Six years ago,
In the ancient temple of Tiānshèng (天聖), the Grand Monk sat upon the cold flagstones of the secluded courtyard, his saffron robes draped around him. He was immersed in the trance of a nightly prayer, seeking an end to the devastating drought that had ravaged the province for months; beside him knelt Zhì'ān (志安), the governor of the state of Yáng (陽). His face gaunt with worry for 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, veiling the moon's face like a dark shroud.
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 crashed to the earth, and defiant sparks took hold of the ancient wooden pillars.
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 in a voice cracked with dread:
"What is the meaning of this?"
The Grand Monk, with red flames dancing in his eyes, whispered:
"My fear is that it's none other than he..."
Wait a moment. It's me…
I wish to have a word with you! Will you permit me?
I shall commence this dark fable myself; a tale akin to a seven-headed dragon, one I know will, in the end, devour even me.
That forgotten empire you know better than I ever could, writing of it has broken my heart more times than I care to count, and filled my eyes with tears.
I write this solely for you, my darling. I've no doubt you shall be reading it, for there is something between us, a silent understanding that has never required words. In a sense, it is the candid confession of that chaste love of mine, even if you persist in 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 harsh embrace.
The magnificent 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, let's get back to the story now…
At that very moment, far from the clamour of power, in a small and nameless town, the steady rhythm of hammer striking heated iron shattered the silence of the night.
Shénwǔ (神武), the High General of the previous Emperor; now living in obscurity as a blacksmith, straightened for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. His gaze drifted beyond the forge; and at the sight of the crimson moon casting an ill omen upon his anvil, his hand froze mid-air.
The powerful muscles of his shoulders tightened beneath the crushing weight of memory. He tore his eyes from the sky and fixed them upon the glowing iron on the anvil. In that instant, the entire empire seemed to sink into an anxious silence; as though the legacy of his uncle, had once more grown thirsty for blood.