A story spread across the Great Chu—a story spread by tongue and page, delivered to all of the age. The words therein spoke of a victor, a conqueror, a fearless leader of the young and old whose name rung bold. He travelled the lands and sea, spurred forth by heaven’s guarantee, to bring the glory of their empire to another land’s history.
The tale, of course, spoke of the emperor.
With heaven’s winds guiding them and the emperor presiding them, an army divine soared to lands not yet explored. Awaiting these soldiers were this lands’ present holders—elves and men, gods and their followers, standing head and shoulders taller. Clash their armies did, thrash they tried... and out of their crowd, the barbarian king stepped proud. With hair as black as the abyss, he stepped forth to resist.
The emperor presiding advanced forth gliding, and the skies shone with lightning and fire as the war kept tightening under the weight of man’s ire. The barbarian king’s black blood stained the snowy soil, dripping and gleaming like oil. Yet just as he bled, the emperor himself spilt red. Two masters at their summit, one fated to plummet.
Yet in the end, who before has ever dashed the hopes and dreams of the empire supreme?
As the barbarian king inflicted a blow most sound, the son of heaven delivered an attack profound. The king crumpled, downed... yet as he lay dying, his gray eyes defying, the emperor merely stood above sighing.
“What a waste,” said the emperor, “A warrior of your stature I must fracture. Tell me, great king, why you resist me, when you might assist me?”
“I resist,” said the king loudly as he died there proudly, “So that the sun persists to grace my people, that we might one day rise an eagle.”
“The sun, you say,” mused the emperor as he gazed upon this icy bay. “But as the suns move, so does the moon prove that light does not always exist. As surely as light comes, so too does it flee. We must strive to thrive when light deigns not dive. While we wait for light to revive, we must survive. Your light is dimming, noble king, yet your tale may be just beginning. I have no need for this land of endless cold, for it is a place that cannot be controlled. Will you and yours embrace the moon and become my boon?”
And though the king had bled, he’d not yet lost his head. He assented, and his people relented, contented. To honor the king’s spirit and talent inherent, the emperor bestowed a name: Sun, that the king might be the light he so wished for his people. The king rose again with the strength of ten men, abandoning title and lands not idyll to follow the son of heaven. Even in lands unknown, those with sense recognize heaven’s own.
Who but the emperor could inspire such loyalty that even royalty follow him joyfully?
Glory to the son of heaven!
Glory to the Sun of heaven!
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Argrave kneeled beside Ji Meng as he greeted the loudest crowd Argrave had heard. They stood in the long, winding hills of the Great Chu’s southern coast, yet instead of residing within the Sea Dragon along the coast, they stood in the heart of the fortifications carved from the earth. And rather than enemies, each and all arrayed before them were exuberant allies.
Ji Meng had small few opportunities to say anything at all as the innumerable voices expressed enthusiastic praise. It was like a prophet come to walk among them, offering salvation in their darkest hour. As he looked upon Ji Meng, he wondered how a man could grow so utterly loved, could garner such rabid loyalty.
But then, perhaps Argrave understood it well. He had received such praise before after doing battle with the tribes of Vysenn. This was a man whose lifetime had been spent winning such battles, spent a lifetime appealing to the primal desire of man to win, to triumph over enemies, and to stand gloriously with the remains of the defeated remaining behind only as memories. That story was partially true—Ji Meng was a victor, a conqueror.
Yet even as the men cheered, Ji Meng turned to Argrave. He walked toward him, lowered himself slightly, and raised Argrave up. Clutching his arm, Ji Meng raised Argrave’s fist proudly in the air. The cheers did not wane, did not relax—rather, they grew all the more enthusiastic. Argrave was their emperor’s most loyal servant, his greatest defender—a supposed testament to Great Chu might, yet in reality, its would-be puppeteer.
“Look at them,” he heard Ji Meng’s voice above the din of the crowd, barely audible in his ear. “The exaltation of the crowd. The near-worship. It’s intoxicating, infectious.”
Argrave turned his gaze to look at Ji Meng even as the crowd continued to cheer.
“But it rattles the mind, Argrave,” he continued stoically. “It makes you duller. Dumber. Slower. It’s the sweetest wine; no taste is purer, no high is better... yet you grow intoxicated, inebriated, all the same. At some point, there’s a choice to be made. Will things remain as so—slow, dumb, yet happy? Or will you again plunge into the realms of power?” His black eyes fell upon Argrave. “I was too far gone. Will you make the same mistake, some day? Perhaps not. I plunged, yet managed to crawl out of the waters. I don’t intend on making the same mistake again. The waters are cold. You can brave them for me, while I enjoy everything. I’ll be sure of that.”
Argrave looked at the crowd, the emperor’s talk of juicing fruits gaining some clarity. Ji Meng didn’t intend to struggle anymore—that was what he was conveying. But was it another game that he was playing, or the genuine truth? Argrave would have to ask Anneliese if she had been witness to anything.
Emperor Ji Meng broke away, taking his place at the head of their impromptu stage. As the crowd’s cheering waned, he declared, “The regency is over! We are returned!”