A low groan rattled in his chest before he even opened his eyes. The world was soft and muffled, as though he were submerged in water. When warmth finally coaxed his lids apart, he found himself staring at rough wooden beams, streaked with smoke stains and the stubborn dust of years.

  “Renkun! Renkun, are you awake?”

  A frail voice hovered above him. Blinking, he turned his head and came face-to-face with a woman whose lined features and threadbare cotton gown marked her as his mother. Her dark eyes brimmed with relief.

  He tried to speak but only rasped. His throat felt scorched. A shaft of sunlight crept in through a narrow window, illuminating patches of straw on the earthen floor—and the thin cotton blanket draped over him.

  Where am I?

  Memories surged: the crush of the examination hall floor, the board of results with his name glaringly absent. Shame, burning like fever. Images of blood on paper, whispers of disgrace darting through the courtyard. All of it felt realer than the sunlit hut.

  He forced himself to sit up. Pain lanced through his side—he remembered collapsing, but everything after that was hazy. He glanced down at the robe he wore: no corporate suit, no office badge. Instead, coarse blue cloth stitched in the Hakka style, sleeves too long for his arms.

  “Mother… I…” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “What happened?”

  She exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath. “You lost your exam again. They carried you home to recover. Please, rest.”

  An electric tremor ran through him at the word exam, at the memory of that pavilion—the Fourth Imperial Examination, over a decade ago, in 1837. Hong Xiuquan, the failed scholar who claimed to be Christ’s younger brother, the revolutionaire who led millions to death. In school, they had called him delusional. Dangerous. Ambitious.

  That Hong Xiuquan?

  A cold thrill slithered down his spine. He closed his eyes against the shock. When he opened them, the room’s shadows seemed too deep, too deliberate, as if they were hiding something.

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  A breathless whisper curled in his mind, and the air before his vision shimmered:

  Mandate of Heaven Activated.

  Role: Heavenly King

  Followers: 1?Territory: 0?Heavenly Energy: 50

  He recoiled, as though branded. The words drifted away like dying embers, leaving only a hum at the edges of his hearing. His pulse thundered.

  “Mother…” he croaked, unsure whether to confess what he’d seen or dismiss it as fever-dream delirium. She pressed a cool hand to his brow, damp cloth in the other.

  “This is no dream,” he murmured, though neither of them could hear himself clearly.

  He tested his mind as if probing a wound. I am Hong Xiuquan. The name tasted wrong on his tongue, yet it fit the body. And this… this system?

  He sat up fully, ignoring his mother’s gentle protest. Beyond the hut’s open door, the village of Jintian sprawled in quiet activity—modest fields of sugarcane and rice hugging the foothills of Guangxi, chickens pecking lazily in the red dust. In the distance, winter clouds loomed over the low hills, curling over the rooftops like a waiting omen. It was early spring of 1843, but the air was still sharp with lingering frost.

  The Qing Emperor’s reach was distant here, but not absent. Tax burdens were harsh, landlords cruel, and bandits prowled the mountain paths with impunity. Here, Heaven felt silent—and the soil starved for justice.

  His first real thought, sharpened by the system’s cold logic, was not of salvation—but of survival.

  *What must I do first?*

  The answer materialized in his mind, precise and unyielding:

  First Task: Preach the Heavenly Vision to 7 villagers of Jintian.

  Reward: +30 Heavenly Energy, Skill Unlock – “Divine Persuasion.”

  He froze. Preach? Vision?

  He didn’t have a “vision,” not yet. But this system clearly expected him to speak as if he had one.

  His mother watched him with wide eyes. He forced a reassuring smile, though every muscle ached.

  “Thank you for caring,” he said softly. “But I must walk. Bring me water.”

  She hesitated, then scurried away. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, feeling unfamiliar weight in his calves and the hard press of straw beneath his feet. He moved slowly, calculating each step, as though his body were a new instrument he had to master.

  Outside, villagers paused in their chores to stare. Jintian wasn’t large—no more than 50 households—but each person here had heard of his collapse. A failed scholar, a sickly dreamer.

  He raised his hand.

  “Brothers and sisters of Jintian!” His voice rang out, louder than expected. “Heaven has spoken to me in fever and fire. The dragons that rule us have lost their virtue. A new age is rising—and I bring you its light!”

  Gasps. Murmurs. The bravest few stopped and stared, curiosity mingling with fear.

  He didn’t need all of them. Just seven.

  He let his eyes scan the faces. Seven was not many—but enough to build a spark.

  And so the Heavenly Kingdom began not with swords or banners, but with a voice—measured, burning, and cold.