At this time, Zichu actually had many dietary restrictions.

He wasn’t allowed to eat anything overly sweet, overly greasy, high in protein, or high in fat.

Yet all of these happened to be Zichu’s favorite foods.

But after Zhu Xiang consulted with the imperial physicians, they lifted all of Zichu’s restrictions. As long as he could eat, Zhu Xiang would find every possible way to make whatever he wanted.

Zhu Xiang tinkered around and produced silky, tender egg tarts, devised all kinds of hotpot soup bases, and even ground sun-dried seaweed and shrimp into powder to enhance flavors… Zichu’s appetite was still decent.

Only, even lying in a sickbed, Zichu refused to relinquish power.

Although Crown Prince Zheng was acting as regent, he still had to report to Zichu every day, standing at his bedside to recount the day’s important affairs so Zichu could make the final decisions.

Zhu Xiang originally thought of persuading him to rest, but seeing Zichu’s bright, sparkling eyes whenever he handled state affairs, he gave up on the idea.

According to Zichu, lying in bed doing nothing would only prolong his life by a few months. Life was short—why not spend it doing what one loved?

He was a selfish man who would not suppress himself just to ease the minds of his friends and family.

He was already the King of Qin—why shouldn’t he do as he pleased?

The drunken Lìn Zhi nodded in agreement and asked if Zichu wanted a sip of good wine.

In the past few years, winters in Xianyang had been steadily growing colder. Zhu Xiang had long built heated brick beds in his own courtyard, and now they had been adopted throughout Xianyang Palace.

However, ever since King Zhao of Qin, whenever a King of Qin grew gravely ill, he always wanted to spend his final peaceful days at Zhu Xiang’s manor. Zichu was no exception.

Not to mention, even when he had been healthy, whenever he was free he would return here. Naturally, now he lived here as well.

Although he still oversaw government affairs daily, with Crown Prince Zheng reviewing everything beforehand, and with Qin having no major issues at the moment, Zichu had plenty of time to follow Zhu Xiang outside for walks.

If he lacked the strength, Zhu Xiang pushed his wheelchair.

As the weather grew colder, his complexion darkened, and even his fingernails turned black.

These were signs of insufficient blood oxygen.

If this were the modern age, he would be on oxygen therapy. But such things didn’t exist now, and Zhu Xiang could only watch helplessly as Zichu grew more and more gaunt.

Zichu was surely in great discomfort, but he smiled every day—smiling more than he ever used to.

He frequently teased Zhu Xiang, telling him not to wear such a mournful expression. From being a hostage to becoming King of Qin, he had not lived a lonely life. That alone was enough for him to leave the world with a smile.

Gradually, Zhu Xiang also learned to face him with a smile and joke with him just as they always had.

Later, under Cai Ze’s coordination of government affairs, Chancellor Lìn Zhi was granted a long vacation. Lìn Zhi also moved in, chatting, strolling, and playing board games with Zhu Xiang and Zichu every day.

The three of them were just like they had been back in Zhao.

“Thinking about it now, I knew back then I wouldn’t live a long life,” Zichu said, recalling the past.

He had been only twelve or thirteen when he was sent as a hostage, frail and thin.

The road to Zhao was long, almost completely cutting him off from Qin. He had few possessions, didn’t adapt well to the local climate, and his parents had already prepared themselves for the likelihood that he would die in Zhao.

A hostage prince was allowed to bring some property, and Zhao would treat him with the courtesy due to a member of Qin’s royal clan.

Compared to commoners, his life shouldn’t have been too hard. But that only applied if he resigned himself to living idly in Zhao forever—doing nothing but eating and surviving. Only then would his funds be enough.

But if he wanted to seek teachers, to study, to socialize, to build a reputation so Qin would remember him—his money was far from sufficient.

Zhu Xiang had once joked about giving him the persona of a scholar who tied his hair to a beam and pierced walls for light, reading by fireflies and studying until he coughed blood.

In truth, while Zichu hadn’t reached that extreme, his studies had indeed been grueling and bitter.

The cost of learning was simply too high.

“I brought some books from Qin, copied them, and traded them with others. It should have been mutually beneficial, but people looked down on me. Without paying extra money, I couldn’t exchange for books.”

“And if I wanted someone to explain difficult passages to me, that also required money.”

“Almost all the possessions I brought from Qin were spent on studying.”

Zichu sipped fruit wine, letting out a sigh.

He had no means of livelihood in Zhao and quickly burned through his resources.

His food worsened, he had no medicine, and when he fell ill, he could only endure it. He even sold his carriage for daily expenses.

Most of the servants who had gone with him to Zhao drifted away one by one, leaving only a handful who worked odd jobs to support themselves—and to support him, their utterly useless master.

He often curled up in a dim room, body hunched, relying solely on willpower to survive illness after illness.

That was how all his chronic ailments took root.

In Zhu Xiang’s previous life’s history, in the third year and fourth month of King Zichu’s reign, Lord Xinling led a coalition of the five states of Yan, Zhao, Han, Wei, and Chu, defeating Meng Ao and pushing the Qin army back to Hangu Pass. The coalition later withdrew due to schemes, but the decades of Qin’s efforts in the Three Jin regions were reduced to nothing.

King Zichu was consumed with grief and anger, and died suddenly in the fifth month.

A healthy man does not die of grief. Those who die suddenly are already precarious to begin with.

If not for such hardships, Zichu would never have been stripped of all his pride or lost the sense of status ingrained in him since childhood. He would never have formed a friendship with Zhu Xiang, a mere commoner.

“And you freeloaded at my house,” Zhu Xiang added.

Zichu cursed, “Freeload? Didn’t you assign me enough work? You’re the kind of person who uses anyone capable to death—everything gets pushed onto me!”

Lìn Zhi nodded. “Exactly. He treated Zheng’er the same way. Who hands over all household goods to a five- or six-year-old to manage?”

Shamelessly, Zhu Xiang said, “I was giving Xiatong and Zheng’er opportunities to showcase their talents. They should be thanking me.”

Zichu said, “Then I really must thank you. Want me to write a decree expressing my gratitude?”

Lìn Zhi said, “Since you’ve already said it, he’ll definitely ask for it.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Great. Make it heartfelt. Remember to write it by hand.”

Zichu sneered, “Bah.”

Zhu Xiang sneered back, “Hypocrite. If you don’t want to write it, then don’t say it.”

Lìn Zhi fanned the flames enthusiastically from the side.

Zichu and Zhu Xiang instantly turned their spears toward him and began attacking him together.

Lìn Zhi remained fearless. With a thick enough skin, all embarrassing stories became badges of honor. And besides, they weren’t even bad—he was still exactly the same now.

Crown Prince Zheng was in low spirits. But every time he brought a huge stack of government documents to see his father, seeing his father chatting and laughing with his two uncles made it impossible for him to stay gloomy.

Especially since every time he came in, these three elders would immediately switch topics to his “childhood stories,” making his blood pressure shoot up so fast that he couldn’t stay depressed even if he wanted to.

Originally, Crown Prince Zheng had arranged for Cheng Jiao to accompany their father. But after Cheng Jiao repeatedly asked him “Big Brother, is that really true?” he dragged Cheng Jiao away, saying it was to let their father rest—and forbidding Cheng Jiao from skipping school again.

Cheng Jiao’s clever little head bobbed up and down.

He understood—completely understood. Big Brother was embarrassed and angry, so what Father, Uncle, and Grand-Uncle said must all be true.

Big Brother didn’t seem all that smart as a child. He even appointed their big yellow dog as an official—how childish.

Hands behind his back, Cheng Jiao swayed as he walked, deciding to secretly record Big Brother’s black history and whisper it to Big Brother’s children someday, to avenge all the math problems Big Brother had forced him to do.

Zichu was a man who kept his word.

Though he spent less and less time sitting up, gradually shifting from chatting with friends to simply listening, he still surpassed the physicians’ expectations and survived into the new year.

Had it been King Zhao or King Renwen, they would have abdicated long before reaching this point.

But Zichu remained King of Qin.

As long as he could open his eyes, he would always be King of Qin.

His friends all understood his stubbornness, so none of them tried persuading him anymore.

There was no point. Whether Crown Prince Zheng became King of Qin a few days earlier or later made no difference. King Zhao and King Renwen abdicated early so they could guide the next king for a time—but Crown Prince Zheng was already a fully competent king. Zichu did not need to guide him.

When Zheng’er’s birthday arrived, Lian Po, Li Mu, and Xueji all rushed back.

Li Mu even brought back the now mostly useless King of Qi. Zichu granted the King of Qi the title Marquis of Le. Zhu Xiang complained that Zichu really had a sense of humor choosing such a “joyful” title.

Li Mu had kept the King of Qi detained in Qi instead of sending him to Qin earlier so that before each siege, the King of Qi could be made to knock on the city gates and persuade the defenders to surrender. Even if they wouldn’t surrender, it still destabilized the Qi soldiers’ morale.

When Zhu Xiang learned this, he almost choked. The idea was something Li Mu came up with together with Wang Jian. These two were really vicious. He even worried that if the King of Qi had a more fragile mentality, he might not survive long after arriving in Qin.

The King of Qi was indeed dispirited.

He might be incompetent, but he had no pathological issues—he was mentally a normal person. He fully understood what the people of Qi and future generations would say about him for doing such a thing. Understanding was one thing, but since he had defected to Qin to save his life, of course he would continue doing everything possible to survive.

If he cared about dignity, he would have chosen to live or die with Qi. Why defect to Qin then? He was going to be scolded anyway—if he resisted now and ruined everything, wouldn’t all his efforts be for nothing? Thus, the King of Qi’s mentality was better than Zhu Xiang expected. He even joined Hou Sheng in cursing those who refused to surrender, calling them disobedient fools trying to get him killed.

Crown Prince Zheng complained to Zhu Xiang that if he were the King of Qin, he would definitely get rid of the King of Qi. He couldn’t stand how disgusting that man was. His father was amazing—just to crush any hope Qi had of restoring their nation, he could tolerate that nauseating man living in Xianyang, polluting the very environment.

Of course the Crown Prince knew that placing fallen kings in Xianyang was advantageous for Qin, but he simply didn’t want to exist on the same map as those dethroned rulers.

Disgusting! He felt like he might throw up!

Exile! Exile them all!

Zhu Xiang patted the Crown Prince’s back to comfort him. He wondered if the First Emperor in history was also a “man of intense temperament” like his Zheng’er.

Most likely.

Sigh.

When Zichu learned of the Crown Prince’s thoughts, he summoned him and lectured him for a long time.

A king must endure what ordinary people cannot. Even after becoming emperor, the highest ruler under heaven, he must bear many things and cannot do as he pleases.

Governing a state is like cooking a small fish—stir it, or it will burn; stir too hard, and it will fall apart. The actions of a wise ruler often look bold and sweeping, but in truth, they are like carving flowers with an axe—each step cautious, treading on thin ice.

The Crown Prince hung his head while listening to his father lecture him about being immature. Zhu Xiang and Lin Zhi munched on melon seeds at the side.

Li Mu did not join those two shameless elders in laughing at Zheng’er. Zheng’er was about to become a father, after all—he should be shown some dignity.

While ill, Zichu still held a grand celebration for the Crown Prince’s birthday.

Before the Wei–Jin period, birthdays were not celebrated. Neither the ruler nor the common people observed them. When Zichu ascended the throne, he had already changed Qin’s New Year from the tenth month to the first month, and he declared two days off for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

The Crown Prince’s birthday was on the second day of the first month, so Zichu ordered a national holiday on that day as well. Qin’s New Year holiday thus increased to three days.

Previously, Zhu Xiang only celebrated Zheng’er’s birthday privately at home, but King Zichu publicly celebrating the Crown Prince’s birthday went against ritual norms. However, Zichu granted all officials one day off, and after Xunzi had a talk with the dissenters, most of the most stubborn Confucian disciples stopped objecting.

Officials in Qin were exhausted. With the ruler leading the way, everyone worked themselves to the bone. Rest was a rarity.

Now that they finally had one more day off during New Year—three days total—the officials were grateful. After resting, they even had the energy to visit relatives or travel a bit. If anyone opposed this, their colleagues might very well throw dung at their door.

Besides, the official reason for the holiday was: “You have all worked hard these past years; take an extra day to spend with your families.”

It had nothing to do with the Crown Prince’s birthday on paper.

Some Confucian scholars were extremely high-minded; even if others rested, they insisted on upholding “ritual.” But they soon found themselves unable to submit their objections due to sudden bouts of diarrhea or other issues. They could only watch regretfully as Zichu’s proposal passed unanimously.

They beat their chests in frustration. It was just one day of vacation, yet they had been betrayed by the very peers and even friends they trusted the most!

The traitors all stood with hands behind their backs, looking up at the sky.

If the ruler were in danger, they could die with him. But this was an entire day off!

Xunzi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when recounting the incident. King Zichu laughed so hard his blackened face regained some color.

“Zheng’er,” he said, “after you unify the realm and allow the people to recover, give the officials a few more days of rest. They’ve worked hard.”

The Crown Prince disagreed. The nation was in ruins—how could he let them slack off?

But after being nagged by his elders about work–life balance improving efficiency, he could only agree with a dark expression.

“I wonder when Mi Ji’s baby will be born,” Zichu coughed twice, feeling his strength failing. Human willpower had its limits.

Just when Zichu was about to give up, Heaven seemed unwilling to let this king—who had narrowly missed becoming the father of the First Emperor—carry any more regrets. Mi Ji finally gave birth to a big, chubby boy—much fatter than Zheng’er had been.

He was so heavy that poor Mi Ji suffered quite a bit, making Xueji—waiting outside—extremely anxious. Fortunately, though Mi Ji’s health was not great, both mother and child were safe.

Crown Prince Zheng looked at the chubby baby who wailed without shedding tears and wore a disgusted expression. Zichu, however, praised his grandson endlessly, saying the child was the best-looking baby under heaven, even better looking than Zheng’er.

Zhu Xiang: “Not as good as Zheng’er.”

Xueji: “Not as good as Zheng’er.”

The Crown Prince smugly: “Hmph.”

Zichu prepared many names but was unsatisfied with all of them.

The Crown Prince originally thought that in this lifetime, the child wouldn’t be named Fusu.

But Zhu Xiang said, “Why not call him Fusu? In the poem ‘The Mountain Has Fusu’ from the Book of Songs, the woman clearly waited for a man, but when he arrived, she claimed she had been waiting for a handsome gentleman, not this rude fellow. It perfectly matches Zheng’er—who clearly loves the child but insists on denying it because he dislikes his looks.”

Zichu slapped the table in delight. “Good! Fusu it is!”

Crown Prince Zheng: “Wait!”

Lin Zhi added, “It makes sense. ‘Fusu’ describes trees flourishing with branches and leaves—an auspicious meaning.”

Crown Prince Zheng: “But…”

Xueji held back laughter. “It’s a beautiful name.”

Crown Prince Zheng: “Aunt!”

Cai Ze comforted him. “Fusu really is a good name. As parents, we hope our children grow as strong as great trees.”

Of course the Crown Prince knew the meaning was good. He named his eldest son “Fusu” in the original timeline precisely for that symbolism.

But what nonsense was that explanation about the poem!?

The elders all agreed, stripping him of the right to name his own child.

Thus, the boy remained Fusu—healthy enough to pee three feet into the wind, and he soaked the Crown Prince the first time he held him. The Crown Prince carried his foul-smelling son, his face even darker than the wet patch on his clothes.

Xueji taught him how to help the baby urinate and reminisced about his childhood. Zhu Xiang laughed while patting King Zichu’s back as he almost laughed himself breathless. Lin Zhi was the loudest; Cai Ze patted his shoulder, telling him not to laugh too hard.

Li Mu coughed twice and turned his face away to hide his expression.

Even the usually stern Xunzi, who had been annoyed by how casually they named the royal grandchild, couldn’t help but laugh. He wasn’t laughing at the Crown Prince; he simply remembered something amusing.

Days passed peacefully.

When the warm spring sunlight poured through the windows, Zhu Xiang told Zichu that this year’s spring plowing had gone well and that it would be a year of abundant harvests.

Zichu smiled. “Now I can finally be at ease.”

Then, holding his giggling chubby grandson in his arms, surrounded by his dearest friends and beloved son, he closed his eyes.

…

In February of the tenth year of King Zichu’s reign, 241 BCE, King Zichu of Qin passed away.

His final decree: Qin was at a critical juncture, so there would be no state funeral, and the people were not permitted to mourn.

Years of rushing around to relieve famines had gained him a reputation for benevolence in Qin’s heartland, surpassing even that of King Renwen of Qin. Even old farmers in the countryside collapsed to the ground in grief upon hearing the news.

King Zheng ascended the throne and changed the era name the following year. An era had ended.

The stars still shone brilliantly afterward, yet compared to the blazing sun dominating the sky, neither moon nor stars could be seen.

The era of Ying Zheng had begun.