Beneath the jagged shadow of Mount Li, the air was still, heavy with the weight of centuries. Rows upon rows of stone coffins lay in silence, untouched by time or decay. Inside them, the Tuktan slept—immortals who had abandoned the cycle of life and death, binding themselves to eternal vigilance, waiting for a sovereign strong enough to command them.
Ying Zheng descended alone. No torch guided his steps. No sword accompanied him. Blindfolded, he felt the mountain with every heartbeat, every inhale, every shiver of chi that hummed in the stone walls.
At the center of the cavern, he stopped. His breath was steady. His fists loosened, then clenched again. He did not speak. He did not command. He simply extended his presence, a pulse of enduring will and unbearable empathy radiating from him.
The Tuktan stirred. One by one, the ancient warriors awoke. Their eyes, bright with unaging fire, opened to the world of mortals for the first time in millennia. Silence stretched as each sensed the boy before them, his chi weaving into their consciousness like threads of inevitability.
"I do not ask you to kneel," Zheng said, voice barely a whisper, yet echoing in the stone halls.
"I command you to stand—for the people."
The cavern trembled. Dust fell from the vaulted ceilings. Stone cracked as if acknowledging the weight of his words.
And then, as one, the Tuktan rose. Their forms shimmered with the aura of immortality. Armor older than kingdoms slid from their bodies, revealing warriors sculpted by time itself. Yet they did not bow in submission. They bowed in recognition.
Recognition of one who could endure all suffering.
Ying Zheng felt their loyalty, their strength, and the burden they would place upon him in return. Each immortal was a mirror of his own pain—timeless, unyielding, tethered to an ideal. He could feel every millennia of their memories brushing against his soul. And still, he did not flinch.
"We serve not you," the leader of the Tuktan said, voice like rolling stone, "but the world that cannot endure without you."
Zheng inclined his head.
He had no words. None were necessary. Their purpose was clear: they were guardians, warriors, witnesses to his journey—and he was their king, though they would never kneel.
When he emerged from Mount Li, the world outside had not yet noticed the shift beneath the earth. Empires still squabbled over borders. Generals still counted swords. And yet, a new force now stirred beneath the skin of the world—a force that would bend history, protect the innocent, and enforce the impossible.
For the first time, Ying Zheng felt the weight of his destiny grow heavier. The Tuktan were not just soldiers; they were a reflection of the kingdom he would one day unify, a mirror of endurance he would demand from himself. Every step he took above ground was now mirrored by these immortal warriors beneath the mountain.
And in the quiet of the night, when he alone could hear the murmurs of chi and stone, he understood: he would not merely bear the pain of his people—he would anchor it, marshal it, and bend it into a force that could shape the world.
The Tuktan had awakened.
And the blindfolded king had begun his true rule.