The old king, Zhaoxiang of Qin, lay frail upon his bed, his once-commanding presence now a hollow echo of itself. His reign—one of the longest in Qin's history—had stretched over five decades. Under his rule, Qin had risen from a border state to the dominant force of the Warring States. Han, Wei, Chu—each had felt the bite of his armies. Victory by victory, law by law, he had carved a foundation upon which unification could one day stand.
But now, as his breath thinned and his gaze turned cloudy, Zhaoxiang saw little comfort in legacy. The future lay in hands that filled him with doubt.
Beside him stood his son, Ying Zhu—the crown prince, known by his title An Guojun. His frame was thin. Each cough rattled through him like dry wind through a hollow reed. Zhaoxiang had always believed that Qin's ruler must possess iron—of body, of mind. Ying Zhu had neither.
And there, farther back in the chamber, stood Yiren. Silent. Still. He held his posture like armor, his expression unreadable. There was resolve in his bearing, yes—but his place in the court remained precarious. A hostage. An adopted son. A card played late in a long game.
Zhaoxiang's voice, though withered, still held edge. "Ying Zhu," he rasped, his gaze dragging toward his son. "The burden I carried... will soon be yours. Qin must not falter. The others bow now, but they watch. They wait. Show them no weakness."
Ying Zhu bowed his head but did not speak. His lips were pale. His breath, labored. Zhaoxiang watched him a moment longer—then turned.
"To you," he said. His voice sharpened. "Yiren."
The room held still.
"You've survived much. But the trials of a prince are only the beginning. Strength. Fearlessness. That is what Qin demands." He paused, drawing what breath he could. "Tell me," he said, his eyes narrowing, "does our blood carry such a man? A true heir who can conquer the world?"
Yiren said nothing. But a single thought broke through the storm behind his eyes:
Ying Zheng.
A boy, born in shadow. Raised in chains. Hardened, perhaps, into something unbreakable. Could the boy he left behind grow into the figure his grandfather envisioned?
Hope stirred—dangerous, flickering, fragile.
He bowed, low and wordless.
And the old king turned his head away.
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King Zhaoxiang's funeral was a spectacle of silence and scale—somber, precise, magnificent. The entirety of Qin wore white, mourning robes flowing like rivers through the city streets. Incense towers smoldered without pause, sending coils of smoke skyward as if to carry the old king's soul to the ancestral halls. The chants of mourning, low and resonant, trembled through the stone walls of Xianyang, echoing the weight of his reign.
For one year, Qin would mourn.
No festivals. No ceremonies. No new proclamations. Even Ying Zhu, king in all but name, would not wear his crown until mourning ended. Beside him, Lady HuaYang—now queen in every sense but title—carried her role with visible discipline. Yet behind her calm lay a private anxiety: her husband's health was failing. And the kingdom, like a falcon poised mid-flight, could not afford to fall.
Yiren, newly named crown prince, stood between reverence and readiness. His every gesture was measured. Every word, watched. He walked as though the floor itself might collapse beneath him—because it could.
In the quiet of his chambers, Yiren met with Lü Buwei. The air between them was taut, the silence built on years of risk and reward.
"It has been a long road," Yiren said, his voice thick. "Without you... I would never have made it this far."
Lü Buwei bowed his head slightly. "You repaid me, Your Highness, by proving I was right to believe in you. But the journey is not over. The throne is near. And when the time comes—my loyalty will not waver."
Yiren's eyes did not leave his. "Nor will my promise. When I am king, you shall be chancellor. Together, we will shape Qin's future."
That night, in solitude, Lü Buwei allowed himself a rare moment of quiet elation.
He stood by the window, looking out over Xianyang—the restless heart of the empire. So many years. So many games played, coins spent, pawns moved. From a merchant's stall to the brink of power. Now, the last doors stood ajar.
He could almost see it: a unified realm, all banners black. And at its head—a king shaped by his hand, advised by no one but him.
He clenched his fists, not in anger—but in triumph.
The six states would fall. The world would bend.
And Qin would rise.
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The year of mourning passed, and the court gathered once more—this time for coronation.
King Ying Zhu. Queen HuaYang.
The ceremony, though restrained, shimmered with quiet grandeur. Courtiers bowed low. Musicians played slow, dignified harmonies. The old king was honored, the new king crowned. But beneath the ceremonial splendor, a truth lingered like smoke: Ying Zhu was ill.
Seated beside Lady HuaYang in their private chambers, the new king sipped from a porcelain cup, hands trembling faintly. His breath came thin, shallow. His eyes wandered, distant even in the room meant to anchor him.
"Rest, my lord," Lady HuaYang urged, placing a hand over his. Her voice was gentle, but her grip was firm. "The state is secure. You must turn inward now. Regain your strength."
He offered her a tired smile—grateful, weary, unconvincing.
Three days.
That was all fate allowed them.
On the third morning, Ying Zhu died.
The palace did not scream. It didn't weep. It simply adjusted. The queen became dowager. The heir became king. The drums rolled out the news across Xianyang like thunder muffled in silk.
The court did not pause. There was no time.
The crown passed swiftly—cleanly—to Yiren.
King Zhuangxiang of Qin.
He ascended not with fanfare, but with inevitability. Lü Buwei stood at his right hand as promised. Chancellor now in title, not just practice.
The court buzzed with quiet unease. Power, once fluid, was solidifying. And when power settles—it casts long shadows.
But for Yiren and Lü Buwei, this was not chaos. It was the plan. The arc completed. The promise fulfilled.
What came next would be something else entirely.
Not survival.
Not ascension.
But conquest.