The waves crashed against the reefs.
Three massive troop transport ships slowly docked at a temporary pier.
Planks were lowered.
The first person to step off the ship was Fusu.
He wore pure black iron armor, with an ordinary Qin sword hanging at his waist.
That face no longer belonged to the gentle, jade-like young noble of Xianyang.
Wind and sun had carved rough traces into his features.
His eyes were like a lone wolf locking onto prey on the grasslands.
Behind him stood two thousand men in prisoner uniforms, each wearing wooden shackles.
Death row prisoners.
On the pier, Ying Ziye stood there with only Qinglong by his side.
Fusu stepped off the plank and stood in front of Ying Ziye.
The two brothers looked at each other.
No embrace.
No greeting.
Fusu only nodded slightly.
“Old Ninth.”
His voice was hoarse.
“Two thousand death row prisoners. Not a single one is missing.”
Ying Ziye smiled.
“Hard work, big brother.”
Fusu’s gaze passed over Ying Ziye and looked toward a distant mountain that shimmered white under the sunlight.
He asked nothing.
Ying Ziye turned and tilted his chin toward the mountain.
“Let’s go. I’ll show you your asset.”
At the foot of the mountain,
the massive blasted opening looked like the gaping mouth of a giant beast.
Inside, there was a blinding silver-white glow.
Fusu stood at the entrance, silently watching.
Behind him, the two thousand death row prisoners—and several thousand natives kneeling under Qin soldiers’ guard—were all stunned.
Even their breathing grew heavy.
It was silver.
An entire mountain of silver.
Fusu showed no amazement.
He only slowly reached out and gripped the hilt of his sword.
“From now on, this place will be under your control.”
Ying Ziye’s voice came from the side:
“Big brother, I need you to deliver me 100,000 jin of silver every month.”
Fusu turned to look at him.
“Not just that,” he said.
Mining began.
Qin elite soldiers whipped their leather lashes, forming death row prisoners and natives into mixed squads of a hundred men each, driving them into the mine tunnels.
Tools were already prepared.
Pickaxes, shovels, baskets.
A death row prisoner who once came from a minor noble family in Xianyang, relying on the fact that he was Qin, pretended to kick a native.
“Get lost! You uncivilized monkey!”
He cursed, raising his pickaxe high but bringing it down lightly—pretending to work.
Not putting in effort.
The surrounding Qin soldiers frowned and were about to step forward.
But a figure moved faster than them.
It was Fusu.
He walked forward step by step.
Without saying a word.
The prisoner saw Fusu and immediately put on a flattering smile.
“Your Highness, look at these peo—”
He didn’t finish.
“Clang.”
A soft metallic sound.
Fusu drew his sword.
A flash of white light—too fast to see clearly.
The smile on the prisoner’s face froze.
The next second.
A head flew into the air, followed by a burst of hot blood.
The blood splattered onto a Confucian scholar who had come with the ship.
The scholar froze.
The headless body swayed twice, then collapsed to its knees with a dull thud.
Silence.
Everyone stopped moving.
All laborers—Qin prisoners and natives alike—froze in place.
They looked at the black-armored figure standing with his sword drawn, as if staring at a god of death emerging from hell.
The tip of Fusu’s sword dripped with blood.
He pointed the blade at the corpse still twitching on the ground.
His voice was not loud, but it clearly reached everyone’s ears.
“Here,” he said.
“There are no Qin people, no natives.”
“Only two kinds of people.”
“Laborers.”
“And the dead.”
He sheathed his sword and looked over the entire scene.
“One man shirks work, the whole team goes without food.”
“One man tries to escape, the entire group is executed.”
“Continue.”
The moment his words fell,
the entire mining site seemed to be hit by a fast-forward button.
The sound of pickaxes striking rock instantly became ten times more intense.
Everyone began digging frantically, as if a single second of hesitation would place that blood-dripping sword on their neck.
“Aah!!”
A sharp, desperate scream broke the frantic rhythm.
It was the Confucian scholar who had been splattered with blood.
He was a disciple of Kong Fu, who had followed Fusu all the way, hoping to “transform” the crown prince with moral teachings.
At that moment, he broke down completely.
He pointed at Fusu, his whole body trembling.
“Your Highness! Prince Fusu!”
“You’re insane! How can you kill Qin citizens? They are our own people!”
“This is brutality! This is the tyranny of Qin!”
“Where is benevolence and righteousness? Where is the Way of the sages?!”
Fusu slowly turned around.
He looked at the frenzied scholar with a completely expressionless face.
“Benevolence and righteousness?”
he asked.
The scholar continued screaming:
“Yes! Benevolence! Winning people with virtue is the true kingly way!”
Fusu smiled.
That smile was colder than winter wind.
He pointed toward the direction of the sea—toward Qin.
“Go tell the famine-stricken people in Guanzhong who are eating their children what your benevolence is.”
Then he pointed at the shimmering silver mountain.
“Every piece of silver here, when sent back, can exchange for one life of a Qin citizen.”
Finally, he looked at the scholar.
“Can your benevolence exchange for even a single grain of rice?”
The scholar froze.
Blood and tears mixed on his face into a filthy mess.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Fusu no longer looked at him.
“Drag him away.”
He ordered the Qin soldiers beside him.
“Assign him to a labor group with the natives. Let him mine together with them.”
“When he has dug out the amount required for his share, then he gets food.”
Two soldiers immediately stepped forward and dragged the collapsed scholar into the mine like a dead dog.
On the hillside,
Qin Shi Huang and Ying Ziye stood side by side.
Qin Shi Huang stared at the distant, ruthless figure for a long time.
He exhaled softly.
“This child…”
His voice carried a complicated emotion.
“He has finally grown into the form I wished for.”
Ying Ziye took a piece of osmanthus cake from his pocket and stuffed it into his mouth.
He mumbled:
“Father Emperor, Big Brother didn’t become evil.”
“He simply… fully understood everything he once read.”
Qin Shi Huang said nothing more.
His gaze fell upon the massive factory of blood and sweat.
The crack of whips.
The roars of overseers.
The “clang” of pickaxes striking ore.
All merged into a symphony of steel and flesh belonging to Great Qin.
Under the sunset,
the first cart filled with silver-white ore was pushed out by exhausted laborers.
Its wheels rolled toward the harbor.
There, Qin’s warships waited with gaping holds, ready to swallow the island’s wealth.
At the mine entrance,
Fusu’s silhouette stretched long under the setting sun—
like a silent statue carved from stone, devoid of emotion.
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