For the sins of his mother, Lan Cheng bore the hatred of his father.
When he was finally released from the Cold Palace, the emperor did not grant him freedom — he sentenced him to exile under the guise of duty. The decree was brief, written in the emperor's own hand: The Ninth Prince shall serve as a soldier on the Eastern Borderline.
The Eastern Border was a desolate place, locked in perpetual strife with Hangzhou, Great Lan's fiercest enemy. The wind there howled with sand and ash, the land scorched in summer and frozen in winter. It was no post for a prince — it was a graveyard for the forgotten.
The emperor's intentions were clear to all: he meant for his son to die there, quietly and far from the eyes of the court.
As the old saying went — when a prince is favored, the world bows before him. But when that favor fades, so too does respect.
Lan Cheng learned that bitter truth the moment he set foot on the border. Gone were the silken robes, the servants, the bows. To the soldiers, he was not a prince, but a stain upon the imperial name. The commanders treated him with contempt; the men mocked him, forced him into the dirtiest work, made sport of his title.
He endured the cold, the hunger, the ridicule — each day carving new lines of resolve into his heart. Yet beneath that growing steel, something else began to take root: resentment.
It was there, amid the mud and blood of the border, that the proud prince began to die — and something far more dangerous began to take his place.
But he didn't give up, Years passed, and the border that was meant to be his grave became his battlefield.
At first, Lan Cheng was little more than a discarded prince with a sword — mocked, scorned, and sent to the most dangerous fronts. But the boy who had once been humiliated in the cold halls of the palace refused to die quietly.
He fought.
Every raid, every skirmish, every bitter winter — he survived them all.
Slowly, the soldiers began to notice. His sword struck true, his commands steady even when chaos reigned. He bled beside them, starved beside them, and buried his fallen with his own hands. The prince they once ridiculed began to earn their respect, not through birthright — but through fire and blood.
Then came the night that changed everything.
The Hangzhou army launched a surprise attack under the cover of darkness. The eastern camp erupted into chaos — tents ablaze, horses screaming, the air thick with smoke and death. Soldiers fled into the wilderness, their morale shattered. Only a handful stood their ground, too stubborn or too brave to run.
Among them was Lan Cheng.
While others sought escape, he ran toward the fire. His armor was half-burned, his blade slick with blood. Flames painted his face gold and crimson as he charged into the inferno. He cut through the enemy ranks like a phantom, his movements sharp and merciless. One after another, the invaders fell.
When he reached the enemy commander, the two clashed inside a burning tent — steel against steel, the blaze consuming everything around them. The canvas collapsed, and the inferno swallowed them whole.
Outside, the soldiers could only watch as the fire devoured their camp. They thought the Ninth Prince had perished — another casualty in a hopeless war.
Then, through the roar of the flames, a figure emerged.
Lan Cheng stepped out from the burning wreckage, his armor scorched black, his blade still dripping with the blood of his enemies. The fire raged behind him like a crown of gold. His gaze was cold, resolute — the gaze of a man who had defied death itself.
The battlefield fell silent.
And then, as one, the soldiers dropped to their knees.
In that moment, the Ninth Prince ceased to be a forgotten exile.
He became their commander, their savior — and in their eyes, something more. From that night onward, the legend of Lan Cheng spread like wildfire.
The forgotten prince who had once been sent to die at the border became known across the empire as General Cheng, the Iron Hero of the East. With every victory against Hangzhou, his name echoed farther — from the war-torn fields of the frontier to the bustling markets of the capital.
Merchants spoke of him in awe, poets sang of his valor, and soldiers at distant garrisons toasted his name beside their campfires. Even the courtiers — once eager to mock the emperor's disgraced son — now whispered his praises in the golden halls of the palace.
And soon, those whispers became petitions.
"Your Majesty," they said, "the Ninth Prince has brought glory to Great Lan. His victories have strengthened the borders and raised the people's faith. He deserves recognition — promotion, reward, an official title fitting of his deeds."
Some ministers went further, boldly suggesting, "It is time to bring the prince home. The capital should celebrate its hero."
The emperor listened in silence, his expression unreadable.
He had once wished for the boy's death. Yet now that same boy commanded the loyalty of thousands — men who would follow him to the ends of the earth. The emperor could feel the shift of power, subtle but undeniable, like a blade pressing against his throat.
Fear crept into his heart.
If Lan Cheng continued to grow stronger… if his army's devotion deepened… what then? Would another rebellion rise — this time not from a brother, but from a son?
So when he finally summoned the Ninth Prince back to the capital, it was not out of pride, nor paternal affection. It was out of caution — and fear.
Bring him back, the emperor decreed.
Keep him where I can see him.