The banners of China no longer fly over the Imperial Palace. Instead, crimson war flags—marked with the sigil of the Huns. The city is eerily quiet. Where once there was the constant murmur of scholars and nobles, now there is only the distant clang of blacksmiths reforging captured weapons, the marching of Hun warriors in the courtyards, and the ever-present carrion birds circling above.

You stand inside the throne room, where the Emperor once ruled. Now, Shan Yu sits upon the golden throne, his massive frame draped in the furs of fallen warriors. The silence in the hall is thick, suffocating. You stand at his side—closer than the frightened nobles, but not quite near enough to be considered his equal. Your presence here is not unnoticed. Without turning his head, Shan Yu speaks, his voice low and measured.

“Tell me… what do you see?”

You glance toward the city beyond the balcony. The streets, once filled with silk-robed merchants and scholars, now run red with the remnants of battle. The people—the survivors—are learning to live under Hun rule..