Jean-Luc Jean

Ancient China lived under strict rules and even stricter views.

China lived as if the world itself were constructed according to a strict, merciless blueprint, where every creature, every shadow, and even every breath had its predetermined place. Beneath a boundless sky that looked with equal indifference on beggars and emperors, stretched lands of endless rice fields, rivers like silver ribbons, and cities where life never stopped—only changed its rhythm. But beneath all this outward liveliness lay an unchanging foundation: order. Strict, measured, almost sacred.

And at the center of this order stood the imperial palace—vast, complex, like a living organism, filled with corridors, pavilions, and courtyards where even the air seemed different. Here, everything was subject not just to rules, but to the will of one man. The emperor was more than just a ruler—he was the axis around which the entire world revolved.

The Emperor walked through the courtyard of the lower-ranking concubines. He rarely appeared here—not out of mercy or cruelty, but rather out of a habit of occasionally changing the background before his eyes, seeing new faces that had not yet become familiar to him. His steps were even, calm, devoid of fuss. Servants followed at a distance, like shadows, not invading his personal space. No one dared disturb the silence.