The capital city of Qin, Xianyang, unfolded before Yiren like a meticulously woven tapestry. Unlike the chaos and tension he had known in Zhao, this city exuded a sense of order and determination. The streets were wide and bustling, lined with vendors whose calls harmonized with the rhythmic clatter of cartwheels and the steady march of soldiers. The people moved with purpose, their faces etched with an unyielding spirit—hardened, yet proud—a reflection of their state's ambition.
Yiren couldn't help but be struck by the sheer contrast. The towers stood tall and resolute, their shadows stretching across a city alive with industry. Laborers worked tirelessly, their hands shaping stone and forging steel, their efforts a testament to Qin's growing strength. Every corner of Xianyang seemed to hum with a shared destiny, a collective will that propelled the state forward.
And yet, as Yiren absorbed the sights and sounds, a single phrase echoed in his mind, steady and unwavering:
"Do not let your mind linger on what is lost. Look forward. There is much to be done."
Lü Buwei's words—sharp and commanding—were not just advice. They were a directive. A tether to the future.
After settling into the palace quarters assigned to him, Yiren was summoned to meet Lady HuaYang. The grand hall where she awaited was adorned with intricate carvings of phoenixes and peonies, symbols of her refined taste. Yiren entered dressed in the flowing garments of Chu, his robes soft and finely embroidered, a tribute to the land she had left behind. He carried with him not just the appearance—but the essence—of Chu, a skill carefully cultivated under Lü Buwei's insistence.
As he stepped forward, his voice rose in song—a melody unmistakably of Chu. It spoke of moonlit rivers and distant pavilions, of longing and loyalty. The song, a cherished anthem of her homeland, filled the hall with a haunting beauty. Lady HuaYang's eyes glistened as the notes lingered. When Yiren finished, silence hung between them—heavy, intimate.
"Remarkable," she said at last, her voice steady yet touched with awe. "You honor my home and my heart, Yiren. From this day forward, you are no longer just a son of Qin. You are my son—and through me, the rightful son of the crown prince. Bound to the line destined to rule."
The announcement was swift. Decisive. There was no room for doubt.
Yiren bowed deeply, his heart a mixture of gratitude and unease. This was a victory. But not without cost.
Lady HuaYang, ever calculating, wasted no time. Though she had formally adopted him, it was clear she intended to retain control. To bind him further, she proposed—no, insisted—that Yiren marry a princess from Han. A woman chosen carefully to serve as her eyes and ears.
Yiren balked. His heart remained in Handan—with Lady Zhao and the boy he had left behind. The thought of taking another woman, even for political necessity, filled him with dread. But Lü Buwei, ever pragmatic, stepped in.
"You must see the bigger picture, Yiren," he said, calm but deliberate. "This is not about love or longing—it is about survival. Accept the marriage proposal. But do not rush to make it official. Time is your greatest ally. Lady HuaYang is not someone you can afford to defy—yet. Delay, and you retain control. And as for Lady Zhao... there is still hope. But only if you remain strong."
Reluctantly, Yiren agreed. The princess from Han was introduced. Graceful in manner, measured in speech. She seemed to understand her role—as a bridge, not a partner.
Meanwhile, Lü Buwei's influence began to take root—not openly, but through Yiren. Though still an outsider, Lü's strategies and insights began shaping decisions, spreading through the court like dye in silk. Their trust deepened. Their partnership grew. And slowly, Lü Buwei's shadow stretched further into the corridors of power.
Three years passed.
The state of Zhao's fury had not dimmed. Their honor, scarred by Yiren's escape, burned still. Qin, however, celebrated his return as a triumph—proof of destiny. But beneath the court's triumphal rhetoric, one matter lingered: Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng remained in captivity.
For three years, they had suffered—locked away, forgotten by all but Yiren. The knowledge gnawed at him. He burned to bring them home. But the Zhao court, ever shrewd, recognized his desperation.
A proposal arrived—addressed to Yiren himself.
They would consider the release of Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng. But only in exchange for major concessions: the return of cities seized during his escape—and even several strategic strongholds.
On the surface, it was a negotiation.
In truth, it was humiliation.
Lü Buwei saw it clearly. "This is not about release. This is a test," he said. "You are no longer a man pleading for his family. You are a representative of Qin. The court, Lady HuaYang, your father—they are watching. To see what kind of man you are."
Yiren's jaw tightened. "So I let them suffer?"
"No," Lü Buwei replied, eyes sharp. "You show them that Qin will not bend. You prove your strength—not just to Zhao, but to Qin itself."
Yiren's resolve hardened.
He would go to Handan. Not as a man. But as a prince of Qin.
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The army field near Handan was an imposing sight, its vast expanse dotted with banners bearing the emblem of Zhao, flapping defiantly in the wind. At its centre stood a grand tent—crimson, gold-stitched—a performance of state power.
Inside, the air was thick with tension.
Yiren entered, posture upright, every step measured. He was flanked by a small contingent of Qin soldiers, their polished armor catching the muted light that filtered through the tent's seams.
Across from him, Zhao's commander sat at a low table, his face a mask of steely resolve. Beside him stood Zhao's chancellor, an older man whose eyes held the cold sharpness of seasoned calculation.
The discussion began without preamble.
"You have trespassed against Zhao," the commander said, voice sharp and deliberate. "Your defiance—your escape—these cannot be forgiven. Yet Zhao is merciful. Return the cities you have taken from us, and relinquish a few of your own. Only then will we consider letting go of the insult you have dealt us."
Yiren did not flinch.
"Zhao's mercy is well-known," he replied evenly, the irony threaded with elegance. "But the cities now belong to Qin. They will not be returned. Nor will we offer any of ours."
The air thickened.
The commander gave a curt nod. Two guards entered, dragging Lady Zhao and a boy—Ying Zheng—behind them.
The sight struck Yiren like a blow to the chest.
Three years had not been kind. Lady Zhao's hair was disheveled, loose strands clinging to her dirt-streaked face. Her clothes hung off her gaunt frame, torn and faded. Her eyes—once lively and proud—were hollow. Her spirit, worn thin.
Beside her, Ying Zheng stood taller than Yiren remembered, but thin. Fragile. His eyes fixed to the ground.
Yiren's breath caught, but he held his expression. Steady. Still. His father's final words echoed in his mind. And behind them, Lü Buwei's voice: Do not falter. Do not yield.
The Zhao commander leaned forward, his smile thin.
"Perhaps this will change your mind."
At his signal, the guards flanking Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng drew their swords—the metallic scrape slicing through the stillness like a warning bell. The blades hovered at the napes of their necks—silent, final.
"Agree to our terms," the commander said, low and cold, "or they die. Here. Now."
Yiren closed his eyes for a brief moment. His breath hitched. The tent was silent, save for the rustle of shifting fabric. His mind raced.
Giving in would weaken Qin beyond repair.
Refusing might cost him his family.
The choice was brutal.
But it was his.
When he spoke, his voice was calm. Unnervingly so.
"You will not kill them," he said. "Because if you do, Zhao will not face negotiations—only war. And you know your forces cannot match Qin's."
The silence that followed was a noose tightening.
The Zhao guards didn't move, but their blades trembled slightly. Behind Yiren, the Qin soldiers shifted—hands hovering over hilts, ready.
Then the chancellor raised a hand. "Enough," he said. The order cracked like a whip.
The guards stepped back. The blades dropped. "Take them away," the chancellor commanded.
Yiren exhaled, slow and silent. His expression did not change.
The negotiation turned.
Qin would not return Zhao's cities, nor offer any of their own. Instead, Yiren demanded two additional cities and the release of Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng from the dungeon.
It was a calculated gamble—meticulously prepared by Lü Buwei in the weeks leading up to the meeting.
Predictably, the Zhao court rejected the demand for additional cities and refused to free the hostages entirely. But they conceded one thing: Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng would be moved from the dungeon into better quarters.
A small shift. But one that Yiren and Lü Buwei had anticipated.
The meeting ended. Yiren returned to Qin.
Victorious in the eyes of the court.
He had not yielded. He had not faltered. He had proven his strength—not just as a man, but as a prince.
Yet beneath his calm exterior, his heart ached. Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng were still out of reach.
Still captives.
Still far from home.
But the court did not see grief. They saw resolve.
And the bond between Yiren and Lü Buwei—one of trust, of strategy, of quiet calculation—grew stronger still.
In the eyes of Qin, Yiren was no longer a hostage returned.
He was a leader rising.
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Back in Qin, the court was a cauldron of ambition—its polished surface barely concealing the roiling currents beneath. Though Yiren's position had strengthened since his return, peace within the palace was a fiction. His brothers—sons of the crown prince by other concubines—saw the role of heir as a prize worth any cost. Each vied for favor in his own way, their ambitions fanned by the court's intricate web of alliances and whispered promises.
Among these contenders was Ying Xi, the eldest of Yiren's brothers. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the hardened air of a warrior, he was headstrong and impulsive—a man who believed destiny flowed through the bloodline of the firstborn. Though not born of Lady HuaYang, his status as the crown prince's eldest son had long made him the natural heir.
Until Yiren returned.
Until Lady HuaYang adopted him.
Until the entire game changed.
Ying Xi, once secure in his path, now stood on treacherous ground. Fury gnawed at him. His claim—so close to absolute—had been swept away by a single act of recognition. And pride, that most dangerous of poisons, clouded his reason.
His tutor, a seasoned court advisor, had tried to warn him. Strike without thought, and the blade cuts both ways. But the warning found no purchase. Ying Xi could not accept the reversal. Would not. Pride does not bow. Not even to fate.
What he failed to see—what so many failed to see—was this: every move against Yiren was a move against Lü Buwei.
And Lü Buwei did not lose.
Through his lattice of spies, messengers, and murmured fragments, Lü Buwei had long known of Ying Xi's discontent. But he did not crush it early. No. He let it grow. He gave it room. Fed it in whispers. Shaped it like clay.
A suggestion left carelessly unguarded. A shift in the guard schedule. A servant dismissed at just the right hour.
The trap was set long before the strike came.
And when it did, it came exactly as planned.
The assassin slipped into Yiren's chambers under cover of night. The windows left unbarred. The halls quiet. The prince asleep.
Or so it seemed.
In truth, the guards were waiting—in the walls, in the dark, swords drawn and breath held. When the would-be killer entered, he was met not with a sleeping heir but with steel and silence. He was taken alive.
He didn't need to speak. The trail had already been laid.
The next morning, the court gathered.
Lü Buwei presented the evidence like a seasoned artist unveiling a final stroke. Each thread—each coin exchanged, each courier intercepted—led back to Ying Xi.
There was no room for denial.
Ying Xi was stripped of his title, his position, his name. He was exiled to the far reaches of the kingdom, condemned to hard labor and quiet erasure. No elegy. No legacy. His ambition, once towering, collapsed under the weight of its own impatience.
And yet, in exile, debts accrue—especially the kind one never expects to repay.
For Yiren, the danger had passed. But the lesson remained.
The court was not a palace. It was a battlefield.
For Lü Buwei, it was something else entirely: a victory he had written long before the first move was made. One rival erased. One future reinforced.
And his influence—his indispensability—only deepened.
Yet even amidst this triumph, Yiren could not still the ache in his chest.
He and the Han princess—graceful, dutiful, a stranger in his bed—had welcomed a son. A child of politics, not passion. A symbol. A seal.
But not solace.
Lady Zhao and Ying Zheng lingered in his thoughts. Not as regrets, but as absence. As ache.
He buried them deep.
Because he had no choice.
Because the present was ruthless.
And the future did not forgive.