. Let them see what blood runs in our veins."
Some nobles murmured in agreement.
Others turned away, avoiding the Empress's wounded gaze.
Long Wei, meanwhile, remained still. His eyes did not flicker, did not narrow. He said nothing as the voices argued around him like clashing swords. His heart was quiet.
And when the court fell silent, all waiting for his words, he stepped forward with both fists at his side.
"If this is the will of Heaven, and of the Empire, then I accept."
No hesitation. No bitterness. Just truth.
The Empress turned sharply toward him — eyes wide — but her son only gave her the faintest nod.
He understood.
Even if she didn't.
Even if no one did.
The boy who was born beneath a blood moon would now march to war.
The Sword of Heaven's Will
The time had come.
The palace gates stood wide open, and Prince Long Wei stood at the head of a sea of steel — two hundred thousand soldiers, their armor polished, their banners fluttering like dragons in the morning wind. The sky was bright, too bright, as if the heavens themselves dared not weep on this day.
From afar, on the elevated marble steps of the Empress's courtyard, Han Meiyin stood in silence. She wore no crown, only a simple robe of sky blue and white silk — the same color she wore the day she gave birth to him.
Her eyes never left her son.
And her heart, though armored by years of royal restraint, cracked with every step he took.
Below, at the edge of the departure square, two young boys ran to him — Long Jie, the Second Prince, and Long Rui, the Third. Both still dressed in their training robes, their foreheads damp with sweat.
Long Jie spoke first, trying to appear composed.
"Brother… don't die out there. You're strong — but don't forget to be careful."
Long Rui looked up, his smaller hands clutching the sash of his brother's robe.
"They're sending you to war because you're too powerful to control… but I know you'll come back. You always come back."
Long Wei smiled — a rare, quiet smile that softened the sharp lines of his jaw.
"I'll return. For the Empire. For you both."
Before another word could be spoken, the crowd parted.
The golden sandals of the Emperor approached.
Long Diān, dressed in full ceremonial armor, stepped forward, his face unreadable. His presence alone silenced the whispers and bowed the heads of nobles, guards, and even generals.
In his hands, wrapped in sacred red cloth, was a sword.
"Come forth, Long Wei," the Emperor said.
The First Prince knelt.
The Emperor slowly unwrapped the weapon. A blade forged in the deepest flames beneath the Iron Mountains, cooled in Phoenix Spring, and bathed in dragon marrow — its hilt was shaped like twin serpents coiled around a pearl, and the blade itself shimmered with an ethereal blue glow.
"This sword is named Tiān Míng (天命) — Heaven's Will," the Emperor declared. "Passed only to one worthy of bending fate itself. Wield it, if you can."
Long Wei rose, took the blade with both hands, and — before any instruction, before any blessing — he unsheathed it.
A burst of divine energy exploded from the blade, a radiant pulse of white and azure light that surged through the stone floor, scattering petals into the air and causing the gathered soldiers to stagger backward. A nearby general fell to one knee. A flock of birds took off from the watchtowers in a shriek of panic.
The sword awakened instantly.
No incantation. No ritual.
What took others years, months, or even death to achieve — Long Wei did in one breath.
The Empress gasped.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed — with pride… and calculation.
The court murmured in disbelief.
The boy — the prince — the legend — stood with the sword raised, glowing faintly in his grip like it was part of him. As if it had always been his.
He looked toward the horizon.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let the enemies of Jiǔtiān see what Heaven has sent them."
He turned.
He mounted his obsidian horse.
And without another word, Prince Long Wei led two hundred thousand warriors out through the eastern gates.
The ground trembled with the footsteps of a marching army.The palace walls shook with the power of destiny in motion.
And above it all, from her balcony of tears, the Empress stood still — watching the child she birthed walk into the storm.
End of Chapter One.