The Imperial Gardens felt different today. A new figure had been added to the small, tense entourage that accompanied the Emperor on his daily "restorative walks." His name was Meng Ao, the newly appointed personal bodyguard. He was a silent, imposing presence, walking a few paces behind and to the right of Ying Zheng. His eyes, unlike the dull, procedural watchfulness of the other guards, were constantly in motion. They scanned the rooftops, the archways, the distant rockeries, assessing angles, noting potential threats. He moved with a coiled, predatory efficiency that set him apart.
Ying Zheng was acutely aware of his new shield. He had already reviewed the man's official file, a brief and curious document prepared by Li Lianying's office. The story of his discovery near the western terminus of the Great Wall, suffering from amnesia, was intriguing enough. But the name they had given him, "Meng Ao," was what truly captured his attention. Meng Ao had been one of his lesser, though competent, generals during the Unification Wars. It was likely a coincidence, a name chosen at random by some frontier officer with a passing knowledge of history. But Ying Zheng did not believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
The rest of the party kept their distance. The three elderly tutors, led by the stern Wo Ren, walked several yards behind, their faces disapproving of this frivolous break from recitation. A handful of eunuchs hovered nearby, ready to cater to any imperial whim. But it was the dynamic between the small boy and his new, silent guard that defined the space.
Meng Ao, for his part, was struggling with a profound sense of disorientation. His duty was simple: protect the Son of Heaven. But the feeling it evoked in him was anything but simple. Being this close to the small boy, to the physical embodiment of the Dragon Throne, stirred something deep within him. It was a strange, overwhelming sense of deference and familiarity, a feeling that resonated in his very bones. It felt less like a new duty and more like a return to an ancient, forgotten one. He kept his head bowed, his eyes averted, fighting the inexplicable urge to kneel and swear a blood oath.
Ying Zheng decided it was time to test this new piece on the board. He needed to know if this man was merely a skilled fighter, or something more. As they neared the edge of the frozen lotus pond, he deliberately stumbled, a small, convincing lurch of a child losing his footing on the uneven gravel.
The reaction was instantaneous. Before any of the hovering eunuchs could even gasp, before the tutors could register what was happening, Meng Ao moved. It was not a run; it was a blur. In a single, fluid motion that seemed to defy the normal constraints of human speed, he covered the distance between them. He didn't just reach out to catch the boy. His body instinctively moved to place himself between the Emperor and the pond, shielding him from the potential, however minor, of falling into the icy water. His arm shot out, his hand steadying Ying Zheng's shoulder with a grip of immense, yet perfectly controlled, strength. The entire maneuver was over in a heartbeat. It was not the reactive motion of a simple bodyguard; it was the instinctive, preemptive, tactical movement of a master strategist protecting his king.
Ying Zheng looked up at the tall guard, who now stood frozen, his hand still on the Emperor's shoulder. "You are quick," he said, his voice the clear, high tone of a child.
Meng Ao immediately snapped back to protocol. He withdrew his hand as if he had been burned, averted his gaze, and dropped his head into a low bow. "This servant's only duty is to protect Your Majesty," he said. His voice was a low, respectful rumble, but there was an undeniable tremor in it, a vibration of some deep, internal confusion.
Being that close, hearing the boy's voice give a simple, direct statement of fact, was like a key turning in a rusted lock deep within his mind. The feeling of familiarity intensified, accompanied by fleeting, chaotic images that flashed behind his eyes. He saw a vast wall of packed earth stretching to the horizon under a vast, northern sky. He smelled the dust of a million marching men. He felt the weight of heavy armor on his shoulders. And he heard a voice—a voice of absolute, unquestionable command that was etched into the very fabric of his soul. He couldn't see the face of the man who spoke it, only a powerful figure in severe, black robes.
Ying Zheng felt it too. The way the man had moved. The way his voice held that deep, reflexive respect. It was an echo of something ancient, something he had not felt in two thousand years. It was the specific deference of a Qin general to his emperor. He decided on a more direct, more dangerous test.
He turned his gaze towards the north, in the general direction of the Great Wall. "Guard Meng," he said, his tone still that of an inquisitive child. "The report said you were found near the northern wall, were you not?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Meng Ao answered, his head still bowed.
"It is a great folly," Ying Zheng stated plainly. "A monument to failure. It was built with the bones of a million men, and it was meant to keep the barbarians out for ten thousand years. But it failed. It always fails."
He said this as a deliberate provocation. It was a sentiment common among the disillusioned scholars of the Qing. Any loyal guardsman of this era would simply agree with the Emperor's assessment. But Meng Tian, the man who had overseen the wall's construction, who had poured his life and his honor into that monumental project, would have a different, instinctual response.
It was as if Ying Zheng had struck a deep, resonant bell within the guard's soul. Meng Ao's head snapped up. His eyes, usually so distant and haunted, now flashed with a sudden, brilliant fire—a passionate conviction that shocked even himself.
"The Wall did not fail, Your Majesty!" he said, his voice ringing with a force and certainty he didn't know he possessed. The words poured out of him, unbidden, from a place deeper than memory. "The Wall holds! A wall is but stone and earth. It is the will of the men who guard it that can fail!"
The moment the words left his lips, a look of absolute horror washed over his face. He realized what he had done. He had contradicted the Emperor. He had shouted. He immediately dropped to his knees on the frozen gravel, his forehead pressing into the ground.
"Forgive this servant's insolence!" he cried, his body trembling. "I spoke out of turn! Forgive me!"
But Ying Zheng was not angry. He was staring at the top of the kneeling guard's head with an expression of dawning, world-shattering comprehension. That phrase. That exact sentiment. The Wall holds! It is the will of the men who guard it that can fail! It was a direct, word-for-word quote from a conversation he had, on a cold and windy afternoon two thousand years ago, with his most trusted and brilliant general, Meng Tian, as they stood together on a newly completed section of the Great Wall.
The coincidence was too great. The echo too perfect. He looked at the powerfully built man kneeling before him, a man of impossible skill with no memory, found near the very project that had defined his general's life. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty. It was him.