A great swan soared through the sky, piercing the clouds.
Smoke from cooking fires curled up, and soft lamplights glowed as the sun sank below the horizon, slipping between mountains and plains. The fading clouds looked painted with bright colors, like yellow ink spilled across the sky. The last sunlight filtered through mist, lighting up the tall city walls and busy streets below.
The light also touched the grand palace gates, giving the scene a heavy, end-of-day feel mixed with a faint sense of decay. People hurried along, their robes swishing, and carriages rolled fast. Armored soldiers with knives and axes marched down the streets, their boots thumping on stone.
From wealthy homes, carved carriages sped out of narrow alleys, their wheels rattling as they raced toward the old palace by the city's river. The palace's red walls, faded by time, stood tall but worn, their dragon carvings catching the dim light.
A loud thunderclap boomed. Dark clouds rolled in like a heavy wave, full of coming rain and a sad weight. Small raindrops fell with the thunder's roar, wetting the stone roads and mixing with dust to make muddy patches.
This wasn't just rain; it was a moment that would decide many people's futures, filled with worry and confusion.
Rain dripped from roofs, splashing into flowerpots and pattering on leaves. The air smelled of wet earth and medicine. Under pillars carved with dragons and phoenixes stood old pottery, once treasures, now just decorations. Red railings showed faded mythical designs.
The palace's wooden walls, their red paint chipped, carried a faint smell of old wood and incense. The main gate, facing south, was grand but slightly open. Wind rustled a silk screen inside, embroidered with cranes, making a soft sound.
Oil lamps flickered, casting shadows like moving animals onto a group of people kneeling on the floor. They barely breathed, afraid to make a sound. The rain poured outside, but inside, the silence was thick — so quiet a pin's fall would echo.
"Cough…"
After a long time, weak coughs came from deeper inside, adding a spark of life to the still palace. But it made the kneeling people shrink lower, as if the sound scared them, their heads pressed to the ground.
A young servant hurried past, carrying a tray of steaming tea. Her hands shook, and she kept her eyes down, afraid to look at the kneeling courtiers. Whispers of the emperor's illness and talk of who might take power filled her ears, making her steps quick.
Ming, the founding emperor of Bright Hua, was a bold and brilliant man. With a three-foot sword, he conquered the land, brought peace, and built a great empire. Yet even he couldn't escape time, avoid weakness, or beat death.
As long as he breathed, he was the one true ruler of this vast empire, the supreme lord over heavens and earth.
"Haa…"
From the fancy dragon bed came a long sigh, full of unwillingness to grow old, a hunger for power, and a reluctant goodbye.
"If only I could become immortal…"
But Ming knew no world would allow an undying emperor, nor would the heavens permit an eternal ruler. He had no regrets for choosing this path, controlling the fate of billions over wandering as a free cultivator. Given another chance, he'd still choose to rule.