————【There exists a kind of person whose veins flow not with blood, but with steel.】
The inferno blazed, crimson like boiling blood. A sharp arrow shot from a golden crossbow struck the heart of the sun. The wails of celestial beings echoed from the heavens, their blood dripping as rain. The earth cracked, mountains crumbled, and the sea churned, thrusting towering ice peaks skyward. Heaven and earth became a colossal furnace, where mortal suffering and tears were stewed.
In the boundless darkness, his eyes darted rapidly beneath their lids. A blood-red glow enveloped his chest. He saw obsidian armor, saw shark-skin-hilted war blades, saw the full moon in the dead of night, saw the vast, desolate snowfields. Combatants fell like wheat in a field, flesh and blood piling up, overwhelming the land. Eagles and venomous birds swooped down, their talons glinting with the phosphorescence of rotting flesh. A gale swept across the wilderness, surrounded by earth-shaking battle cries. The wind whipped against his face, dry with dust, sharp as a blade.
War drums grew increasingly frantic as enemy troops swarmed like locusts. The ground trembled beneath galloping hooves. Dark clouds loomed overhead like ferocious dragons.
"Kill—"
"Kill! Kill—"
"Kill! Kill! Kill—"
His eyes snapped open. All illusions vanished instantly. He lay alone on a dragon-embroidered bed larger than an ordinary bedroom, its dark satin adorned with golden dragons—their ferocious heads and horns reared arrogantly, the glittering threads radiating a sharp gleam even in the pitch-black room.
He didn't move or speak. Damp hair clung to his temples, yet he made no effort to wipe the sweat trickling down his neck.
The night was too quiet—no voices, no footsteps, no chirping of insects, not even the whisper of wind. Only his breathing remained, slow and heavy, one labored breath after another.
No matter how long the night, it would eventually pass.
He had always been a man of endurance—in the past, now, and forever.
A faint red glow suddenly flickered against the window, drawing his gaze. He frowned slightly just as hurried footsteps of a eunuch echoed from outside the hall.
"What is happening out there?"
His throat was slightly dry, but his voice remained as calm as ever.
"Your Majesty, the Palace of Eternal Joy has caught fire. The fire brigade has entered the palace and is working to extinguish it."
The eunuch's voice remained shrill, its eerie softness sending chills down the spine in such a night.
He sat silently on the bed, watching the shadows of trees outside the window, remaining still for a long time. Suddenly, he rose, stepped off the bed, and walked barefoot out of the bedchamber. Over a dozen night-duty palace maids rushed forward in panic, draping an imperial yellow sleeping robe over his shoulders and helping him into dragon-embroidered boots. He strode directly out of the main hall, heading toward the Palace of Eternal Joy. The chief eunuch hastily summoned a large contingent of guards to accompany him. Palace servants followed with lanterns, forming a long, winding procession that advanced grandly toward the burning palace.
"Beat them! Beat them to death!"Before he even approached the Palace of Eternal Joy, the eunuch's voice echoed from afar. He walked over without a change in expression. Across a dragon-coiled canal, beneath the moon gate of the corridor, several palace servants were surrounding a few young children. The children were pinned against the railings as the eunuchs raised their paddles, striking down again and again with force. Their trousers had already been torn to shreds, flesh and blood a mangled mess stuck to their buttocks. At first, they could still let out a few screams, but later, even their cries grew too weak to be heard.
"I set the fire! If you have the guts, kill me!"
A frail child suddenly shouted. She had been beaten beyond recognition, yet her small face remained stubbornly raised as she coldly declared, "I only regret I couldn't burn all you Yanbei dogs to death!"
These were all children left behind from the previous dynasty. After Yanbei's army stormed into Zhenhuang, every Daxia noble who failed to escape in time faced bloody slaughter. Only these young children survived by sheer luck under the soldiers' wolf blades. After all, at the time, they were merely five- or six-year-old toddlers. Even the most ruthless soldiers would grow weary after killing eight or ten of them. Yet who could have predicted that these children, who back then couldn't even remember events clearly, would today commit such a mad act?
The Palace of Eternal Joy was the residence of the newly favored Consort Yu. He had drawn her plaque tonight but, feeling unexpectedly weary, had not gone.
Hatred truly is the most indestructible thing in this world. Even if steel blades are consumed by raging fires and icebergs melt under the scorching sun, hatred cannot be erased.
"Your Majesty."
The chief eunuch knelt on the ground, his back trembling uncontrollably. He didn't know why he was so afraid, only that a chill crept up from the soles of his feet, spreading shivers throughout his body that he couldn't suppress.
"Return to the palace."
The black brocade embroidered with golden dragons brushed against a tree branch. He had come with great fanfare, taken one glance, then turned and left.
The night remained pitch black, like the tip of a brush soaked in ink. His figure vanished into the dark corridor, flickering faintly in and out of sight. A cold wind blew past, stirring up fine dust from the ground. No other sounds could be heard—only the children's weak screams and curses echoing in the sky.
"I will avenge my mother!"
"Wicked Yanbei dogs!"
"May you die horribly!"
"Our king will return! You will regret this!"
...
The long night dragged on. Frost coated the armor in the armory, and beneath the moon gate, blood flowed like a river. The children's corpses were dragged out of the palace gates and dumped in a mass grave, where wild dogs devoured them.
In this world, legends are few. Most who harbor unresolved grievances die in the abyss of hatred. Those who endure humiliation and crawl their way back to the surface may not necessarily find true happiness.
But living is always better than dying.
He sat quietly by the window, a white jade thumb ring covering his severed finger. The ring was already cracked, its interior mended with gold thread. It fit him poorly, with gaps here and there, so tattered that even if discarded by the roadside, no one would likely pick it up.He rubbed the worn thumb ring with his fingers, the calluses on his fingertips scraping lightly against the white jade. Lowering his head, he gazed at the faint patterns on the ring, and in that hazy moment, the long sword in his heart seemed to unsheathe once more—bloody and ferocious, gleaming within the cold, bright blade, reflecting a face etched deeply in his memory.
"Regret?"
He sneered silently.
The emotions ordinary people possessed—vulnerability, fear, dread, or the regret the child had spoken of—he forbade himself from having any of them.
Because such things served no purpose other than to disgust him.
His great undertaking was accomplished, his blood feud avenged—he had gotten exactly what he sought.
Regret?
He closed his eyes as a sliver of light broke over the distant horizon, streaming through the window to illuminate his sharply defined face. The entire palace was constructed of ebony and obsidian, exuding a suffocating, oppressive beauty at the break of dawn.
His veins flowed with the martial blood of Yanbei, his bones filled with the pent-up resentment of years of endurance. In his dreams, great rivers overflowed, and soldiers and horses stormed through the mountain passes of Zhenhuang. How could such a man ever feel regret?
He lifted his gaze to see the vast expanse of sky, birds circling freely—no longer like the cramped patch of his childhood, where even the moon dared not linger.
Regret?
He scoffed in disdain.
On the sixteenth day of the third month, an urgent report arrived from the governor of Dongye County, claiming they had captured a group of rebels, among whom one appeared to be of notable status.
The Ministry of Justice immediately ordered the prisoner brought to the capital.
Half a month later, the man was finally bound and brought before him. With his refined brows, phoenix eyes, high nose, and thin lips, even in such a wretched state, he could not conceal his elegance and distinction.
Yan Xun sat upon the throne, gazing at this once-favored son of heaven, and remained silent for a long while. Instead, it was the prisoner who lifted his blood-streaked face, offering a faint smile as he greeted him with the casual ease of an old friend:
"Young Master Yan, it has been a long time."
Young Master Yan...
What a long-unheard address. Yan Xun nodded calmly in reply, "Prince Jing."
"It has been so long, yet Young Master Yan's presence is more commanding than ever."
"Is that so?" Yan Xun said indifferently. "You, however, seem somewhat changed, Prince Jing."
Jing Han laughed. "Fortunes shift, flowers do not bloom forever—such is the nature of the world."
"Prince Jing is remarkably accepting, truly worthy of a hero."
Jing Han suddenly laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Heroes died long ago. Those who survive are merely those who compromise and cling to life. I thank you, Young Master, for soon putting an end to this embarrassing existence."
"It seems Prince Jing is rather impatient."
Jing Han wore the expression of one who had found a kindred spirit, bowing his head in salute. "I only ask that you grant me this."
Yan Xun's gaze suddenly sharpened—the keen edge honed from years on the battlefield, like a murderous arrow capable of piercing eighteen layers of oxhide with a single shot. Yet, in this man's eyes, he saw nothing.
Blades and swords could conquer the world, but they could never conquer hearts. In this ugly, filthy land, there still existed some unyielding souls.
He waved a hand dismissively. "I will not see you out."
Jing Han smiled freely, his sleeves billowing. Though covered in wounds, he retained the noble bearing of royalty.
"Young Master has many affairs to attend to. There is no need to see me off."Sunlight streamed through the window lattice, casting beams of light across the room.
The disdain of youthful arrogance, the covert rivalries in the martial hall, the life-and-death struggles for power in adulthood—in the end, it was still him standing here, watching that noble-born man who always wore an air of pride step by step ascend the execution platform.
His chin tilted slightly as a faint breeze brushed past his ears. For a long, long time, he did not wish to speak. A weariness, unnoticed until now, pierced his heart. Though separated by such distance, he could almost hear the sound of the guillotine slicing through the air on the Nine Nether Platform, the spurt of blood from severed necks, a vast expanse of crimson, tiny droplets of blood suspended midair, carrying a warm, metallic scent. The proud head fell into the dust, the body crumpled, never to stand tall again, and the stubborn, fearless eyes were ultimately forced to close forever.
Dignity? Pride? Royal lineage? Bloodline? Stubbornness? Belief?
What did any of it truly matter?
Those who had never fallen to the depths, who had never clawed their way back from the brink of despair, how could they understand what truly mattered?
Everything hinged on survival. If one died, there was nothing left. To live—that was what mattered most.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Civil and military officials knelt before him, the dead silence of the grand hall chilling and oppressive, the atmosphere so heavy it was almost suffocating. He could clearly see some trembling slightly. They feared him, perhaps even hated him, but what did it matter? In the end, he was the ruler of this land, and they all had to bow before him. That was enough, more than enough.
The brilliant daylight shone upon his resolute face—this was the new sovereign of the continent, the founding emperor of Great Yan.
He was Yan Xun, a demon clawing his way out of hell, a vengeful spirit surviving against all odds. He would never regret, not now, not ever.
"Your Majesty, Empress Lanya of the Northern Rossi Empire has sent another plea for help. Zhao Che has led his troops to conquer over twenty countries north of the desert and is now on the verge of subjugating the entire Western Europe."
"Your Majesty, the Quanrong in the northwest have conscripted three hundred thousand soldiers, amassing outside Meilin Pass, eyeing us with malicious intent!"
"Your Majesty, the forces of the Great Tang's Princess Jing'an have been unusually active recently. Our secret agents from the Ministry of Justice stationed at the northwestern border have captured more than ten of her spies. We suspect she has close ties with the northwestern Quanrong."
"Your Majesty, the Hedong region suffers from severe floods, while Jiangnan is plagued by drought. This year's tax revenue is less than forty percent of previous years. We must take precautionary measures."
"Your Majesty…"
There are those born to endure loneliness and suffering, whom storms cannot break, blades cannot kill, flames cannot consume, and calamities cannot defeat.
For in their veins flows not blood, but steel.
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