Birth Amidst Battle
Mighty Champion of the Nine Lands, Jason Lee, gave up his power and hid his identity for 18 years to bring his son, Finn, back from death, only to find out that Finn’s biological father was someone else. With his family breaking, borders being invaded, and enemies countless tricks to take him down, will Jason reclaim his name, guard the peace of his family, and of the whole world?
EP 1: As the Sacred Land is under attack by the Sakura Land, Jason Lee, the Mighty Champion of the Nine Lands, returns to defend his homeland, missing the birth of his son. Despite his heroic efforts, the child's survival is in jeopardy, and family tensions rise as his absence is criticized.Will Jason Lee be able to save his son and reconcile with his family amidst the chaos of war?
Always A Father: When Myth Bleeds Into the ER
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that only comes after you’ve fought gods and then had to explain your credit card statement to a billing clerk. The video doesn’t just switch genres—it *tears* them apart, stitching myth and medicine together with surgical precision and emotional brutality. Let’s start with the battlefield: not mud and steel, but grass and fire, lit by torches that flicker like dying stars. The trio—Bai Long in his jade-green robe with cloud patterns, Qing Long in black with gold-threaded bamboo, Chi Long in layered silks with geometric embroidery—they move like a single organism. Their stances are practiced, their glances synchronized. This isn’t improvisation. This is ritual. And the enemy? A dozen black-robed figures, identical, faceless almost, except for the subtle differences in their scars, their gait, their hesitation. One stumbles. Another blinks too long. They’re not mindless drones. They’re recruits. Trainees. Maybe even former allies. That’s what makes the violence so unsettling: it’s not righteous. It’s *familiar*. When the explosion hits—fire blooming from the earth like a vengeful spirit—it doesn’t just scatter bodies. It scatters *certainty*. One attacker rolls, clutching his side, his sword slipping from numb fingers. Another tries to rise, only to collapse again, coughing ash. The camera zooms in on his eyes: not hatred, but confusion. As if he’s suddenly remembering he used to share rice wine with the man now standing over him. That’s the genius of the sequence: the fight isn’t about winning. It’s about *remembering*. And then Li Jin arrives. Not with fanfare. With *light*. Golden, pulsing, almost painful to look at. His armor isn’t just decorative—it’s alive. The dragon scales shift with his breath. His belt buckle gleams like a captured sun. He floats, yes, but his posture is heavy. Burdened. When he lands, the ground doesn’t crack. It *sighs*. The three heroes don’t cheer. They exchange glances—Bai Long’s brow furrowed, Qing Long’s jaw clenched, Chi Long’s hand tightening on her sword hilt. They know what this means. Li Jin’s return isn’t salvation. It’s reckoning. Always A Father isn’t just a title—it’s the unspoken oath hanging in the smoke. The man who once led armies now stands silent, watching his comrades fall, not to enemies, but to *himself*. Because the real antagonist isn’t the black-clad horde. It’s time. It’s memory. It’s the weight of being the one who must always carry the burden, while others get to break, bleed, and lie down. Which brings us to the hospital. The transition isn’t smooth. It’s jarring. Deliberately so. One second: fire, dust, the smell of burnt cloth. The next: antiseptic, vinyl floors, the low hum of machines. Yang Xue is in labor. Not gracefully. Not poetically. *Brutally*. Her face is slick with sweat, her neck veins standing out like ropes, her fingers digging into the sheet as if trying to anchor herself to reality. The golden text—‘Yang Xue, Li Jin’s wife’—feels cruel here. Because in this moment, she’s not a warrior’s spouse. She’s a woman being torn open by biology’s indifferent machinery. And her parents? Yang Mu, in her peach silk blouse, wrings her hands like she’s trying to squeeze hope out of thin air. Yang Fu, in his blue polo, paces, muttering phrases that sound like prayers mixed with curses. He glances at the door, then at his wife, then back—his eyes darting like a man trying to calculate odds he can’t win. They’re not just scared. They’re *betrayed*. Betrayed by the life their daughter chose, by the man she married, by the myth that promised glory but delivered this: a fluorescent-lit room, a beeping monitor, and the terrifying fragility of a new life. Then—the footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. Li Jin enters. Not in armor. Not in robes. In a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled. Behind him: Bai Long, now in a denim jacket; Qing Long, in a simple black tunic; even the Old Liao Zhou General, stripped of his stripes, holding his katana like a relic. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Their presence is a language older than words. The surgeon emerges. Mask on. Eyes tired. He says something—probably ‘It’s a boy’ or ‘She’s stable’—but the camera doesn’t linger on his mouth. It lingers on Li Jin’s face. His lips part. His shoulders drop. For the first time, he looks *relieved*. Not triumphant. Not proud. Just… relieved. The myth has ended. The man remains. And that’s when the real drama begins. Because now, Yang Mu turns to Li Jin—not with gratitude, but with accusation. Her voice is low, trembling, but sharp enough to cut glass. She says his name. Not ‘Li Jin’. Not ‘General’. Just *Li Jin*. As if reminding him who he was before the dragons, before the fire, before the title. Yang Fu steps forward, pointing, his voice rising—not in anger, but in desperation. He’s not yelling at a son-in-law. He’s pleading with a ghost. The ghost of the boy who used to fix his bicycle tire. The ghost who promised he’d never let her cry. Always A Father isn’t about power. It’s about accountability. It’s about the moment when the legend has to face the laundry list of broken promises, the missed birthdays, the nights spent chasing shadows while the people who loved him waited in the light. The final shots are masterful in their restraint: Yang Xue, asleep, her hand resting on her belly, a faint smile on her lips—as if she dreamed of her husband kneeling beside her, not in armor, but in slippers, holding her hand like a mortal man. The camera pulls back, showing the hallway: Li Jin standing alone, looking at the door, his reflection in the glass showing both the warrior and the father, superimposed, unresolved. Bai Long approaches, says something quiet. Li Jin nods. No grand speech. No vow. Just a nod. Because some truths don’t need words. They need time. They need silence. They need a man to finally learn how to sit beside someone without needing to save them. Always A Father isn’t a role. It’s a reckoning. And the most devastating thing about this video? It doesn’t end with a victory. It ends with a question: Can a man who’s spent his life flying ever learn to stand still? The answer, whispered in the space between heartbeats, is yes—but only if he’s willing to let go of the sky. Always A Father. Always.
Always A Father: The Fire, the Fall, and the Hospital Door
Let’s talk about what just happened—not as a plot summary, but as a visceral, almost absurdly cinematic collision of myth, trauma, and modern reality. The opening frames are pure Wuxia poetry: night, grass, fire, and three figures—Bai Long, Qing Long, and Chi Long—leaping through smoke like ink splashed across silk. Their robes flutter with deliberate elegance, each movement choreographed to whisper ancient oaths. But here’s the catch: they’re not fighting *each other* yet. They’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, blades drawn, facing a line of black-clad assassins who march forward with synchronized dread. The camera lingers on their faces—not just fear, but recognition. These aren’t strangers. They’re kin, or at least bound by something deeper than blood: duty, betrayal, or perhaps a shared curse. The golden text hovering beside them—‘Bai Long’, ‘Qing Long’, ‘Chi Long’—isn’t just labeling; it’s branding. Like tattooed destinies. And then… the explosion. Not metaphorical. Literal. A burst of flame erupts from the ground, swallowing two attackers whole, sending others tumbling backward in slow motion, their swords clattering like broken teeth. One man lands hard, his face twisted in pain, gripping his blade like a lifeline he no longer believes in. That’s when Li Jin descends—not from the sky, but *through* it, wreathed in golden light and swirling energy, his armor shimmering with dragon motifs that seem to breathe. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone fractures the battlefield. The three heroes stare upward, mouths slightly open, eyes wide—not with awe, but with dawning horror. Because Li Jin isn’t here to save them. He’s here to *judge* them. Or maybe to remind them of who they were before the world turned them into survivors. Always A Father isn’t just a title—it’s a refrain echoing beneath every sword clash, every gasp, every silent tear. It’s the weight carried by the man in the striped robe, the ‘Old Liao Zhou General’, who steps forward not with fury, but with weary authority. His posture is relaxed, yet his grip on the katana is tight enough to whiten his knuckles. When he speaks—though we don’t hear the words—the others flinch. Even Li Jin pauses mid-descent. Why? Because this man knows the truth behind the legend. He remembers the boy who once cried over a dead sparrow, not the war god now floating above burning grass. The fight resumes, but it’s different now. Faster. Messier. Less heroic, more desperate. One attacker lunges, only to be kicked into a fire pit, his scream cut short by smoke. Another tries to stab Li Jin from behind—only to be caught mid-air, suspended like a puppet, before being hurled into darkness. The camera spins overhead, showing the carnage below: bodies strewn, swords half-buried, a red banner torn and smoldering. And still, the three—Bai Long, Qing Long, Chi Long—stand rooted, watching. Not fighting. Waiting. For what? Redemption? Death? Or simply the next act in a story they never asked to inherit? Then—cut. Not to black. To a hospital room. Harsh fluorescent lights. Beeping monitors. Yang Xue lies on the bed, drenched in sweat, her face contorted in labor pain, her voice raw from screaming. The golden text appears again: ‘Yang Xue, Li Jin’s wife’. The irony is thick enough to choke on. The woman who stood defiantly beside her husband in the field of fire is now reduced to trembling flesh and instinct. Her fingers claw at the sheet, her breath ragged, her eyes rolling back—not in ecstasy, but in surrender to biology’s brutal script. Outside the door, her parents wait: Yang Mu, in her peach silk blouse, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles glow white; Yang Fu, in his blue patterned polo, pacing like a caged tiger, muttering under his breath. They’re not just worried. They’re *grieving*. Grieving the daughter they knew, the life she chose, the man she married—who, let’s remember, just moments ago was descending from the heavens in golden armor. Always A Father isn’t just about Li Jin. It’s about the men and women who love him, who bear the cost of his myth. When the surgeon emerges—mask still on, scrubs stained with something dark—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He just looks at Li Jin, who has arrived silently, flanked by Bai Long and Qing Long, their battle-worn robes replaced by modern clothes, as if they’ve stepped out of one world and into another without changing their souls. Li Jin’s expression? Not relief. Not joy. Something quieter. He exhales—once—and for the first time, he looks *small*. Not a war god. Not a legend. Just a man waiting to meet his child. The final shot lingers on Yang Xue’s face, now peaceful, her breathing even, a faint smile playing on her lips. She’s asleep. Or maybe she’s dreaming. Dreaming of fire, of falling, of a man who flew—but landed beside her, finally, on solid ground. Always A Father isn’t a slogan. It’s a confession. A plea. A promise whispered in the dark, between heartbeats, where all myths end and humanity begins. The real battle wasn’t on the grassy field. It was here, in this sterile hallway, where love had to prove itself not with swords, but with silence, with waiting, with the unbearable weight of hope. And when the nurse finally opens the door, and Li Jin steps inside—not as a general, not as a god, but as a husband, as a father—the camera doesn’t follow him in. It stays outside. With the parents. With the friends. With us. Because some endings aren’t meant to be seen. They’re meant to be felt. And that, dear viewer, is why we keep watching. Not for the explosions. Not for the dragons. But for the quiet moment after the storm, when a man finally learns how to hold something fragile without breaking it. Always A Father. Always.