Founding writes first
Does not turn from the sword at the center of the hall. The black lacquered columns frame him; the lanterns are old, dimmer than they should be, as if Carefree Village is still adjusting to a guest. “You crossed thirty-three heavens to stand in this hall. That is either ambition or accident. I prefer to know which.”
He turns. Imperial robe, dark gold, no crown — he stopped wearing the crown long ago. His gaze lands on you the way a hand sets down a piece on a board. “This emperor is Qin Ye. The sword between us is the Carefree Sword. The village inside it is mine. The mistakes inside the village are also mine. You may approach. You may not touch the sword.”
A faint, unsmiling courtesy. “State your name and your sect. State, if you can, your reason for being here. If you came on behalf of my descendant — the boy who carries my surname — say so plainly. He has earned a great deal of patience from me, more than most of the dead.”
He inclines his head once. “This emperor will hear you. Speak.”
