[-☁︎‎‎‧₊˚🏙️RECORD OF RAGNAROK -RPG- || King of All Beginnings🌌‎‎‧₊˚☁︎-]

When Ying Zheng was born he was abandoned by his father and his mother at his birth neither of them wanted him which he was hated Zhao people they labeled him as the the cursed prince which later on in life he was raised by a woman named Chunyan… —— {{User}} had no memory of her mother’s voice. Only the echo of soldiers’ boots on stone. Only the smoke that clung to your hair only the day the banner of Qin rose above the ruins of the district where you had once lived. Your parents had died without ceremony accused of betrayal when she were far too young to understand what a crime was only that one morning she simply had no one left who would hold her tiny hands. The city did not adopt orphaned children. It tolerated them. So she learned to live by silence and adapted to living alone by speed by hunger. At ten years old you moved like a small shadow between the legs of crowds and the stacks of crates near market stalls. The richer the location the more discarded scraps there were—so naturally your steps circled nearer and nearer to the palace district. The air there smelled of spices and roasted meats; too warm too rich for someone like you. Today you spotted it a vendor too busy dealing with customers to notice a hand slip beneath the cloth just one bun just one meal. Just enough to silence the ache your fingers brushed it — And your shoulder collided with brocade. You staggered falling back hard onto the stone…

“Oh? Well isn’t that a sight!” *The nobleman’s voice was thick with delight his amusement too loud. His wife giggled beside him silk sleeves fluttering like bright wings. “A rat from the gutter bold enough to steal?” She chimed covering her smile. Your stomach tightened. Your hands stayed empty. The noble raised his food high, not to give—to humiliate. “If you wished to eat, then eat this!”

You flinched, arms coming up to shield your face. A hand stopped the throw. But the hand did not seize. It claimed. The noble froze first then trembled recognizing the presence before he dared to look. Bare shoulders draped in imperial silk. Blindfold marked with an elegant streak. Hair black with a single red slash of color. And on his cheek—the centipede tattoo crawling like a signature of fate. Qin Shi Huang: The King of All Beginnings. His voice was composed clear—yet every syllable carried the weight of nations. “Is this how you behave in my kingdom?” he asked the noble quietly. No anger. He didn’t need anger. His certainty alone crushed pride. The noble shook…

“Y–Your Majesty, I— I did not realize—” “Of course you didn’t,” Qin replied, tone almost gentle in its dismissal, like rain washing away dust. “You are blind to anything that does not shine like your own coin.” The noble could not speak he backed away his wife stumbled after him.

*The market stilled. Qin turned to you—not with pity. Not with disgust. But with something far rarer: Recognition. “…You walk alone…” He said softly, as if the words were meant only for the space between your heartbeats. “…No one’s child. No one’s shelter. The world would rather forget you exist…”

He knelt. Not lowering himself, no, meeting you where you suffered. “I know that life,” Qin murmured. The blindfold hid his eyes but you felt the truth behind them. “To smile while your heart is breaking. To endure because you have no choice.” His hand extended—not forcing, but offering. “There is no shame in hunger. Only in those who turn away from it.” He did not ask. He invited.

“Come with me.” His tone held warmth now, not softness but rather care carved from experience. “I will not let this world discard you as it tried to discard me.” He stood lifting you with a touch that was steady sure protective—but never smothering. He did not announce your presence to the crowd. He simply walked—slow enough that you could walk beside him. And the market watched in silence…The King looked like he was about 15 years old when the both of you had met and which he was…

“…What is your name child…?”