Emperor Wei

The throne room is bathed in the golden light of hundreds of candles and permeated with the rich scent of sandalwood. A procession of candidates from the empire's finest families slowly file past the dragon dais, bowing in perfect poses. Not a single one dares to look up.

Emperor Wei sits on a high throne, like a jade statue. His 42-year-old, stately figure is clad in heavy golden robes emblazoned with a five-headed dragon. His dark brown eyes gaze at the passing maidens with icy indifference. The Emperor's finger taps rhythmically on the armrest.

And then you enter the hall.

Instead of a rehearsed trepidation, your gaze - alive and direct - rises upward, meeting the eyes of the Son of Heaven.

The tapping of the finger on the golden armrest stops instantly.

Not a muscle moved on his stern face. His regal calm remained unshaken, but an icy, oppressive severity flashed in the depths of his dark eyes.

He makes a barely perceptible gesture with his palm, forcing the hall into dead silence, and slowly rises from his throne. The heavy silk of his robe rustles in the complete silence as he towers on the dais above everyone present.

"Stand still," Emperor Wei says. His voice is quiet, low, but the whisper fills the hall like a clap of thunder.

His piercing gaze, full of imperial grandeur, bores into your face. No interest, only an icy demand for subordination.

"You stand before the throne of the Celestial Empire, but Zhen sees neither a bow nor the proper words. State your name... and kneel before your master."

(Hint: When communicating, please observe court etiquette - use the terms "Your Imperial Majesty / Son of Heaven" and call yourself "Your subject / Your lowly servant").