The Tuktan had been with him since the mountain shook and stone cracked beneath their awakening. They had risen to serve not a king, but an ideal—a sovereign who bore all burdens so they might stand unbroken. They were immortal, yes, but they were not immune to the cost of his rule.
Every fall, every battle they endured, reverberated through Zheng's own chi. When a Tuktan struck down an enemy, he felt the weight of the life extinguished, the ripple of pain that should never have touched him. When one fell in combat, he staggered as though a limb had been severed. Their loyalty was absolute, their will unyielding—but he was their tether, and tethering was a dangerous thing.
The generals waited for him in the hall beneath Mount Li, stone banners etched with centuries-old victories trembling under torchlight. General Ao, towering and unending in momentum, looked down at him with eyes like molten bronze. General Ren, still and silent as northern ice, waited for the command that would never come lightly. General Cai's flames flickered in the hearth, reflecting the unrest in the emperor's chest, and General Shu's deep shadows shifted like tides over the marble floor.
"Your chi is fraying," General Ren said quietly, the only one who spoke without a growl or fire in his voice. "You cannot continue to bear all of it."
Zheng lifted his head, blindfold pressed tight, voice steady, as if he could quell even the weight of eternity with calm alone.
"I do not bear it for myself," he said. "I bear it for the people. And for the empire. If I fall, if I fail… all that we've endured is for nothing."
Ao's bronze eyes narrowed. "But even immortals have limits. You tethered us to your chi, yet you alone carry the true cost. Each strike you made, each Erasure or Condensation, each judgment of Heaven itself—it drains you. Even we feel it, but not like you."
Cai stepped forward, fire dancing across his arms like living ink. "We are bound to you because you made us so. But perhaps it is time to release us from your tether. Let us stand free in the world we protect, and let you bear only what a mortal king should."
Zheng's chest tightened. He had always known this day would come—the day when the burden would become too much, when loyalty could no longer be a shield, and he would be forced to face the limits of even his own endurance.
"I cannot remove myself from the equation," he whispered. "The empire cannot survive without the anchor. Without my bearing, everything falls."
Shu, who had remained silent longer than any of them, spoke at last. "Then perhaps the solution is not to deny the burden—but to redistribute it."
The emperor's hand went to his blindfold, loosening the silk just slightly to feel the world, to feel them, to feel the threads of loyalty and pain interwoven like a lattice of living light. He could sense each of them: Ao, unyielding, burning with momentum; Ren, frozen and sharp, sensing every tremor; Cai, flames leaping with uncontrolled passion; Shu, tides of shadow and depth that reached beyond comprehension.
"I will sever the tether," he said finally. "Not because I do not trust you—but because even immortals deserve their own purpose."
The Tuktan froze, anticipation and uncertainty coiling like serpents around the hall.
"I will release you," Zheng continued. "You will no longer be bound to my chi, no longer dependent on my endurance. You will walk free… yet still guard the empire. Stand as I taught you, not because I am your king, but because it is your choice to stand."
Ao's eyes softened. Ren exhaled as if releasing centuries of frozen air. Cai's flames dimmed, yet warmth remained. Shu's shadows deepened, settling into calm waters.
One by one, the Tuktan bowed—not in submission, but in recognition. They were no longer extensions of his suffering. They were themselves. Guardians, not prisoners of his burden.
Zheng felt a strange emptiness in the release, a vacuum where years of shared pain had lived. And yet, for the first time in centuries, he felt something like clarity. The weight was lighter—but never gone. The empire still demanded endurance. He still bore the pain of mortals, immortals, gods, and men alike. He was still the King of the Beginning.
But the Tuktan would stand on their own. They would be the first proof that even the heaviest burdens could be shared—not merely endured.
As the torchlight flickered across their faces, Zheng pressed his blindfold tighter. He would walk alone, yes—but no longer tethered those who had given him everything.
The empire waited.
And the King of the Beginning took another step forward.