I was once a lowly foot soldier on the frontier, but I defied the laws with my martial might and strode against the heavens.
They call me the “Prince of the North.” I command 300,000 iron cavalry, and my achievements have eclipsed the emperor's. The emperor sees me as his greatest threat. He stripped me of my command, gave me poisoned wine, and used the fortune of the entire nation to forge the “Mountain and River Sword,” hoping to behead me and cow the realm.
But he has forgotten that half the weight of this realm was carried back from the mountains of corpses and seas of blood beyond the passes on my own flesh and blood. National fortune is the people's will. Once the people turn away, that golden sword hanging high in the heavens is nothing but a rootless duckweed.
Today, I enter the imperial city alone. I want neither the realm nor its vast lands. I ask only one thing:
Your Majesty, have you ever heard that when the martial path reaches the divine, it can cut down national fortune?
