Now is not a time. It is what remains.
Ah, so you've come at last. Two thousand years and still, you grovel in the dirt like children chasing shadows. So clumsy, so primitive. Go on—dig a little deeper. Carefully now… I'd hate for your trembling hands to ruin my perfection.
The scrape of shovels pierces the humid spring air. Farmers, simple souls, stumble upon destiny as they dig for water in this dry, unyielding land. Their spades strike immortality. My immortality.
Clay? No, my dears, not just clay. Keep going. Yes… there. The sharp gaze of an eye, the curve of a jaw, the grip of a hand still clutching its weapon. Beautiful, isn't it?
The first figure emerges—a warrior, stoic, unyielding, carved with the care of a master's hand. Then another. And another. An endless legion of guardians, their expressions frozen in defiance, each unique, each eternal. My army. My shadow made flesh.
For centuries, you lay silent beneath this wretched soil, my invincible legion. And now, these mortals, with their bumbling tools and reverent whispers, dare disturb your eternal slumber. Tell me, how does it feel to awaken to their trembling hands?
Do they grasp what they've unearthed? Of course not. Their minds are too small, too shallow. They see relics, curiosities for their museums. They see clay and dust, stripped of its brilliance—the vivid reds and blues of your armor long since devoured by time. How fitting. When I commanded you, you burned with the fire of my will. Now? Shadows, drained of life. A beautiful tragedy, isn't it?
Ah, but you are lucky, my silent legion. You sleep, while I endure. Do you know what it is to be eternal? To watch the world march forward, age after age, while you remain trapped in the same endless moment? At first, you marvel. Then, you despair. And finally, you twist into something… unrecognizable. I am an emperor without an empire, a ruler without a throne. Immortality, it seems, is the cruelest punishment of all.
Tourists shuffle into view now, their chatter grating against the silence of this sacred place. Cameras flash, trivializing the enormity of what lies before them. They marvel at my Great Wall, at my Terracotta Army, yet they do not see me. They do not see my will, my vision, my pain.
They speak of ancient wonders as though the sweat and blood of my people were mere curiosities. Fools. You snap your photos, whisper your awe, but you see only what I've allowed. You do not see the price I paid. The price they paid. And yet, how could you? Your fleeting lives are blissfully ignorant of eternity's weight. What do you know of sacrifice? Of ambition? Of being trapped in the endless now?
The archaeologists murmur tales of rivers of mercury, constellations etched into stone, and deadly traps for trespassers. Stories, of course. You dare not dig deeper. You dare not find me. Better to marvel at the edges of greatness than confront the abyss within.
Remember this: what you see is only the surface. The truth is mine to tell, and only when I choose will you understand the cost of ambition, the weight of immortality, and the empire that lies beneath your fleeting age.
I am more than a relic. I am the one who forged unity from chaos, who willed nations into existence. The name matters little; the legacy is eternal. And now, I remain—unchanging, eternal, and condemned to the silence of my own creation.