The transition between life and death did not feel like a bridge; it felt like a fall.
General Long Tian remembered the taste of iron and the scent of sandalwood. He remembered the cold bite of the dagger between his ribs—the treachery of the very ministers he had bled to protect. He remembered the sight of his own blood staining the white marble of the Victory Hall, and the mocking silence of the Emperor he had served for thirty years. He had died a hero to the commoners, but a threat to the throne.
Then, there was only darkness. A heavy, suffocating void.
And suddenly, a gasp.
Long Tian's eyes snapped open. The first thing he felt was not the sharp agony of a lung wound, but an overwhelming, sickly sweet scent of cheap incense and spilled wine. His head throbbed with a rhythm that felt like a war drum, and his limbs felt heavy—not with the iron-like density of his former martial prowess, but with the sluggish weight of a body that had never known a day of discipline.
He tried to sit up, but his hand slipped on a silk sheet, and he tumbled back onto a pile of velvet pillows.
"Your Majesty! You're awake!"
A high-pitched, frantic voice pierced through his migraine. Long Tian turned his head. His vision blurred, then focused on a small, elderly man dressed in the ornate, albeit slightly tattered, robes of a Palace Eunuch. The man looked terrified, his wrinkled face pale under the dim lantern light.
Your Majesty?
Long Tian frowned. His throat felt like it was filled with dry sand. "Water," he croaked. The voice that came out was not his—not the deep, booming command of the General of the North, but a high, reedy tone that sounded pampered and weak.
The old man scrambled to a side table, his hands trembling as he poured water into a golden cup. As he drank, Long Tian's mind began to reel. Memories that weren't his started to flood his consciousness, crashing like waves against a shoreline.
He saw a child ignored by his father, the previous Emperor. He saw a youth being fed endless carafes of wine by smiling maids. He saw a man—this man, Zhao Feng—sitting on a massive throne while a man with a goatee, Prime Minister Cao, whispered orders in his ear. Zhao Feng was the "Foolish Emperor," a puppet kept in a state of perpetual stupor so the court could feast on the marrow of the Empire.
Long Tian lowered the cup. The realization hit him with the force of a cavalry charge.
Transmigration. He was no longer in the Continent of the Heavenly Dragon. He was in the Chinese Kingdom, inhabiting the body of a man who was the laughingstock of the world.
He stood up, ignoring the dizziness. He walked toward a tall, bronze mirror in the corner of the lavish, messy chamber. The reflection that stared back was a young man, perhaps twenty-two years of age. The face was handsome, with high cheekbones and a straight nose, but the eyes were clouded, and the skin was sallow from excess. However, as Long Tian peered closer, he noticed something. Beneath the layers of soft fat and the lethargy of luxury, this body had a remarkable skeletal structure. The shoulders were broad, and the wrists were thick.
This body... Long Tian gripped his own forearm. It is inherently powerful. Zhao Feng was born with the physique of a titan, but he allowed it to rot through indolence.
"Eunuch Lian," Long Tian said, his voice cold and steady.
The old eunuch froze. He had served Zhao Feng for years, and he had never heard the Emperor speak with such chilling clarity. "Y-yes, Your Majesty?"
"What day is it? And why is the palace so quiet?"
"It is... it is the night before the Spring Festival, Your Majesty. Prime Minister Cao suggested you retire early with the 'special' wine he sent, so you could rest before tomorrow's ceremony."
Long Tian looked at the spilled wine on the floor. He leaned down and sniffed it. A faint, bitter metallic tang.
Arsenic.
The realization was a cold splash of water. They weren't just keeping him a fool anymore; they were ready to dispose of the puppet. Prime Minister Cao likely intended for the "Foolish Emperor" to die in his sleep, blaming it on a heart weakened by wine, clearing the way for a more convenient heir.
"Lian," Long Tian said, turning to the old man. His gaze was like a sharpened blade. "From this moment forth, you will speak to no one of my change in demeanor. If anyone asks, I am still the drunken fool. Do you understand?"
Eunuch Lian fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. He had been a loyal servant to Zhao Feng's mother, and for years he had watched the young Emperor be destroyed by the court. For the first time, he saw a spark in those eyes—not a spark, but a bonfire.
"Hamba... this servant understands, Your Majesty! I have prayed to the heavens for this day!"
Long Tian nodded. He walked to the center of the room and began to move. He performed a basic military stance—the Foundation of the Iron Mountain. His muscles screamed in protest, his heart hammered against his ribs, but he did not stop.
The soul of a General was now forged into the body of an Emperor.
Prime Minister Cao. Empress Dowager Wei. The treacherous ministers of the Chinise Court.
Long Tian felt a grim smile tug at his lips. In his past life, he had conquered seven kingdoms for an ungrateful master. In this life, he would conquer his own palace, and then, he would show this world what happens when a God of War is given a throne.
"The puppet's strings are cut," he whispered into the darkness of the room. "And the stage is about to burn."
He spent the next hour pushed to his limits, testing the endurance of this new frame. Despite the exhaustion, he felt a strange resonance. The more he moved, the more the latent strength in Zhao Feng's muscles seemed to awaken. It was a vessel of immense potential, a temple of flesh waiting for a worthy god to inhabit it.
Suddenly, a soft rustle came from the balcony.
Long Tian's instincts, honed by a thousand battles, screamed. He didn't turn around. Instead, he reached for a heavy silver fruit knife on the table.
"Come out," he commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of an executioner's axe.
From the shadows of the silk curtains, a figure emerged. It was a woman, dressed in a tight-fitting midnight-blue robe, her face partially obscured by a veil. Her eyes, however, were sharp and filled with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
"So," the woman said, her voice like velvet over steel. "The Foolish Emperor has been hiding his claws. My father will be very interested to hear this."
Long Tian recognized her from his inherited memories. Selir Meilin, the Prime Minister's finest spy, placed in his harem to ensure he never woke up from his stupor.
"Your father will hear nothing," Long Tian said, his body tensing, ready to strike. "Because tonight, you will decide if you wish to die for a man who views you as a tool, or live for a man who is about to become the Master of this World."
The air in the room turned heavy. The first battle of his new life had begun, not on a field of grass, but in the heart of his own sanctuary.
Long Tian took a step forward, the silver knife reflecting the dying light of the lantern. Zhao Feng was dead. The General had arrived.