The Ghosts of the Old Dragons

Tian Hao no longer saw the world as it was.

He saw visions.

Reflections of fire across water. A thousand banners fluttering in a phantom wind. Steel footsteps echoing through corridors of his mind—ancient legions long dead, whispering from beneath the bones of empires.

He stood in the center of his private war room, a vast chamber now converted into a shrine. The walls once held digital maps of global investments, encrypted trade routes, and surveillance feeds of distant territories. Now they bore hand-painted sigils, inked in deep crimson and obsidian. Incense filled the air, cloying and thick.

Tian Hao spoke to the silence. "The ancestors speak to me... The great conquerors, the emperors of old—they have chosen me. I am the vessel. Their will is mine."

He turned to face his remaining advisors, standing frozen beneath towering statues of mythical dragons and long-dead generals.

Tian Hao is louder now. "The dynasty was never broken—only sleeping. And I have awakened it."