When the heavens named their ruler,
Xingtian stood against the throne of the High God.
For pride, for dignity, he fought —
a warrior who feared no fate, no sky, no end.

Struck down, his head severed,
yet he did not fall into silence.
He raised his axe once more;
his drumbeat thundered from his chest.
Eyes were gone, but resolve burned brighter.
His battle was not for victory —
but for the right to stand.

And from the mountains, his spirit still roars,
unclaimed, unbroken, unbowed.