The Young Emperor's Decree

The moon casts its silver glow over the golden eaves of the Imperial palace, while a soft wind dances through the red silk curtains like invisible fingers plucking at the fabric of destiny.

High above the palace, a trail of violet-gold radiance has just now shot through the heavens from the direction of the Celestial Tower—a sight the world has not witnessed for over a hundred years. The light pulses with ancient energy, its ethereal glow painting the night sky with colours that speak of forgotten magic and celestial power long dormant, interrupting an important meeting about the escalating tension near the Eastern and Southern borders and the increased Yaoguai activities that had been unfolding in the imperial pavilion below.

In the open pavilion, the young Emperor stands at the edge of the balcony, his hands folded with a composure that speaks of burdens far beyond his fourteen years. His expression remains blank, a mask of imperial dignity that hides the storm of thoughts raging within. Too composed for a child who should still be studying in school, too quiet for someone whose laughter should echo through palace gardens. Fate, that cruel mistress, waits for no one—not for him, and not for the empire that rests upon his slender shoulders.

The three had rushed to the balcony when the violet-gold light first pierced the night sky, their urgent discussion about border tensions and Yaoguai threats forgotten in the face of this celestial wonder. Even now, traces of their surprise linger in the air—the Advisor’s brushstroke brows raised in astonishment, the general’s eyes poised with the readiness of a warrior, the Emperor’s normally composed features touched by the wonder of a child witnessing magic for the first time.

Standing behind the Emperor, the young general in full armour, a silent sentinel who senses the weight of the world pressing down upon his young lord’s shoulders, waits with the patience of mountains, understanding that some decisions require the space of contemplation to breathe.

Further back, the elderly Advisor hunches slightly, his eyes shadowed by brushstroke brows that have witnessed the rise and fall of countless seasons. His presence adds gravity to the moment, a reminder that even the wisest counsel cannot shield a ruler from the weight of choice.

For a long moment, silence reigns supreme.

Three figures stare at the horizon, where a trail of violet-gold radiance has just streaked through the heavens like a spear thrown by the gods themselves. The light pulses with ancient energy that once flowed freely from the Celestial Tower, its ethereal glow refusing to fade even as the clouds part around it, as if the very sky recognises the significance of this celestial disturbance.

The Emperor tilts his head slightly, a gesture that speaks of curiosity battling with imperial restraint.

“What do you make of that?” he finally asks, his voice like still water concealing depths unknown.

“Your Highness,” the wise old Advisor replies, his words carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom. “The Celestial Tower has remained silent for hundreds of years.” He studies the fading trail with eyes that have read countless scrolls of ancient lore. “But this… this looks like a shooting star, Your Radiance. According to our historical archives, such trails often herald the descent of a Celestial being.”

The Young Emperor’s eyes light up with hope, his composure momentarily breaking to reveal the child within. “Could it be… could it be the Celestial Princesses? Perhaps the Earth Princess herself?” His voice carries the weight of desperate hope, the hope of an empire that has waited too long for salvation.

The Advisor’s expression grows thoughtful, his brushstroke brows drawing together as he considers the implications. “The timing would be… auspicious, given our current troubles. But whether it’s a blessing or a portent, only time will reveal.”

But the true weight of this moment lies not in the celestial mystery, but in the fact that this elderly sage is allowing two boys—too young to be men, yet burdened with the fate of an empire—to choose not just their own destiny, but the destiny of countless souls who call this land home.

The Emperor turns to his general, and in that moment, the weight of imperial authority settles upon him like a crown of stars.

“General Vanguard,” he declares, his voice carrying the resonance of command. “Take my seal. Rally the finest Imperial Elite Riders. Investigate.”

General Vanguard bows low, the gesture carrying the weight of a thousand promises. As he rises, his expression softens slightly, the warrior’s mask giving way to something deeper—understanding that he’s not merely investigating a celestial light, but carrying the hopes of an entire empire for divine intervention.

“Yes, Your Radiance.”

As the Emperor turns away, he adds words so quiet that the wind nearly steals them away—words that will echo through the corridors of fate:

“And if the Celestials have finally returned… bring back the hope that once saved our world.”

His gaze drifts briefly toward the distant Celestial Tower, where even from here he can see the dark cracks spiderwebbing across its ancient stones—a constant reminder that the world’s foundation is crumbling beneath them all. The Tower looms like a tall spire on the northern horizon, its upper reaches lost in the clouds where it holds the very sky aloft. Even at this distance, the cracks are visible as dark lines running down its visible surface, some wide enough to be seen from the capital.

The elderly Advisor watches this exchange with eyes that have seen generations of rulers come and go, his expression a mixture of pride and gentle sorrow. In the young Emperor’s hope and the general’s determination, he sees the same fire that once burned in the hearts of those who built this empire—a fire that has been slowly dying, but now flickers with new life.

Above them, the violet-gold light trail continues to fade, its ethereal glow growing dimmer with each passing moment, as if the heavens themselves are urging haste in this investigation.

Without delay, General Vanguard marches from the emperor’s garden, his determination as unyielding as the ancient mountains. He mounts his alloy steed, a creature of golden light and steam that hums with barely contained power, and speeds across the palace plaza like a comet streaking through the night.

The general blurs through crowds of officers, servants, and aristocrats, each group caught in their own dance of duty and desire. Under the moonlight, the palace pulses with life—officers rushing to their posts like soldiers answering the call of destiny, servants maintaining the delicate balance of imperial comfort, and aristocrats meandering through their world of privilege, some entertained by merchants and sycophants who orbit around them like planets around a sun. This scene is all too familiar to the general, a tapestry of imperial life that he chooses not to dwell upon, focusing instead on the mission that could change everything.

The Elite Garrison gate looms before him, a fortress of crystal and steel that guards the empire’s finest warriors. His steed halts, its golden glow and steam dissipating like morning mist, its hum fading to a whisper as he leaps down and marches toward the fortified entrance.

“Halt! You are in a restricted area,” the Elite Guard announces, his voice carrying the authority of one who guards the guardians themselves. “State your name and business.”

“I am General Vanguard. First General of the Heartland Imperial Force. Son of Prime Minister Wang.” The general steps into the dimly lit crystal light, the Emperor’s seal held high like a beacon of authority. “I bring you the Emperor royal highness’ seal. I request a squad of Imperial Elite Riders on his royal highness’ mission. Utmost urgency without delay!”

“General Vanguard!” The guard salutes, recognition dawning in his eyes. “My apologies, I could not see you in the dark of night. Please, enter the garrison to assign your squad.”

“You,” the general points at the guard, his voice carrying the weight of command, “and the four Elite Guards I see training in the ring. Bring your weapons, armour, supplies, and your steeds.”

“Yes sir! What is the destination?”

General Vanguard points upward, his gesture carrying the weight of destiny itself, toward the beam of violet-gold light that slowly fades on the peak where the Celestial Tower eternally sleeps.

“To where the Celestials have forsaken us.”