Rules-based horrors descend, and China has no gods. I became a sacrifice.
On the brink of death, I carved words in blood, and summoned the Ancestral Dragon, Ying Zheng.
“This broken world thinks it deserves my attention?”
He looked utterly disgusted, yet signed a blood pact with me: I would lend him my soul, and he would lend me his imperial might, so he could rebuild the Great Wall in this apocalyptic world!
I thought I’d gotten the ultimate cheat.
Little did I know, this was only the beginning.
My mind became a battlefield for my ancestors.
The First Emperor wanted to unite the realm, the God of War Bai Qi only wanted to sharpen his sword, Mozi came in and called me an idiot, and Consort Yang sobbed that her pipa could ensnare souls…
They argued endlessly, each wanting to turn me into their vessel.
And I, the madman bearing the hopes of an entire civilization,
held imperial authority in my left hand and the God of War’s sword in my right,
and on the ruins where the Outer Gods held sway,
silently laid the first brick.
They say we must erect a monument to this despairing age.
I only want to ask:
If five thousand years of civilization are the fuel,
can they burn away the gloom that blankets the sky
and steal a glimmer of light for those yet to come?
