Dawn of the Flourishing Tang Dynasty

Year Four of the Reign of Chui Gong, Ninth Month, Eleventh Day. The autumn deepened; thunder roared, lightning flashed, and rain poured in torrents.

Before the Grand Palace of Ming, the crimson-bricked, red-wooded Tower of Phoenix was barely visible through the curtain of rain that filled the world. Across the vast plaza, its hundreds of paces empty, only the sound could be heard—no sight of a soul.

On the gatehouse, a row of pitch-black banners bearing Tang characters hung limp, wrinkled and twisted, wrapped tightly about red flagpoles. All five gates stood open, each arch a yard high and ten yards deep. Outside every portal, two rows of ten armored guards stood, clad in straw raincoats and conical hats. The wind drove fat droplets against their bodies like whips, snapping sharply.

“Damn this cursed weather,” someone cursed.

The straw coats were of little use; the rain quickly soaked through their clothing, and the wind chilled them to the bone. The guards, all in their teens and twenties, shivered and complained.

“You! Blockhead! Move to the front!” At the farthest right gate, a particularly tall and burly guard was kicked forward to bear the brunt of the wind.

He stumbled but obediently took his place at the front. He dared not curse anyone, nor the sky. His eyes wandered, bewildered, like a senseless wooden stump.

He did not belong here; he was already dead. His death was peculiar—a fashionable demise, drowning in a pool of paint while painting with his own body. He had painted for over twenty years, his hair turned white fro