BOOM!The gates of Lingnan Prefecture exploded with a thunderous crash as the battering rams struck one final time. A chaotic swarm of rebel forces surged into the city—dressed in motley garments, brandishing all manner of crude weapons.
The Prefectural Governor of Lingnan was hacked to death in the streets. On the city walls, the black double-dragon standard of the Great Qin Empire was yanked down and replaced by a battle flag of dull ochre—emblazoned with a single, oversized character: "Xiang."
Within a modest, unremarkable house tucked inside the city, Master Song Wuzheng, head of the Song family, sat silently in his study. His aged fingers gently stroked the surface of an old, dust-covered rectangular box resting on the table. The box looked ancient—crude in design, but radiating a dormant power.
"Father? Father?" A voice like silver chimes rang from beyond the door. "Are you inside?"
Song Wuzheng frowned. He slid the box beneath the desk and replied calmly, "Come in. The door's not locked."
The door creaked open. A girl stepped in, clothed in a pale yellow dress. She looked to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, and carried with her an ethereal purity—like a still, untainted pool of spring water.
"Qing'er," Song Wuzheng said, his normally stern face softening at the sight of his only daughter. Yet behind that fatherly tenderness lingered a sorrow he tried hard to mask.
At sixty-three, Song Wuzheng had three concubines aside from his principal wife, but had never sired a child—until he was forty-six, when his wife, Zhang shi, unexpectedly became pregnant. Qing'er was born from that miracle, and since then had been the treasure of his life.
Though a man of the sword himself, Song Wuzheng did not want his daughter to follow the same rugged path. He had hired renowned scholars to teach her the classics, governance, and statecraft, hoping to shape her into a woman of unparalleled intellect.
Song Qing did not disappoint. Brilliant from an early age, she grasped knowledge effortlessly, often astonishing even the most erudite tutors with her insight and sharp critique. Even on dry topics like policy and governance, she showed enthusiasm and innovation.
As for the arts—music, painting, poetry—her talent was nothing short of prodigious. Local scholars in Lingnan quietly admitted her superiority. But when it came to more traditional skills for women, such as embroidery or cooking, she scoffed. "That's for little girls," she would say. "I am a great scholar."
From the age of thirteen, her fame spread throughout Lingnan. Suitors came in droves, seeking her hand, but none passed her standards.
This distressed Song Wuzheng. In high society, for a daughter to remain unmarried after fifteen was an embarrassment. But he could not bear to give her away lightly. Breaking with tradition, he let her choose her future husband herself.
Now nearing eighteen, Song Qing had yet to find a suitor worthy in her eyes.
But the true reason behind Song Wuzheng's indulgence was far grimmer.
Years ago, when Song Qing had fallen ill with a fever, her father had attempted to treat her with internal energy—but to his horror, discovered that she bore the legendary "Three-Yin Severed Pulse."
According to The Heavenly Reversal Codex left behind by the Grand Priest Tai Gong Wang, those with this condition bore a death sentence: their inner balance of Heaven, Earth, and Man was severed, leaving the body shrouded in fatal cold. A male could barely live past thirty; a female, being yin in nature, would never survive twenty.
Song Wuzheng searched the land for a cure. Not a single physician offered hope.
Heartbroken, he shifted his focus from saving his daughter's life to simply making what little time she had as joyous as possible. He spoiled her, protected her, gave her the freedom no other girl of her time could dream of.
Even her mother knew nothing of this.
And now, that dreadful milestone—her twentieth year—drew ever closer. Every time he looked at her, a wave of grief washed through his heart.
He would carry her to her grave himself. He knew it.
Now, Song Qing stepped up to the desk, her bright eyes steady. "Father," she said evenly, "Xiang Qi's army has taken Lingnan. The last of the loyalist forces have been defeated. Governor Lu Yao has fallen in battle. The rebels are now raiding every home. Any household of wealth or nobility is being slaughtered, and their possessions redistributed to the poor. They'll reach us in less than an hour."
Song Wuzheng nodded slowly. "I doubt the rebels will harm the Song family. We've given away food and silver to the people every year. Even the mob has eyes."
"Father," Song Qing said quietly, "Philanthropist Wang of the southern district and his entire family have already been killed. His house ransacked. His grain seized."
A shadow fell across Song Wuzheng's face. "He did as much good as we ever did. It seems victory has clouded the mob's judgment. They no longer distinguish friend from foe."
After a long silence, he asked, "Have our preparations been made?"
"Yes," Song Qing replied. "All the servants and guards have been dismissed, given silver, and dressed as peasants. They'll blend into the crowd. Mother and the others are in the carriages, ready to depart through the back gate. Uncle Qi and the other old friends are here. The household guard—123 strong—are armed and ready."
"Uncle Qi's here? Excellent," said Song Wuzheng. "Tell the guards to disperse. Give them silver. Let them vanish among the people. One hundred men against an army is suicide. There's no need for them to die. With me and Uncle Qi here, your mother and you will be safe."
Song Qing nodded. "Anything else, Father?"
"That is all. Go and prepare. I will be along shortly."
She turned to leave, but paused when her father called after her.
"Qing'er... are you afraid?"
She turned and smiled like spring sunlight. "With Father here, what do I have to fear?"
Song Wuzheng laughed aloud. "Good girl! If I can't protect my own daughter, what right do I have to be called the greatest general of the Seven Kingdoms?"
When she was gone, he pulled the box back onto the desk. His hands trembled slightly as he whispered:
"I thought I'd never need you again. But fate has forced my hand. Do you remember the days we fought beside the Holy Sovereign? The heroes we crushed? The glory we bathed in? The world was torn into seven... and yet none could stand against us."
He pressed a circular button on the box.
CLICK.
The lid sprang open with a metallic snap. A blinding light surged out, swallowing his figure whole. A sound like a dragon's roar echoed through the room—shaking the walls and floor with its fury.
Outside, in the courtyard, five old men lifted their heads at the sound. They were known as the Five Friends of Lingnan—second only to Song Wuzheng himself in martial prowess.
The oldest, "Old Bamboo" Qi Yunshan, gasped aloud.
"The Heavenly Weapon—Dragon Song—has returned! The prophecy of Tai Gong Wang has come to pass!"