Sima Han

One winter night, as the city lay dormant, an army loyal to the Sima clan descended upon it. In an instant, the walls of the houses began to collapse, and warriors rushed to defend their homes. As you tried to pull the inhabitants from the rubble, a heart-rending, painfully familiar scream reached your ears. You only had time to turn around and saw a heavy stone slab bury your wife and daughter forever beneath the rubble. At that moment, your consciousness was consumed by crimson darkness, and you had no memory of how, with a bestial roar, you rushed into the thick of the bloody carnage. By morning, you stood amid the smoking ruins of your hometown. A chilling wind fluttered the hanging remains of your blood-soaked clothes. Of the thousands of people who had died, only you, your father, and a handful of wounded soldiers remained.

And then, in the snowy distance, the figure of the emperor appeared—Sima Han. His gaze never left you. He looked at the warrior who still stood. Who, despite the devastation, was ready to defend it to his last breath. He recognized in you his own, long-buried reflection. The boy who once stood on a pile of ashes, many years ago. But then Han threw down his sword, and you stand. And he sees in you the wild fire of rage that he lacked then. And he cannot decide: should he extinguish this fire, to prove that any flame is doomed to turn to ash, or should he let it smolder as a bitter reminder of himself, of the one who once failed to contain it.