Darkness.
No sky, no earth—only a vast emptiness devouring everything.
Zhāo Han stood alone amidst the shifting black mist, its currents moving like living waves. His breath echoed hollowly, as if even the air refused to accompany him.
"Where am I…?" His voice cracked, unsteady.
Then it came again—that voice. Cold, heavy, like thunder muffled deep within the bowels of the earth.
"Zhāo Han."
He turned in panic. The mist trembled, then slowly parted. From the void emerged a colossal shadow—endless, coiling, stretching like a river without end. Scales shimmered faintly, glowing green-blue like fragments of gemstones beneath the moonlight. Its body slithered on, vanishing into the haze.
It was no man. No beast known to this world.
It was a serpent with the head of a dragon.
Its jaws were massive, lined with teeth sharp as spears. From its skull grew long, twisted horns, and its eyes gleamed faintly like living jade.
Zhāo froze, trembling. "Y-You… you're the voice that's been echoing inside my head all this time!?"
The shadow did not answer at once. Its breath alone shook the mist, pressing against his chest until he nearly suffocated.
Rage welled within him at the creature's silence. Zhāo clenched his fists. "I am not your pawn! Why do you keep commanding me? Why can't I ever refuse!?"
"Zhāo Han, the one broken amidst the ruins of your fallen kingdom… I have raised you from the flames of vengeance and wrath. You shall become the gear that turns the wheel of fate for mankind. Your presence has awakened the ancient power slumbering for millions of years. And through your hands… a new order shall be born."
"Stop spouting nonsense, you beast!" Zhāo roared. "I only want revenge against those who destroyed my life! I'm not interested in playing your game."
The voice rumbled in laughter. The dragon-serpent parted the mist, revealing its horrific visage: branching horns, diamond-like scales glittering, a forked tongue slithering with a deadly hiss.
Zhāo's body stiffened. The creature lunged forward, its monstrous face filling his vision.
He screamed, certain he was about to be devoured. But the dragon did not open its maw. It only stared, its eyes glowing emerald green.
"You need to see more clearly, Zhāo Han!"
Zhāo tried to look away, but his body refused. His gaze locked onto the two blazing orbs of jade.
A moment of silence—then the world shifted.
Zhāo now stood atop a mountain peak. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers, but the air was laden with something heavier—hope, devotion.
Before him, hundreds of princesses stood in perfect rows. Each wore a splendid gown, none alike: some adorned with gold, others embroidered with silver, still others radiating quiet elegance. Zhāo had never seen them before.
When he took a step forward to ask who they were, every single one of them knelt to him.
Zhāo staggered back, horrified yet strangely entranced.
But worse than this strange sight was what unfolded in the valley below.
The world shifted again—into a sea of blood. Armies clashed in madness. Every faction, every kingdom, every empire—all gathered in a great, endless war. Screams of agony tore the air apart. Severed arms and heads fell, littering the battlefield. The ground was drenched in corpses. Fire devoured banners and spread across fallen bodies.
And at the very center of it all stood… himself.
Zhāo watched as another version of him commanded thousands of soldiers. In that man's hand gleamed the jade-green dagger he had forged before, trembling as if calling out to his very soul.
The moment he seized it, the earth split open. Ancient monsters burst forth, creatures with fangs like sabers and titanic bodies clad in unbreakable scales. They crashed into enemy lines, unleashing doomsday upon the battlefield.
"No… no, this is not what I want. This isn't me…" Zhāo whispered. Tears slipped down his cheeks before he even realized it.
The serpent's voice thundered inside his chest.
"The holy war will spread across the world, like a fire that cannot be extinguished."
Zhāo's lips trembled, repeating the words without knowing why. "The holy war will spread across the world, like a fire that cannot be extinguished!"
War cries rose in unison, mixing with cheers. Thousands of voices shouted one name—his name.
"Zhāo! Zhāo! Zhāo!"
Banners rose high. No emblems of kingdoms, no imperial seals—only one symbol: his name.
"Fanatic warriors raise their banners for you. In your name, they march to war. In your name, they bow in reverence. In your name, the world burns."
Zhāo sobbed, his knees striking the ground. His strength drained as horror gnawed at his soul. He wanted to scream until his throat tore, to vanish, to escape this nightmare. But all that escaped his lips was a broken whisper.
"This is not what I want. This is too much. Someone… please help me…"
The serpent's voice grew colder, cutting away all hope.
"You can not run. It has already begun."
"NO!!!" Zhāo howled, his cry ripping through his throat. The world shook, emerald light flooding his vision.
"AAAHHH!"
Zhāo's eyes snapped open. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body drenched in cold sweat. His cheeks were wet with tears he couldn't remember shedding.
The battlefield was gone. Only cold stone, the stench of rust, and suffocating darkness remained. Iron bars surrounded him. Damp stone walls drank in the sound of his breath.
He scanned his surroundings, his senses slowly sharpening. Reality struck—he was in a prison.
Zhāo forced himself upright, trembling.
A shadow shifted before him. From the darkness, a figure sat calmly on a wooden chair.
A man. Broad-shouldered. Thick mustache. His face was stern, carved like weathered stone. A suit of grand armor clung to his frame, glinting faintly in the torchlight.