Chapter One: The Five Princes of Qin

In 247 BCE, this year was of immense significance to the entire Warring States period. In March, Lord Xinling of Wei, Wei Wuji, united the armies of five states to attack Qin, defeating the Qin general Meng Ao beyond the river. The coalition pressed on to Hangu Pass, where the Qin army sealed the gates and refused to engage. After this battle, Lord Xinling's fame resounded across the realm.

In May of the same year, Prince Chu of Qin passed away, later known as King Zhuangxiang of Qin. Shortly after, the thirteen-year-old Prince Zheng ascended the throne, who would become the First Emperor of Qin. In this year, all affairs of state in Qin fell into the hands of Marquis Wenxin, Lü Buwei, who styled himself as the Second Father.

That year, the five-state alliance’s crushing defeat of the Qin army left Qin powerless to act against the eastern states for years. The young King Zheng presided from the Xianyang Palace, built under the supervision of Shang Yang.

Wei, battered by the Battle of Yique, languished on the brink of collapse, unable to challenge Qin or reclaim the hegemonic glory of the era under Marquis Wen of Wei.

Han, encircled in the east and north by Wei and Zhao, pressed in the west by Qin and in the south by Chu, lost even the waning buffer of Eastern Zhou, which Lü Buwei had extinguished. After a brief resurgence under Marquis Zhao of Han, Han’s decline continued unabated.

Zhao had yet to recover from the devastation of Changping and Handan—their once-promising prospects thrown into chaos. From this year forth, Zhao could no longer resist Qin alone, its decline set in motion.

Yan’s internal political strife dragged on. Though the royal bloodline of legendary antiquity remained, the strength of King Zhao of Yan’s era was gone. After campaigns against Qi and Zhao, Yan’s vitality was spent, leaving it to recuperate in exhaustion.

The Lü clan of Taigong had long since vanished, and the Tian clan had usurped Qi for years. After attacks from Yan and disruptions by powerful relatives, Qi, though still in the lands of Qi and Lu, could not reclaim the dominance of Duke Huan’s era.

In this same year, not long after the death of King Zhuangxiang of Qin, an edict was issued from Xianyang Palace, commanding Lady Zhou and her four-month-old son, Prince Qing, to travel to Zhao as hostages—to reassure Zhao and ease the tensions between states.

Hiss… hiss… hiss…

That night, under the dusky sky, a lavish carriage departed Xianyang, escorted by thirty heavily armored cavalrymen. They journeyed northeast along the broad, smooth imperial road, relentlessly advancing toward Zhao.

"Wu… wu… How could they be so heartless as to send my child and me to Zhao? Isn’t this sending us to our deaths? The former king has passed, my station is lowly, and Qing is still an infant—how could we possibly serve as hostages!"

A faint yellow candle flame cast its glow throughout the carriage—a modest space, barely big enough for four or five people. Now, three huddled together inside: two women of mature age and an infant still in swaddling clothes.

One wore rich robes and possessed uncommon beauty, though her cheeks were streaked with tears. She thought back to the edict from Xianyang Palace, her heart full of sorrow, her murmured sobs unceasing, helplessness etched in every word.

"My lady, what shall we do from now on?"

The voice belonged to a plainly dressed young maid. Qin and Zhao had recently fought, and rumor held that Qin had slaughtered many in Zhao. If they traveled there, would it not be like sheep thrown to wolves?

Though the girl knew little of the world’s complexities, she could vaguely imagine what awaited them in Zhao. Her tone was mournful, her expression heavy with grief. Why must the new king send the young prince as a hostage?

These words struck the lady’s heart anew, deepening her sorrow. Clutching her son tightly to her chest, tears streamed down her face once more.

"Am I destined to be cannon fodder?"

Within the carriage’s warmth, the candle flickered, the women’s weeping never ceasing. Yet, no matter how piteous their cries, they seemed not to touch the infant in the lady’s arms.

The baby gazed about with bright, lucid eyes, alertly observing everything. Hearing his mother's and nurse’s laments, his tiny heart fluttered—he was to go to Zhao with his mother?

Did fate really have to be so cruel?

Four months ago, as a member of a state-sanctioned archaeological team, Zhou Qing and his colleagues had accidentally discovered a peculiar tomb in the ancient land of Shangdang. Though the site and its feng shui were unremarkable, its furnishings and grave goods were substantial.

Then, for reasons unknown, he found himself reborn into another world, an infant once more. After much hardship, he finally discerned his new identity—and the realization thrilled him.

He was the fifth son of King Zhuangxiang of Qin, granted the name Qing. By this reckoning, King Zheng, who now ruled in Xianyang, was his elder brother, and the ill-fated Lord Chang’an, Chengjiao, was as well.

Yet, from what he knew, King Zhuangxiang supposedly had only two sons. How could he be the fifth? But now Zhou Qing understood why history recorded only two sons.

“If things are as Mother fears, I’ll likely be executed by the vengeful people of Zhao as soon as I arrive.”

The thought sent a chill through him. His little body shuddered. He had only just arrived in this world and, having sized up the situation, believed he might live out his days as a carefree, idle prince. But now, it seemed fate had other plans for him.

“Poor little Qing!”

Sensing her son’s tremor, the lady held him even more tightly, as if hoping her warmth might comfort him. Poor child—was he, like her, doomed to die in a foreign land?

"Weren’t transmigrators supposed to have some kind of golden finger? How could I face death right after crossing over?"

Zhou Qing was deeply disgruntled. He wasn’t particularly afraid of death—after all, he’d already been reborn in this world, which was some consolation. But to die so pointlessly was too bitter a fate.

Without pause, their carriage pressed on along the endless imperial road. Two days later, under the heavy cavalry’s escort, they crossed Hedong and reached Shangdang. Beyond Shangdang lay the territory of Zhao.

In those two days, the women in the carriage, drained of tears, were left in utter despair. Their sobs never ceased. All they hoped for was to endure less suffering in Zhao, to see the child survive.

Night fell. Covering a thousand miles in a day, they passed through Tunliu in Shangdang. The distant sun faded from the sky. Along the imperial road, the horses galloped on without rest.

Whiz! Whiz! Whiz!

Suddenly, as darkness fully descended and the carriage entered the desolate land of Shangdang, sharp whistles cut the air. Then came wails of agony and the clash of steel—battle cries and slaughter in the night.

“Someone… someone’s trying to kill us!”

“My poor Qing, not even weaned, and about to follow his mother to the afterlife!”

Peering through the carriage window, drawing aside the curtain, they saw the crimson hue of bloodlust outside. Shadows darted, bodies fell, the stench of blood hung heavy. Black-clad figures swiftly cut down the heavily armored cavalry guarding the carriage.

In an instant, shadowy assassins in tight-fitting garb, armed with gleaming blades, leapt through the air. Sword light flashed as they struck at the carriage—two fine steeds collapsed in the traces.

“Our lives end here, my child!”