The first sign of the Jade Arbiter was not thunder, nor fire, nor even the trembling of the earth—it was the sudden stillness. Rivers halted mid-flow, birds hung suspended in the sky, and even the wind paused, caught in its own hesitation.
From the firmament above, a figure stepped down, each footfall folding reality itself. His skin gleamed as if carved from living jade, every line etched with contracts older than dynasties. Where his eyes fell, chi stilled. Where his hands moved, time itself resisted.
Ying Zheng did not blink. He did not flinch. The blindfold over his eyes did not obscure the pressure that descended like a tangible weight.
The Arbiter's voice reached into the soul, soft yet unyielding:
"Ying Zheng, First Emperor. Your reign violates the Cycle. You erase souls, bind immortals, and defy the laws of Heaven. Stand down, or be unmade."
The boy did not raise his hands, did not bow. He tilted his head slightly, feeling the Arbiter's chi, measuring its threads against his own. Every syllable of the celestial mandate burned with authority. Every breath of the god-forged cultivator was meant to coerce obedience.
"Then the Cycle has failed my people," Zheng replied. His voice was calm, iron-strong. "And if Heaven has failed them, I will not."
The Arbiter's presence coiled around him like a storm, invisible chains of power pressing against the emperor's chest. Ethereal Lock flared, not outward, but inward, sharpening the boy's perception to a razor's edge. He did not see the Arbiter with eyes; he felt him—every ambition, every doubt, every certainty woven into a lattice of chi.
"You will be unmade," the Arbiter said, a whisper that shattered mountains. "The First Emperor is a lesson in hubris."
"I have endured pain your laws cannot measure," Zheng said. "I have carried the suffering of millions. You cannot undo that."
And then the battle began—not with armies, not with weapons, but with chi itself.
Time fractured. Mountains rose and fell within heartbeats. Rivers reversed and split, carving paths that never existed. The air filled with invisible chains snapping into place, binding the Arbiter's movements, resisting the boy's strikes. Each clash was a negotiation of reality, each touch of chi a verdict rendered across the fabric of existence.
For seven days, they fought. Seven days where history itself forgot the passage of hours. Soldiers on distant battlefields trembled without knowing why. Cities vanished and reappeared, landscapes twisting as the First Emperor and the Arbiter moved through the continuum like predators and prey entwined in inevitability.
By the seventh day, both were exhausted. Zheng's arms ached as if every strike had broken bones, every chain had carved itself into his flesh. Yet the blindfold remained, soaked in sweat and blood, unwavering.
The Arbiter fell to one knee, sigils in his jade body flickering like dying stars. Zheng approached, feeling every pulse of his enemy, not with malice, but with judgment.
"Even Heaven's blade," Zheng said, his voice soft yet absolute, "will serve the people."
He did not erase the Arbiter. He did not destroy him.
Instead, Zheng condensed Shen Yu's essence into Eternal Chi, folding the divine will into a vessel beneath the imperial throne. There it would lie, neither alive nor dead, a reminder that even Heaven's enforcers must bow to the enduring weight of mortal responsibility.
Above, the sky cleared. The rivers flowed. The stars regained their paths.
The First Emperor rose, still blindfolded, still carrying the pain of a thousand lives. He had not won by strength, nor by domination, nor by wrath. He had won by bearing what no one else could endure.
And for the first time, the heavens noticed that the Beginning had a king who would bend to nothing—not gods, not men, not fate itself.
The world would remember him.
But Heaven would never forget.