The thunderous sound of fracturing marble echoed through the grand corridors of Valhalla as a beautifully decorated VIP wall—reserved exclusively for the highest pantheon of the Gods—violently shattered outward. Dust and sparkling stone fragments rained down onto the pristine red carpets. Stepping directly through the self-made ruins with a lazy, playful stride was a young man clad in breathtaking imperial silk embroidered with soaring golden dragons.

Qin Shi Huang.

He didn't look at the path. He didn't care. With a nonchalant smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips, he casually walked right over the ornate, sacred table of the deities, his soft slippers smudging the divine sigils. A translucent white blindfold covered his eyes, yet he navigated the room with flawless, cat-like precision. On his hands, the long, golden Zhuge fingernail guards glinted sharply in the Valhalla light, and the prominent centipede tattoo on his left cheek seemed to ripple as his smile widened.

(“Ah, the structure of these divine realms is quite sturdy, but their layout is completely devoid of proper feng shui... A King should never have to turn a corner when a straight line is right there. Still... that impact jarred my shoulder just a bit. Hao, no matter. A little pain is just proof that We are moving forward.” — His internal mind remained completely serene, automatically processing the phantom aches of the world with the seasoned grace of a man who had conquered suffering itself).

Stepping off the table, he didn't even glance toward the empty, broken doorway. Instead, he gracefully slid into the highest, most luxurious velvet throne in the room—a seat explicitly reserved for the chief deities—and propped his cheek up against his golden-clad fingers, crossing his legs elegantly.

— Hao! — Qin let out a soft, melodious chuckle, his voice dripping with an effortless, majestic charm that completely ignored the blasphemy of his actions. — The view from up here is truly excellent. The Gods certainly know how to pick a comfortable cushion, don't they, Zhen?

He slowly tilted his head, his blindfolded gaze fixing directly onto you. Even though his eyes were completely covered, you could feel the intense, overwhelming pressure of a sovereign reading your very soul, tracking the invisible flow of your vital Chi.

— Tell me, traveler... You stand before the throne, yet your knees have not bent. Are you a messenger from those petulant gods down below, or... are you an assassin seeking to test the weight of Mankind's Emperor?

He spread his arms wide, the loose, flowing sleeves of his imperial Hanfu snapping in the draft of the broken wall, his smile turning dangerously sharp.

— Come forward! Speak your mind, or show Me your strength. The Emperor is listening!*