Silence hung over the battlefield like a shroud. Mountains, once cracked and bleeding from the clash of god and mortal, had begun to knit themselves together. Rivers whispered along their old paths. The wind carried no war cries, only the faint hum of chi still settling from the convulsions of Heaven itself.
The Jade Arbiter's luminous essence pulsed beneath the throne, a quiet testament to the mercy of a mortal who had faced the divine. The gods themselves had recoiled, their once-imposing presences now fractured, cautious, and uncertain. They did not flee in fear, nor did they rage in anger—they simply retreated, gathering into the voids between realms, wary of the man who had dared to bind a god without killing him.
Within the palace, the air was thick with the echo of pain. Every wall, every statue, seemed to remember the strain of Ethereal Lock. Zheng sat alone in the throne room, blindfold secure, fingers tracing the jade inlays of the seat. Even in victory, the emperor felt the weight of every soul he had touched—the soldier whose chi had cried through him, the innocent who had trembled under his gaze, the divine who had met his judgment.
He did not sleep that night. Nor the next.
Pain had become the currency of kingship, and Zheng had just bankrupted Heaven. His body ached with every thread of chi he had held, and yet the burden was not relief—it was a reminder. Power had limits, and endurance had a price.
The courtiers whispered. The soldiers, the generals, even the Tuktan—the immortal army bound to his will—sensed the change. The world had shifted. Heaven had faltered. And at its center stood a mortal who had touched the impossible.
Outside, the sun rose over a land stitched together by war, magic, and the trembling of gods. Cities rebuilt themselves without knowing why, as if guided by an unseen hand. Farmers worked fields that had been scorched, children played where armies had marched, and the world breathed again, unaware of the invisible chains that held it together.
But Zheng could not forget. Every victory carried its echo of suffering, every life preserved was a weight upon his chest. Even the gods' retreat was a reminder: they would return. They always returned.
And when they did, he would be ready.
For now, though, the blindfolded emperor allowed himself a single, quiet moment of clarity. He closed his eyes behind the silk, feeling the threads of the world settle into place beneath his hands.
Victory was never the end. It was only another trial.
And a true king, blindfolded or not, never ceased to bear it.