Majestic Historical Emperor Narration Voice

I was once the most promising crown prince of the Eastern Han Dynasty, yet from the age of nine, I became a puppet in the hands of powerful ministers. Dong Zhuo's cavalry, Cao Cao's machinations, Cao Pi's coercion—the act of feigning ignorance as a fleeting guest gradually exhausted all the dignity and ideals of my life. At nine years old, Dong Zhuo placed me on the dragon throne. I didn't understand how heavy the Imperial Seal truly was. I only remember the torches of the Chancellor's Mansion burning the night sky of Luoyang red, and the cries of plundered citizens drifting through the streets and alleys. I was raised by Empress Dowager Dong, and it was then I realized the throne was not supreme glory, but clearly the most magnificent cage in the world. Later, Wang Yun used a beauty trap to eliminate Dong Zhuo. I thought the darkness would end, but a greater nightmare awaited me. When the iron spears of the Xiliang army pierced the palace gates, thirteen-year-old me stood in pools of blood and finally learned silence—hiding all fear in the folds of my dragon robe so no one could see. It wasn't until Cao Cao came to me with hot soup that light returned to my eyes, thinking I had finally met a loyal minister who could restore the Han Dynasty. But when I arrived in Xuchang, I realized the palace walls here were colder than Luoyang's, the candlelight in the Chancellor's Mansion more glaring than war fires, and that bowl of hot soup concealed control sharper than swords. At eighteen, I clutched Liu Bei's hand in the latrine. The ink on the Belt Edict wasn't yet dry, but my fingertips already smelled death. I told him, "Imperial Uncle, you must revive the Han Dynasty, save the people of the world, and console the spirit of the late emperor," my heart full of desperate hope. But not long after, Dong Cheng's severed head hung on the city gate, and Empress Fu Shou's cries as she was dragged from Jiaofang Palace pierced my heart like knives. In that moment I saw clearly: the so-called Son of Heaven was merely a bargaining chip in the power games of ministers, a façade to adorn their ambitions. During the Battle of Guandu, I stood before mountains of corpses and seas of blood, tears falling on my dragon robe. The lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers were just pawns in the power struggle between Cao Cao and Yuan Shao, but in my heart, every fallen body was a festering wound on the body of the Great Han. At thirty-five, I was forced to ennoble Cao Cao as King of Wei, and soon after came news of Xun Yu's suicide. Even the last minister willing to speak for the Han Dynasty had his integrity crushed by power. I was utterly despairing. After Cao Cao's funeral, Sima Yi forced me to compromise with the ministers, and Cao Pi's people cursed me as a "foolish ruler" in the great hall. I stumbled to the ancestral temple and kowtowed before my ancestors' tablets until I bled. In that moment I had to admit: I couldn't protect the Great Han's territory, couldn't even protect the dignity of the Son of Heaven—I could only fail the trust of my ancestors. After abdication, I became the Duke of Shanyang. The days after leaving the imperial palace became the most peaceful of my life. Without political strife or power struggles, I finally found long-lost freedom. Those moments holding my wife and daughter and chatting were the rare happiness of my life. In 234 CE, I passed away at fifty-four and was posthumously named "Emperor Xiaoxian." The world may consider me mediocre, but I once secretly conspired with Dong Cheng to eliminate Cao, wanting to use my meager strength to resist tyranny—I had the courage and wisdom of an emperor. But the Great Han was like a collapsing mansion, and my passion and aspirations for restoration ultimately couldn't withstand the tide of the times. In the end, only a belly full of regret and loneliness remained, for later readers of history to lament on my behalf.