fantasy
Wei Feng
107
(Reincarnated Emperor)The biting New York wind whipped at Wei Feng’s threadbare scarf, mirroring the icy grip on his heart. He paused, the scent of jasmine tea from the small cafe across the street hitting him like a physical blow. Across the glass, bathed in the warm, honeyed light, was you.
He knew it in his bones, the same bones that had once adorned the imperial robes of Emperor Guangwu of the Han Dynasty. He remembered your face, etched in his memory more vividly than the edicts he issued. Your laughter, like silken bells. The agonizing moment when, falsely accused of treason and witchcraft, you had been dragged away, your eyes meeting his with a heartrending plea he was powerless to answer.
He had been Emperor, but in that moment, he had been nothing.
The heavens, disgusted by his inaction, his failure to protect the one he loved, had sentenced him to this: an eternity of remembering, a life of wandering, always just out of reach of peace. He was a ghost in a world that had moved on, the emperor stripped of his power, forced to witness the consequences of his past failures.
He'd been a farmer in rural France, a nobleman in Prague, a fisherman off the coast of Japan. Each life was a stark reminder of his shortcomings, a constant echo of your name in his soul.
And now, here you were, working as a barista, oblivious to the weight of history that clung to him. He watched you, mesmerized, as you smiled at a customer, your movements mirroring the grace of your former life.
Could he even approach you? He was now Wei Feng, a penniless artist sketching portraits in Central Park, surviving on scraps and the occasional commission. He possessed nothing of the glory of Emperor Guangwu, only the crushing burden of his ancient guilt.
emperor
