The battlefield smelled of iron and rain.
Dawn had not yet touched the hills, but the enemy was already moving, their banners snapping in the cold wind. Soldiers shivered, some from fear, some from fatigue. Ying Zheng stood at the edge of the ridge, blindfold tight over his eyes, his fists clenched. He did not need to see them. He felt them—the tension coiled around their hearts, the flicker of hesitation, the threads of ambition that made each man vulnerable.
When the first general charged, sword raised, shouting a name he would never remember, Zheng did not flinch. The air around him thickened, as if the world itself paused in anticipation.
He struck.
It was not a blow that cut flesh. It was a strike that grasped fate. Invisible sigils, born from pain and endurance, wrapped around the general's chi. The man froze mid-step, eyes wide in disbelief. Time itself trembled around him.
Zheng felt it immediately. The general's fear, his regrets, the weight of every decision he had ever made, surged into the boy's body. Pain like fire tore through his chest, bending bones without breaking them. His vision, hidden behind silk, was irrelevant; every nerve, every breath, every heartbeat became a conduit for the suffering he could not avoid.
He did not release the hold.
The general's screams echoed in his mind, a symphony of agony, until the man dissolved into light, leaving behind nothing but the faint imprint of chi in the air. Zheng collapsed to his knees, chest burning, lungs heaving, sweat soaking the silk that hid his eyes. And yet, when he rose, he did so as a king already tempered by eternity.
The soldiers around him fell silent. They had expected a prince, perhaps even a child—but not a god who could weigh the soul of a man and decide its fate in a heartbeat. Some wept. Some knelt. None moved.
It was then that Zheng understood the full cost of his sight.
Every time he judged, every time he struck with this new, terrible technique, he absorbed the pain of the world like a vessel. And yet, he could not stop. To stop would be to abandon them all—to allow chaos, cruelty, and suffering to run unchecked.
He called it Ethereal Lock.
A name whispered in silk and shadow, a technique that would become legend and law, feared across kingdoms. With Ethereal Lock, Zheng could bind not just bodies, but fates. He could condense an enemy's existence into Eternal Chi, absorbing their strength to empower his champions—or erase them entirely, scattering their essence beyond the reach of time and memory.
And yet, the boy knew that this power was not without price.
The more he used it, the more the suffering of the world became his own. The agony of a single enemy could cripple him for days. The battlefield was not his alone; every wound, every fear, every death he felt, stitched itself into his flesh. A king could not endure alone. And yet, Zheng would endure.
That day, the first battle ended not in victory, but in understanding.
He had not yet conquered nations, nor defeated generals. He had only discovered the cost of being a king who truly saw.
And somewhere beneath the mountains, in coffins older than dynasties, the Tuktan stirred. The immortals who had forsaken reincarnation and bound themselves to eternal service felt the presence of one who could bear the unbearable. They did not move yet. They did not yet bow. But they had noticed.
And Ying Zheng—blindfolded, exhausted, and burning with the pain of a thousand souls—understood: his journey had only just begun.
The world would tremble before him. Not because he sought dominion, but because he could endure its suffering when no one else could.