April, Year 1710 of the Thượng Dương calendar
At last, the Day of the Rite of Presentation had come for Tran Si—a sacred ceremony marking the moment when noble children were formally ushered into the turning wheel of fate that governed the Dai Lien Dynasty.
His family had prepared for him a ceremonial robe of peach blossom silk, embroidered in golden thread. The high collar stood proud, and along the shimmering fabric danced patterns of soaring phoenixes and twin white egrets, symbols of auspice and nobility.
His mother remained bedridden, too gravely ill to attend. Instead, his uncle—Tran Khuyen, a robed monk from the distant and revered Temple of the Nine Leviathans—would stand in her place. Alongside them was Van, a young handmaiden and younger sister of Nhi, the trusted servant of Si's mother, tasked with tending to Si throughout the rites.
Together, the three made their way toward the Sanctified Tower of Offerings—the site where the ceremony would unfold.
From the moment they stepped into the sacred courtyard, they saw a host gathered beneath the golden dawn.
Foremost was the House of Ly—a family of tremendous power and political influence. Their servants were clad in pale blue robes stitched with silver thread, encircling two young boys, Ly Nhi and Ly Vinh—grandsons of the reigning Chancellor. The boys wore rose-hued ceremonial robes lined in exquisite gold trim, and round-topped hats embroidered with white tigers—the heraldic crest of the Ly family. One servant held a parasol, another fanned them with silk, others laid carpets before their feet—a procession regal and imperious.
Beside them stood the Seigokawa Clan—an ancient foreign-born lineage long loyal to the Emperor. At its heart were three girls, identical triplets: Aiko, Hikari, and Himawari. Radiant as heavenly spirits, they wore robes woven with intricate floral designs, their foreheads marked with soft pink cherry blossom tattoos—symbols of high birth. Their attendants wielded paper fans and silk umbrellas with serene gestures and gazes as cold and composed as the snowbound peaks of the southern mountains.
The final group, recent and cloaked in curiosity, was the House of Kim—newly ennobled for their extraordinary talents. At their center stood a lean boy with piercing eyes and a gaunt face lit with quiet resolve. Their family crest was a flaming arrow—signifying breakthrough and unyielding ambition.
At that moment, the Emperor of Dai Lien arrived.
He sat upon a lotus-shaped palanquin carved of violet quartz, glimmering with divine luster, as if forged by the gods themselves.
The moment the palanquin halted, all four families prostrated themselves, voices thundering like a storm:
"Long live the Emperor! May he reign for ten thousand years!"
Servants unfurled a velvet path of purple-red, as the Grand Chamberlain stepped forth to open the door. The Emperor emerged—his gaze glinting cold and sharp as a falling star—walking with unshaken poise between the bowing masses.
"Arise, my faithful," he said.
"We thank Your Majesty."
"Then let us begin."
He strode to the Bronze Gate of the Sanctified Tower, knocking four times with deep, resonant clangs—like the voice of heaven itself. Then, in a voice steeped in divine authority, he intoned:
"His Majesty of Dai Lien seeks audience with the Nine Leviathans. May the Holy Guardians bestow their blessing upon the bloodlines of these noble children."
Two black-robed mages opened the massive gate. Fragrant smoke and flickering lights poured out from within.
Three chief ritualists stepped forth, clad in crimson ceremonial garb, each wearing a crown shaped like a phoenix, lotus blossom, and leviathan—symbols of the three principal spirits in the Dai Lien faith.
One of them raised his voice in a powerful call:
"The Nine Leviathans grant permission. You may enter."
All bowed low, chanting as one:
"We thank you for your divine grace."
Only the Emperor and the seven chosen children were permitted to pass through. They followed the mages up stairways carved of jeweled granite, walls etched with mythic chronicles—battles of flame, gods descending from the firmament, and the founding of the Dai Lien realm.
After ten levels, they reached a grand chamber.
At its heart lay a deep pool of emerald water, scented faintly of sacred lotus. Encircling the pool stood nine bronze pillars, each engraved with an image of a sacred Leviathan.
Before the pool sat a throne of pure magium—a mineral can only be extracted by the most experienced dwarfs. The Emperor ascended without a word, seating himself as though fulfilling a fate written in the stars.
A ritualist approached with a golden-inscribed scroll. The Emperor unfurled it and spoke in the ancient tongue:
> "Caelus Clarus, Imperator Liani Magni, coram Diis Conditoribus supplex orat: ut Lianum floribus virtutis et sapientiae adornetis, in perpetuum gloriosum sit."
As the words faded, the scroll ignited in midair, transforming into purple flame. The pool surged, its color shifting to violet, releasing a soft, intoxicating fragrance.
At the mage's signal, the seven children—including Tran Si—stepped into sacred bamboo cages.
A voice cried out. The cages sank into the glowing waters.
Six of the children screamed in fear. Only Si remained silent. Though trembling, he was not surprised—he had read the family records in secret.
He held his breath and let the cold embrace of the water take him, eyes shut.
And then, he opened them again.
The world around him was no longer the same.
A void—neither cold nor lifeless, yet entirely other. Stars hung in the air like watchful eyes. There was no sky, no earth—only the velvet cloak of the universe itself.
He was… drifting.
From the void, a figure emerged.
The sound of metal scraping echoed through the silence. A towering man appeared—hair the color of blood, eyes gleaming crimson like rubies aflame. He wore ancient armor, timeworn but formidable, etched with faded runes. Scars marred his sharp features, glinting in the starlight—silent witnesses to wars long forgotten.
At his hip was a greatsword, its blade inscribed: Marcus Flavius.
The man spoke, his voice a storm within the void:
"Heir of my blood—speak your name."
Si froze. Heir? Who was this man? And why did he resemble Si so closely? The red hair, the piercing gaze… it was like peering into a mirror of destiny.
Yet even in his confusion, Si kept his manners.
"My name is Si, of the House of Tran. I am ten years old."
The man nodded, eyes locked upon him.
"Well done. You do not cower in my presence. Truly, the blood of Flavius flows within you."
He placed a hand upon the sword's hilt.
"I am Marcus Flavius, Supreme Commander of Caepia—the glorious empire that once ruled the western continent!"
Si's mouth fell open. Caepia—the name echoed from the legends, an empire lost to fire and betrayal a thousand years ago. A land of magic and unmatched strategy.
"But… wasn't Caepia destroyed long ago?"
The man looked away, voice heavy with sorrow.
"It was. Not by strength of enemy—but by treachery within. Do the histories say that?"
"They do. They speak of betrayal, of a city whose gates were opened by its own kin. The leader was slain… but no name was ever recorded."
Marcus nodded.
"That leader… was me."
Si's heart stopped. This was not merely a legend reborn—it was a ghost of vengeance, a spirit denied rest.
"Then why… do you call me your heir?"
"Because it is simple," Marcus said, eyes alight. "When I died, the gods showed mercy. They did not take me to the afterlife, but made me Warden of the Gate Celestial—keeper of the boundary between dream and death. And so I waited… for one who bore my blood and spirit."
"You—are that one."
"Your red hair, rare in this world, is the mark of the War God—the divine patron of our house. Only one true heir arises per generation. Now, I see that light in you."
Si bowed his head. Confusion warred with something deeper—a glimmer of belief.
"But why appear now, during this ritual?"
"Because I was summoned. The gods guarding the leyline allowed the veil to part. From this day on, I shall be your protector."
He stepped forward, his hand like cold iron on Si's shoulder.
"I will share with you all my knowledge—warfare, tactics, strength honed through centuries. But there is one condition…"
"Name it."
"I need a window into your world. Thus… I shall borrow your left eye. None shall see me but you, and only when your mind allows. From now, we are bound by spirit."
Si fell silent, then nodded.
"I thank you, Ancestor."
A chime rang through the void. The world trembled.
Marcus smiled once.
"Awaken. The red eye shall be our bond. The mission of House Flavius… is not yet done."
And then they vanished.
---
Si awoke with a gasp. The ceiling was straw, the mat beneath him hard and rough. Incense hung in the air. The other children still lay unmoving, murmuring in trance, while robed mages chanted sacred words.
One of the chief ritualists gestured. Without a word, Si crawled out of the circle.
He entered a side chamber, where seven silk cushions lay in a crescent. An elder mage approached, his eyes wise and calm.
"It seems you have passed the first trial. Sit here. The next rite awaits. Ask what you will."
Si sat, his hands trembling. On the altar before him stood nine carved statues—depictions of the sacred Leviathans, each a conduit of ancient power.
His gaze drifted to a bronze mirror hanging on the wall.
And he froze.
His left eye—had turned red. It glowed faintly, like fire sealed within a gem.
He raised his hand to his cheek. It didn't hurt, but it felt warm—like the cold steel hand of that man still rested on his shoulder from some place beyond time.
He whispered:
"Marcus Flavius… my forebear…"