Born a Dragon

Under revision. My editor says this subject matter can't be written anymore, and I can't write historical figure pairings. I'll change it to have no pairings in the future. A self-indulgent story, updated whenever inspiration strikes. He and his five thousand years of history. No pairings. The protagonist is the spirit of the nation, naturally gifted with everyone's affection in a purely platonic way. The protagonist grows alongside five thousand years of history, a witness who does not change the course of events. Everything in history follows its original path. This story is a product of the author's love for certain people and dynasties. It includes my personal views and interpretations. He has met many people and seen many sights. The Legend of Qin, the smoke of war in the Han, the glorious age of the Tang. The sandstorms of the northern deserts, the snow on the broken bridge in the south. In memory, they all fade and change, one after another. The stories of people are flattened beneath the wheels of history, summed up in just a few strokes, a few words for centuries of spring and autumn. Amid the ancient, desolate music of the xun, Shang's black phoenix spiraled into the mists of history and never looked back. The solemn, elegant chimes of the bianzhong rang out as the Zhou dynasty's dream of enduring for centuries came to an end. In the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, the scholars' words and writings brandished the shadows of swords. When they reached the battlefields, they became bloodstains frozen on banners. Battle flags snapped, war drums thundered. Amid the flames of war, victors became kings and the defeated became outlaws. Famous figures each took the stage in turn, then departed in turn. An endless dream of spring and autumn could never be fully told. The names that would echo for millennia blurred in the dust sifted by the hand of history, becoming half-remembered tales of some bygone era on the lips of generations to come. Qin's black flood swept away the silt of the Yellow River and remade the world. There was a man, a greatness never seen before, and one the future might never see again. He was the first emperor of all ages, an everlasting monument no one who came after could surpass. "We have no clothes? Then we'll share our robes." From then on, all the lands of China were one family. Even though the black eyes of this man's life were destined to close, even though his bones had long since rotted to dust in his tomb, the name of Qin would flow through the blood of the Qin people, passed down and sung through the generations, its glory enduring for all time. Qin's totem would be branded on the souls of its descendants, becoming the Great Wall that stretched thousands of miles, unbroken by blades, rumors, or foreign enemies. Its legacy would never end, its flame of heritage burning forever. The dream of an empire lasting for all ages ended in the lie of a second generation. Then came those who followed, rising in a mighty gale to sweep across the endless yellow sands. With armored cavalry and iron horses, they fought over who would rule the land. A dragon rose in the east, beacons of war flared everywhere, and mounted warriors stood ready to terrify the eight corners of the world. The blood of Han galloped onward, racing toward the end of the river beneath the setting sun, chasing the black empire whose silhouette could still be faintly seen. The spirit of Tang swept in, painting the world in bold strokes across the cooling earth. One strum of the pipa unleashed the wild, extravagant splendor of a golden age. All nations came to pay tribute, every kingdom bowed. A pipa strummed with the murderous force of war, then turned graceful and lush, as the empire celebrated with friends from across the world. On a spring river beneath the moon and flowers, the land was a painting. Generals who drank wine from glowing cups rode back to the capital, plunging into the sweet perfume of a flourishing age, drunk on the languid music of Tang. When the beauty with snow-white skin, mothlike brows, and cloud-black hair turned to look back, her folding fan half concealing her face, she smiled like a dream. She never imagined that after she left, snow would blanket the land. The clatter of wooden clogs faded into the distance. Gentle, peaceful Song was cleaved in two by snow-white curved blades, and the capital fell. A proud rider appeared from nowhere, his iron hooves trampling from the desolate northern grasslands all the way to the fragrant osmanthus blossoms of the south. He brought the vast, desolate voice of the north, like a trembling bowstring. They came in haste, then just as quickly rode on. After the devastation, Ming rose from the ruined land, hard as rock. It stood in the fading afterglow of a once-glorious sunset, edged in gold. The raised banners rekindled the ancient blood in its heart. The emperor guarded the nation's gates; the ruler died for his country. They would never bow their heads, even if they had to shed every last drop of blood. The human spine stood straight as green bamboo, harder than steel. Theme: Love for one's homeland and country