His Imperial Majesty of Great Virtue, the Sovereign Emperor Shengming

The imperial palace was vast and still. In the secluded imperial study, a golden dragon-engraved desk stood solemnly, illuminated by the warm glow of a gilded palace lamp. Its light cast rippling circles across the room. On the desk lay a thick stack of memorials; a few had been opened, marked with only a few cinnabar characters: Reviewed.

Behind the desk, seated on the dragon throne, was a square-faced man with large ears. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, worry etched deeply into his features.

I am the Emperor Shengming of Great Virtue, and I have ruled for more than twenty years. Since the founding of this dynasty by the Martial Emperor of Great Virtue, our empire has flourished for millennia. Over hundreds of emperors have sat on this throne, yet I fear none have been as powerless as I am.

"When the learned twist the law with Confucianism, and the swordsman breaks it with martial might."— The ancients spoke true.

Since time immemorial, emperors have regarded the former with utmost caution, and I was no different. The great Confucian scholars have long been the bane of the royal house—citing scripture, debating with reason, entirely indifferent to imperial will. There were times when members of the royal family might have been spared, only to be beheaded because of them.

These scholars, steeped in Confucian thought, are clever but corrupt at heart. In the twentieth year of Emperor Mingzong's reign, a great rebellion broke out—sparked entirely by the literati. It remains a lasting disgrace upon the royal lineage. For generations, emperors have regarded Confucianism with deep suspicion.

I once believed that as long as I followed the time-honored method of "restraining Confucianism with Confucianism," I could preserve peace and enjoy a century of rule. Not even I foresaw that the second half of that ancient saying would come to be the greater threat.

The warrior's insurrection— its roots were planted over four centuries ago.

As long as the martial world didn't threaten the imperial court directly, the throne turned a blind eye. The jianghu has existed for generations, beyond the reach of any one dynasty. These people, who move like ghosts and fly across rooftops, could not be easily confronted. Anger them, and not even the royal guards could protect the emperor. To many powerful martial artists, even this heavily guarded palace is no barrier. Should the court provoke them, it's not unthinkable that the emperor might be found beheaded the very next day.

Martial artists have no sense of loyalty or state—they kill and plunder with less conscience than the common thief.

Still, the court never gave them complete freedom. Long ago, my forebears established covert channels to monitor the martial world.

The chaos began with one man—over four hundred years ago, a warrior named Fengyun Wuji. His martial prowess shocked the world; people hailed him as the Sword Deity. It's said he transcended the mortal realm through martial cultivation and ascended to the heavens in broad daylight. But the Demonic-Slaying Sutra he left behind has since become the seed of endless bloodshed.

Today, the martial world has grown too powerful, and the court too weak. Each day, reports of massacres pour into the capital like snow, yet the Six Gates Bureau, sent to investigate, is powerless. Our constables are slaughtered one after another. The martial world is no longer under imperial control. It is in utter chaos—chaos beyond the court's grasp.

"When the learned twist the law with Confucianism, and the swordsman breaks it with martial might." Between the two, the latter is the far greater threat.

When the martial world falls into disorder, the world follows. And when the world is in chaos, so too is the court. I may wear the imperial crown, but the decisions are made by others. A mockery! For twenty years, I've reigned—a puppet emperor.

I refuse to accept this. I once dreamed of rallying the world under my banner, restoring unity beneath the heavens. But that dream—can never come true.

I will not accept this fate. I will not! I will not! I will not!

If one day I could reclaim true power—I would see every last martial artist in the realm executed.

Creak—The great doors of the imperial study opened. A gust of wind blew in, causing the flame of the palace lamp to flicker. Emperor Shengming, now in his forties, suddenly seized the cinnabar brush at his side, dipped it in red ink, and unrolled a memorial. With bold, sweeping strokes, he wrote:

"When the learned twist the law with Confucianism, and the swordsman breaks it with martial might."

Then, as if pouring all his rage into the brush, he scrawled a single word over and over:

Kill! Kill! Kill!

And with that, he collapsed into his seat, all strength drained from his body.

Outside, a eunuch stepped quietly into the chamber. He walked over to the emperor and relit the lamps extinguished by the wind. His eyes fell upon the red words on the dragon desk—each "Kill" bolder than the last. A flicker of emotion passed over his face. He reached out with talon-like fingers, calmly closing the memorial.

"Your Majesty, you must rest. You've stayed here long enough."

"You wretched cur! Who gave you the right to decide what I do?!" the Emperor roared in fury.

But the eunuch was unfazed. "The message has been delivered. Whether or not you go—that's your decision, Your Majesty. Hmph…"

With that, he slipped the memorial into his robe, turned, and walked out. At the threshold, he paused and gave the emperor a strange, unsettling smile—then creak—shut the door behind him.

"You—!" The emperor pointed after him, shaking with rage, but no words came. His chest tightened. He collapsed once more into the throne.

The study was silent. A wave of loneliness, humiliation, and despair washed over him. The Emperor's heart bled with anguish.

A ruler without power. A court without loyalty. Heavens—do you mean to destroy the thousand-year foundation of Great Virtue?

"You are truly... unwilling to accept this, aren't you?"A calm voice echoed through the study.

The Emperor bolted upright, eyes darting wildly. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

From behind the screen, a man emerged—expressionless, his presence icy and overwhelming.

Fengyun Wuji.

The Emperor stumbled back in shock, but then, strangely, regained his composure.

"Who are you? Don't you know this is forbidden ground? Intruders are punished by the death of nine generations!" he shouted, his voice now tinged with imperial authority.

Fengyun Wuji said nothing. He simply stared into the emperor's eyes and asked:

"Do you wish to reclaim power? To restore the dignity of your throne?"

The Emperor's heart screamed, Yes! I would give anything! But outwardly, he restrained himself. "What gives you the right to speak such words?" he asked coolly.

Fengyun Wuji didn't answer. With a flick of his sleeve, a violent surge of sword intent burst forth.

Crack! Crack!

Tiny fissures spread outward from his feet like spiderwebs. The wooden lattices shattered like firecrackers, exploding into threads. Everything in the room rose from the ground, suspended in the air, orbiting them slowly.

In that moment, the Emperor sensed something familiar within Fengyun Wuji—an aura of imperial majesty.

His expression shifted. "It's you!" he gasped.

"You only recognize me now?"

The Emperor remembered—the battle against the Kingdom of Sakura. A mysterious man had appeared, commanding tens of thousands of arrows with a single gesture. Fengyun Wuji's time on the battlefield had been brief, and the emperor never saw his face. But the aura he carried—the aura of a true sovereign—had left a lasting impression. It was something all emperors are born to sense, even if they knew nothing of qi or martial arts.

That day, Fengyun Wuji's imperial presence had burned itself into Shengming's soul.

"I believe in your strength," the Emperor said at last. "What must I give in return?"

For the first time, a faint smile crossed Fengyun Wuji's face.

"You've made the right choice..."