Chapter 1: The Awakening of Great Qing
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The bell tolled in the skies, a sound so vast and deep it shook the bones of every living being. It was not the sound of iron on iron, but the voice of the heavens themselves.
"Ding! Every being has been bonded to the Primordial World. From this moment forth, your destiny is tied to the rise and fall of your people."
The proclamation was carved into the air, written in fire and lightning across the heavens. It was not merely heard, but engraved into the soul. Men and women froze where they stood, trembling, for each syllable carried the weight of eternity.
Khan, son of no dynasty, opened his eyes beneath that sky. His vision blurred for a moment as an immense flood of information carved itself into his mind. He was no longer just a man; he was a ruler, bound to the fate of a village—Great Qing.
The small collection of huts he had called home was now glowing faintly with divine light. His heart pounded as he staggered forward, feeling the earth itself bend to him.
Then came the second announcement.
"Village of Great Qing has been elevated to Level 3. Initial blessings granted."
A surge of power descended like a waterfall, sweeping through the thatched-roof homes, the dirt streets, and into the bodies of the hundred or so villagers who stood gaping at the heavens. Children gasped as their bodies straightened, bones hardening, meridians faintly opening. Farmers who had once toiled with bent backs suddenly stood tall, their eyes bright with vigor. Even the sickly elderly found themselves breathing easier.
But Khan… Khan felt something far greater.
From the depths of his soul came a roar—a dragon's roar. It was not of flesh and blood but of faith, forged from the collective belief of his people. As the villagers instinctively looked toward him, as their leader, their trust condensed into a phantom beast above his head: scales shimmering like molten gold, eyes like twin suns.
It was his Fate Dragon.
The sight pressed every villager to their knees. Though spectral, the dragon's presence was suffocating, a manifestation of authority granted by the heavens themselves.
Khan clenched his fist, feeling the connection between himself, the dragon, and the land beneath his feet. With this, he was no longer just a man. He was the sovereign of Great Qing.
Yet even in the midst of awe, the voice of heaven continued.
"The Primordial World does not belong to any one race or kingdom. Struggle, conquer, unify—or perish. The road of empire begins with a single step."
Khan's jaw tightened. He understood. This was no gift; it was a trial. The heavens had thrown every human, beast, and spirit into the same cauldron, forcing them to carve their place with blood and will.
He turned to his people, many still kneeling, trembling in confusion. Mothers clutched their children. Farmers whispered prayers. Warriors looked lost, their spears trembling in their hands.
Khan raised his voice, carried by the authority of the Fate Dragon.
"People of Great Qing! The heavens have chosen us, but choice is not safety. From this day forward, we are bound as one. We rise together, or we fall together. This village… this kingdom… is our home. And I will lead us through fire and storm, until our banner is known across the Primordial World!"
His words struck like thunder. The dragon roared above, as if sealing his oath. For the first time, the villagers felt more than fear—they felt pride.
It was then that the ministers were born. Out of the light descending from the heavens, three figures emerged, shimmering with spiritual essence before solidifying into men and women of flesh. They knelt before Khan.
"We are the ministers granted to you by fate, Your Majesty. Command, and we shall serve."
The first was Zhao Yun, a man of martial might, clad in armor that gleamed faintly though forged of no earthly metal. His presence radiated courage, his spear etched with runes of loyalty.
The second was Mei Ling, a woman of sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers, the Minister of Records and Counsel. Her aura was one of wisdom, her presence calm yet unyielding.
The third was Wei Shan, the Minister of Prosperity, broad-shouldered with hands calloused from unseen labor, destined to oversee the growth of their economy and farmlands.
Khan looked at them, awe in his heart. He knew—they were not mere constructs. These were living souls, tied to his destiny. As long as Great Qing endured, so too would they.
Still, a shadow lingered in his thoughts. If every village, every tribe, had been blessed like this, then countless rulers like himself had just been born. And the heavens had spoken clearly: struggle, conquer, unify—or perish.
As the sun set that day, Khan stood before the Fate Dragon and vowed in silence.
"I will not let Great Qing be a name lost in the mud of history. I will carve it into the bones of the world."
The dragon's eyes flared, as if answering his determination.
That night, as villagers feasted on food that tasted richer, air that felt fresher, and strength that hummed in their veins, Khan climbed the watchtower. He gazed into the wilderness stretching far beyond their walls.
Somewhere out there, other rulers were awakening, their Fate Dragons roaring, their soldiers sharpening blades. Some would become friends, allies in survival. Others would be enemies, wolves circling the same carcass.
And beyond them… beyond them lurked the Primordial Empires, ancient powers who had slept for eras and were now stirring, hungry to test these newborn kingdoms.
The weight pressed heavy on his shoulders. Yet as he stood there, the wind carrying the faint roar of his dragon through the night, Khan smiled.
Let them come.
Great Qing would rise.