The stars shifted that night as if they had grown restless. Somewhere beyond mortal sight, the gods leaned closer to the fragile edge of the world, feeling it tremble beneath a blindfolded boy's command.
Ying Zheng stood upon a hill outside Handan, the wind tugging at the edges of his silk blindfold. He did not see the city below, but he felt every pulse, every fear, every hope of the people beneath him. Their chi intertwined with his own, an endless tide of suffering, courage, and expectation.
It was not enough.
Heaven was watching.
A presence descended—not as thunder, not as lightning, but as the quiet certainty of law. The divine emissaries arrived in the shape of light and shadow, floating across the sky in perfect, impossible formation. Their voices carried no sound, yet every being that breathed could feel the pressure of their judgment.
"Bend," the gods commanded, each syllable a decree etched in the bones of the world.
"Submit to the cycle, and restore the order that mortals cannot uphold."
Zheng did not flinch. Not even a breath betrayed him. The blindfold over his eyes was not mere cloth—it was a seal, a reminder of the burden he had chosen to bear. And yet, behind it, his eyes burned with clarity sharper than any god could see.
"Then the cycle has failed my people," he whispered, the words carried by chi into the void above.
The first emissary stepped forward. Its form was radiant, almost too bright for mortal comprehension. The stars bent around it, constellations trembling in anticipation. It reached toward the earth with a hand made of pure judgment, a blade that could sever souls from time.
Zheng raised his arms. Not to strike, but to command. His chi flared, coiling like serpents, unseen yet undeniable. With every pulse, every heartbeat, every breath, he reached through the threads of reality and gripped the divine will
itself.
Ethereal Lock awakened.
Chains of invisible sigils snapped into place around the god-forged soul. Time quivered. Space folded. The emissary froze—not in death, but in judgment. Pain radiated from it, and for a heartbeat, even the divine quivered under mortal endurance.
Other emissaries faltered. Some withdrew, unsure if the boy before them was mortal, god, or something in between. Yet Zheng felt every movement, every hesitation. He did not see them. He felt them. And that was more than enough.
"You may be eternal," he murmured, "but your justice is not."
The skies above Handan cracked. Lightning of green and silver rained without warning. Mountains trembled, rivers hesitated, and birds fell silent. Mortals below felt only awe, a sense that the world had shifted on its axis.
By the time the gods fully understood, it was too late. Ethereal Lock had bound them—not to obedience, not to submission, but to judgment. Some became Eternal Chi, their essence woven into the tapestry of the world. Others were erased entirely, scattered beyond time and memory, leaving no echo of their being.
Ying Zheng fell to his knees, sweat mingling with blood, body quaking under the weight of every soul he had touched. Yet even then, the blindfold remained over his eyes, the seal over his sight, the burden over his heart.
He had not sought victory. He had not sought power. He had sought justice for those who could not bear it themselves.
And Heaven had noticed.
The wind whispered through the grass. A distant drum of waves echoed in the mountains. Somewhere, the Tuktan stirred beneath stone, sensing the shift in the world above.
The First Emperor did not rise immediately. He stayed there, on that hill, feeling every heartbeat of every living being within reach, letting the pain and hope of the world wash over him like a river of fire and light.
For the first time, the boy who would be the King of the Beginning understood that to command mortals, immortals, and gods alike, he would have to endure all—and bend none.
And so the Beginning pressed onward.