HCT – Chapter 267 I Go East, You Go West (End of Main Story)

In the blink of an eye, the second day of the first lunar month arrived.

Even if this day wasn’t supposed to be an auspicious one, the officials in charge of choosing dates would simply close their eyes and pull out a pile of scholarly reasoning to declare it an auspicious day.

The heavens were kind as well—clear skies stretched endlessly, a rare sunny day in winter.

Ying Zheng tilted his head up at the rare winter sunshine, the corners of his lips curving upward.

As on the day he ascended the throne as King of Qin, the two empress dowagers, along with Zhu Xiang and Xue Ji, dressed him in his ceremonial robes and crown, smoothing every wrinkle of his garments.

Zhu Xiang looked at the youthful face glowing with spirit and energy, and for some reason, an image of Xia Tong flashed across his mind.

He gave his head a small shake and smiled to himself. If Zheng’er were a little thinner, he would indeed look quite a bit like Xia Tong.

The second day of the first month was not only the day Ying Zheng ascended as the First Emperor of Qin—it was also his twenty-fifth birthday.

In this life, Ying Zheng became Qin Shihuang at twenty-seven. Even if he still couldn’t escape dying at forty-nine, he would still have twenty-two years to shape and manage this unprecedented, colossal empire.

Zhu Xiang had once told him that later generations would say he “carried on the brilliance accumulated by six generations.” But after reading the sparse pre-Qin historical records, it was clear that Qin’s situation at his accession was far from ideal. Thus admirers in later generations also mocked him for “bearing the blame of seven generations.”

Ying Zheng had rolled his eyes fiercely at that.

He could never understand why his admirers liked to mock him so much. Every one of those “fun facts” about Qin Shihuang that his uncle had told him were spread by people who idolized him.

And now, with Zheng’er becoming Qin Shihuang at only twenty-five, he definitely wouldn’t shake off the label of “continuing the work of six generations.”

But Zheng’er still wished to become a sovereign for the ages, so he needed to work even harder.

“Uncle… will you walk beside me?” Ying Zheng hesitated as he stepped out the door and asked Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang couldn’t help laughing. “Silly child, no one in this world can walk beside you. You’re grown now—you must walk alone.”

He gently pushed the young man’s back.

“Go on now, don’t miss the right moment,” Zhu Xiang said with a smile. “Your aunt and I will take Master Xun’s carriage.”

Ying Zheng staggered a step forward.

He turned back and looked deeply at his uncle and aunt, fists tightening inside his sleeves.

With a stiff face, Ying Zheng said, “Alright.”

Then the young emperor straightened his back and walked away without looking back, stepping onto the enormous nine-horse imperial chariot that belonged only to the emperor.

Xue Ji craned her neck, watching the child’s departing figure.

Tears fell.

“My love… why do I feel even more melancholy today than when I watched Zheng’er ascend as king?” Xue Ji could not understand her own emotions.

Zhu Xiang drew her gently into his arms and patted her back, giving no explanation.

There was no explanation to give—just emotions that surged up in specific moments. They represented nothing more.

“We should leave as well.” Xue Ji pulled herself together after crying only a short while. Zhu Xiang wiped her tears, then spoke.

Xue Ji nodded.

She supported Empress Dowager Huayang, while the wife of Lin Zhi—who had remained silent this whole time—supported Empress Dowager Xia. Together they boarded the empress dowagers’ carriage.

Chengjiao lifted the young Fusu into his arms. “Uncle, I’ll go ahead.”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “Go on.”

Wearing the heavy crown of the Crown Prince, little Fusu poked his head over Chengjiao’s shoulder and waved at his granduncle.

Zhu Xiang smiled and waved back.

Among the noble ladies heading to the emperor’s enthronement ceremony, Fusu’s mother was not present.

Zhu Xiang only learned upon returning that Lady Mi had fallen gravely ill from grief when Chu was destroyed. Her health had never recovered after giving birth to Fusu, and so she passed quietly last year.

Lady Mi had not been born in Qin; after entering the Qin state, she was cared for by her elder cousin, Prince Qi, whom she regarded as a father. Naturally, she had mourned deeply for Chu’s fall and for King Qi of Chu.

A very human reaction.

Zhu Xiang sympathized with her greatly.

And if Lady Mi were also the biological mother of Fusu in his original timeline, Zhu Xiang could guess why Qin Shihuang had always hesitated to formally establish Fusu as the crown prince.

Aside from Fusu not meeting his expectations, perhaps Lady Mi’s death had caused that emperor—whose heart could swing wildly between extremes—to feel displeasure.

Ying Zheng had not told Zhu Xiang or Xue Ji about Lady Mi’s death, nor had he summoned Fusu to mourn her. He handled the matter with cold detachment.

Zhu Xiang scolded him for it.

Even if Ying Zheng disliked her, he should have remembered that Fusu needed to observe mourning.

Irritated, Ying Zheng retorted, “It’s already hard for a young child to grow—so children under six don’t observe mourning or avoid meat. You and Master Xun added that rule yourselves so I could eat more meat. Did you forget?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Even if he doesn’t abstain from meat, he should keep mourning in his heart so no one can use it against him.”

Ying Zheng insisted, “Fusu doesn’t even know his birth mother. What mourning should he observe?”

Zhu Xiang sighed. It was too late now; when Fusu grew older, they could tell him the truth.

Even if Zheng’er, with his petty heart, would probably never posthumously honor Fusu’s mother, Fusu could do it himself when he grew up—just as King Renwen of Qin had posthumously honored his own mother, Lady Tang.

Ying Zheng guessed what his uncle was thinking and snorted. “He may honor her as Empress Dowager—but I forbid her from being buried with me!”

Zhu Xiang: “…How petty. She never wronged you.”

Ying Zheng turned and strode off.

I, King Zheng of Qin, act on my own will!

Zhu Xiang massaged his forehead. Yes—acting on his own will. In simpler terms: willful.

Watching the empress dowagers’ carriage slowly pull away, he felt a pang of emotion. If Lady Mi were still alive, she would be the one supporting Empress Dowager Xia. She would have become the first empress in Chinese history, and Qin Shihuang’s empress would no longer be a mystery for the ages.

Sometimes he truly wondered whether history had something like “inertia.”

“What are you daydreaming about?”

Lin Zhi sneaked up behind Zhu Xiang and smacked him hard on the back.

Zhu Xiang leapt like a frightened rabbit, clutching his chest and panting.

Lin Zhi doubled over laughing, sleeves flapping. “Hahahahaha! Did you see that? Zhu Xiang is such a coward!”

Cai Ze arrived, supporting Master Xun, and frowned. “You’re almost fifty. Can’t you act your age?”

Lin Zhi replied, grinning, “My teacher Zhuangzi acted like this even in his seventies.”

Master Xun, whose expression had been calm watching all this, suddenly tightened his grip on his staff, face darkening.

Lin Zhi immediately shut his mouth.

Today was Zheng’er’s enthronement. He couldn’t let himself get beaten by Master Xun and wind up recorded in the history books.

Lin Zhi occasionally had some sense of shame, though admittedly not much.

Zhu Xiang gave him a strong kick, then helped Master Xun into the carriage along with Cai Ze.

Lin Zhi dusted off the footprint on his lower robe and swaggered in after them.

From a distance, Li Mu—already seated in another carriage—glanced over and sighed helplessly. “Why is Lin Li still so unruly?”

With his eyes still closed, Lian Po maintained his resting posture. “When has he ever been unruly?”

Li Mu tried to recall. He kept thinking all the way until the carriage began moving—and still came up empty.

…

Countless carriages rolled out majestically from Xianyang Palace toward the altar Ying Zheng had built just the previous year.

For this enthronement, Ying Zheng ordered the construction of a grand altar at the foot of Mount Li, dedicated to the gods of heaven and earth and the ancestors of Qin.

After hearing Zhu Xiang speak of “imperial temples” and “temples of civil and martial sages,” Ying Zheng planned to build temples and ancestral shrines around the altar in the future to honor the sages, emperors, and ministers of the human race.

Of course, there would be no separation between “civil” and “military.” How could anyone distinguish between them now?

The Xianyang Imperial Guard wore black armor, carrying ritual halberds and axes, marching in thick, dark ranks behind the procession.

Commoners craned their necks to see, faces filled with fear and envy.

Many scholars wearing the robes distributed by the Xianyang Academy stood on both sides of the road, their expressions half-filled with longing and half with determination.

To them, they were already stepping onto the staircase leading upward. With enough effort, they could climb to the high platform where the emperor’s retinue stood.

Elsewhere, many captured nobles of the Six States—who were forbidden from attending the ceremony—watched with hatred, wishing they could leap at the procession and slaughter them all.

The procession rolled by slowly, then gradually moved away.

The city returned to calm. Nothing happened.

The grand ritual proceeded smoothly.

Among the ministers, Zhu Xiang kept his head lowered. He could not see the front, only hear the thunderous chants of Qin’s soldiers—

Praising Great Qin, praising their sovereign, praising the kings of generations past.

Then he knelt and prostrated with all the ministers, as the King of Qin ascended the altar alone, climbing the steps to its highest point.

Xunzi proclaimed:

“The king has raised righteous arms, ended chaos, united the realm, and awed all lands. He surpasses even the Five Emperors. In ancient times, there were the Heavenly Emperor, the Earthly Emperor, and the Great Emperor. The Great Emperor is the supreme. We propose to honor the king with the title ‘Taihuang.’”

Ying Zheng replied:

“Remove ‘Tai.’ Keep ‘Huang.’ Take the ancient title of ‘Di.’ My title shall be ‘Huangdi’—Emperor.”

Thus he offered sacrifices to heaven, to earth, and to his ancestors, prayed to the three realms of heaven, earth, and humanity, and completed the rites.

Zhu Xiang remained bowed on the ground.

This was Qin Shihuang’s enthronement—a moment no transmigrator would ever miss if given the chance to witness it. Yet Zhu Xiang chose to kneel with the ministers instead.

On the altar, Ying Zheng lit the torch, completing the ritual of sacrifice.

From today onward, he was Qin Shihuang.

But strangely, he did not feel the overwhelming excitement he had felt in his dreams. Instead, he felt a faint melancholy.

The young emperor looked toward the ministers kneeling below.

His uncle was there among them, wasn’t he?

Then he looked toward the two empress dowagers waiting beneath the platform, and at his aunt standing beside them.

Though empress dowagers stood, his aunt knelt like the other court ladies and noblewomen. He could not see her face.

Suddenly, the emperor remembered his uncle’s words before he left.

“No one can walk beside you.”

Yes—now, there is no one who can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me.

Elders can guide me for a time, but they cannot guide me for a lifetime. And how could I follow the exact path my elders walked?

I am the First Emperor.

Since ancient times, the first sovereign to be called “Emperor,” the one who opens the path of imperial rule—he is the First Emperor.

The young First Emperor lifted both arms and swept his sleeves. “Rise.”

Below the steps, the assembled bowed three times and nine times, then respectfully stood.

Among these ministers, some were impassioned hereditary nobles of Qin; some, wistful former nobles of the Six States; and some, elders whose faces were filled with hope and gratification.

All of them prostrated beneath the feet of the emperor. All rose only at the emperor’s permission. All recited his imperial title and pledged their loyalty.

Sovereign and subjects.

The sovereign gazes at the sky; the subjects bow to the earth.

A moment frozen into an ancient, colossal tableau.

The Qin dynasty was founded. The first year of Qin Shi Huang’s reign began.

…

After the enthronement ceremony, the First Emperor’s duties were far from over.

In the days to come, he would offer sacrifices at the ancestral tombs and tour every region of Qin.

After that, he would begin an imperial tour across the realm, to make known to all under heaven that the era had changed.

But Zhu Xiang had no intention of joining.

Rather than accompanying the First Emperor on his nonstop travels, it was more important for Zhu Xiang to continue farming on the old lands of the Six States.

This time, Xueji would not be separated from Zhu Xiang again—they would travel as husband and wife.

The First Emperor also stuffed Cheng Jiao and Fusu into Zhu Xiang and Xueji’s care, saying that reading ten thousand books was not as good as traveling ten thousand miles.

Who said that? Their uncle did.

After the enthronement ceremony, Ying Zheng suddenly seemed much more mature.

Just one day—and it was as if he had shed the shell of a youthful, lively young man and become an elegant and composed emperor.

Although he remained close to his uncle and aunt, he would no longer behave as uninhibitedly as before.

Children always grow up. And once they do, they will no longer cling to their elders the way they once did. They have their own roads to walk.

Zhu Xiang had already prepared himself for this, but clearly Xueji had not.

Back when Ying Zheng inherited the throne and became King of Qin, Zhu Xiang had already told Xueji to be mentally prepared. But Ying Zheng at the time was still the same child as before—no different at all.

Xueji thought that even after becoming the First Emperor, Zheng’er would still be the same child she had spoiled since young. But this time, he truly seemed to have grown.

Xueji showed nothing in front of Ying Zheng, but at night she cried quietly under her blanket.

A child grows up and shoulders their own burden. Parents are always proud and heartbroken in equal measure.

“You’re not sad at all?” Xueji asked.

Zhu Xiang replied, “Not really. Zheng’er is still Zheng’er—he’s just grown up, isn’t he?”

After much comfort from Zhu Xiang, Xueji finally calmed down enough to accept that her child had truly grown.

That night, she finally did not cry.

Once she was asleep, Zhu Xiang got up, put on his clothes, and stepped outside.

Ying Zheng was standing in the courtyard with a jar of wine, waiting for him.

Zhu Xiang sighed helplessly. “You’re a grown man—why are you throwing stones at my window? Who taught you that?”

“You,” Ying Zheng said.

“Absolutely not,” Zhu Xiang replied in disdain.

Ying Zheng shook the wine jar. “Then it must have been Uncle Lin.”

“Definitely Lin Li!”

So as not to wake Xueji, Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng walked further away, heading toward the fish pond Zhuangzi maintained.

The pond was still frozen. The two sat in the pavilion, lit a fire, and placed the wine jar beside it to warm.

“Why didn’t you let me comfort Aunt? You just had me watch her cry?” Ying Zheng complained.

How could he not notice that his aunt was upset? But when he tried to comfort her, his uncle had stopped him and told him to pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

“Xueji must eventually accept that you are no longer a child she protects. It is good for both you and her,” Zhu Xiang said. “You will always respect her, but her mindset still needs to change.”

An emperor does not need an elder pointing fingers over his decisions.

Xueji’s values were learned from Zhu Xiang. But Zhu Xiang himself was out of step with the world.

For Ying Zheng to hold the throne firmly and ensure Qin’s stability and longevity, many of the state policies he would use would inevitably conflict with Zhu Xiang’s ideals and with Xueji’s simple moral view.

Zhu Xiang feared that when that time came, Xueji would suffer emotionally and clash with Zheng’er.

Because Xueji had taught him and been strict with him—if he crossed her moral bottom line, and she had not accepted in her heart that he was an emperor, she would certainly blame him.

Zhu Xiang foresaw this and did not want Xueji to reach that breaking point.

Before their values diverged too greatly, Zhu Xiang wanted her to gradually accept that Zheng’er was now the emperor—that they could no longer guide his thoughts, and must trust him to forge his own path. So that in the future, when disagreements inevitably arose, Xueji…

Xueji and he both… could still accept it with calm hearts.

Ying Zheng looked at the wine jar. “So Uncle is so certain that I will eventually take a path different from what you taught?”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “I’ve read Shang Yang’s policies—exhausting the people, keeping them ignorant, suppressing them. Though I taught you that he who wins the hearts of the people wins the realm, the empire’s resources are finite. Once the common folk’s basic survival needs are met, to prevent them from nurturing ambitions that threaten imperial authority, the emperor must inevitably use some of Shang Yang’s methods.”

Ying Zheng listened quietly, as always.

“And natural disasters will never disappear. As long as disasters exist, people will fail to survive. Those who cannot live will rebel. Disaster victims are innocent—but for the stability of the state, they become rebels that must be eradicated.”

“Though most lands are now under Qin, once nobles are granted estates, new hereditary aristocracy will form again. Land annexation will worsen, harming the common people. Yet these nobles are the backbone of governance—you cannot damage their interests at will.”

Zhu Xiang poured himself a cup of wine and drank.

“Ideals are ideals. Reality is reality. The ruler is the ruler; the people are the people. Though the people can carry the boat and overturn it, before the waves rise, ruler and people can still be in opposition.”

“Zheng’er, you want to create unprecedented achievements, accomplishments that future generations will marvel at. So… you will inevitably exhaust the people.”

“To develop the Hetao region held by the Xiongnu; to develop the Baiyue lands filled with miasma, snakes, and insects—both require countless lives.”

“Expansion of territory is paved with bones.”

Ying Zheng refilled his cup.

“This is what you want to do—and what you should do,” Zhu Xiang said with a gentle smile. “Your uncle and aunt should not constrain you, nor should they constrain this era.”

Zhu Xiang understood that Ying Zheng would be correct. But he and Xueji were born commoners—they could not bear seeing people like them become the foundation stones of this grand era.

Later generations would see only the brilliant blossom, the magnificent fruit.

But Zhu Xiang and Xueji were people of this time—they first saw the piled corpses that nourished those roots.

When King Zheng unified the Six States, he raised righteous troops and acted righteously. Qin was more benevolent than any of the Six States.

But once Qin Shi Huang unified the world and needed to consolidate power, he had to rule with both kindness and severity. His enemies were no longer foreign powers but his own people.

Not the former nobles of the Six States, but the ordinary people who could not adapt to Qin rule—the ones who, when struck by disaster, would rise in revolt.

Look through history—not only the chaotic end of Qin, but even during the famed benevolent eras—the Wen and Jing reigns, the Zhenguan era, the Yongle reign, the Kangxi and Qianlong golden ages—peasant uprisings never ceased.

Because disasters never ceased, and starving commoners never ceased.

In these past ten years, Qin had few internal rebellions because compared to the Six States, Qin people lived better, and foreign enemies existed to divert conflict.

But once Qin became an empire ruling all under heaven, that no longer worked.

As for giving Qin Shi Huang a world map so he could send troubles overseas—impossible.

In late Han, Emperor Wu nearly collapsed the dynasty fighting the Xiongnu—the population dropped in half. And that was with the strong foundation laid by the Wen-Jing era.

Qin had only twenty million people. How could they cross mountains and seas to attack foreign lands?

Where would the soldiers come from? The grain? The weapons?

And how would communication work over such distances?

The Qin Shi Huang of history was not blind to the idea of diverting conflict—he campaigned against Baiyue and the Xiongnu. The result? Internal conflict worsened. The issue was not the lack of land to conquer.

Zhu Xiang understood: Zheng’er could not divert conflict—he could only recuperate the people and suppress internal unrest simultaneously.

“But Zheng’er, don’t carry too much pressure,” Zhu Xiang said earnestly. “To rule, you must use both kindness and severity. The people fear authority but they also feel gratitude. Do what you must. Leave the task of comforting the people to your uncle and aunt.”

Ying Zheng finally poured himself a bowl of wine and sipped it carefully. “Ugh… disgusting!”

He fanned his tongue vigorously. “What is this?!”

“Wine,” Zhu Xiang said in confusion. “Zheng’er, have you never drunk it?”

Ying Zheng took out an osmanthus cake and stuffed it into his mouth to wash away the taste. “…You two never let me drink. But how can wine be so spicy?”

“It’s strong wine,” Zhu Xiang laughed. “If you can’t handle it, don’t drink. Come, Uncle will cook something delicious for you.”

He stood.

Ying Zheng, disgusted, used the wine jar to smother the fire and left it there.

The two took a lantern and quietly snuck into the kitchen for food.

“By the way, Zheng’er, are you still influenced by your past-life emotions?”

“No. Never was. Uncle, I have a question: are the past life and present life considered the same person?”

“Hahaha, Zheng’er is starting to ponder philosophy?”

“What is philosophy? …Don’t change the subject—you haven’t answered.”

“Well…” Zhu Xiang said leisurely, hands behind his back. “For some people, their personality is mainly shaped by the past life, with their present experiences influencing it. For others, it’s the opposite—the present dominates, and past-life memories influence it instead. It’s complicated.”

“Why the difference?” Ying Zheng asked.

“Who knows?” Zhu Xiang smiled. “Perhaps different emotions are carried within the memories.”

Ying Zheng fell silent.

He wanted to ask whether Uncle recognized the past him or the present him. But in the end, he let the question go.

Because even without asking, he knew the answer.

…

“Just like how I know I chose this life. You are my past life, but you are not me,” the young First Emperor said to the older, weary First Emperor. “But I am curious—am I your future?”

The older First Emperor sat with his eyes closed, expression unchanged, offering no answer.

The young one never expected him to.

He continued, “Uncle said that in the original history I would die during the southern tour. The tale of ‘Ying Zheng’s coffin stinking of preserved fish’… But your memory ends the moment you learned the fangshi deceived you. If you had lived longer—if you too could share my memories—would your future be different from what Uncle described? But you have only two years left. What can you accomplish?”

“I really wonder.” The young First Emperor stroked his newly grown beard.

“But since I don’t have ‘future memories,’ even if you become me someday… you won’t truly be the me I am now.” He stretched and stood. “It’s time for me to take my leave.”

“Take care, Ying Zheng.”

He left the dream.

The older First Emperor opened his eyes.

His voice was low and hoarse, matching his worn face. “Take care.”

The dream collapsed completely.

…

“Don’t come see us off—we’re not leaving home for the first time,” Zhu Xiang told him firmly. “Go back. You have your own preparations to make—there’s much to do.”

Xueji adjusted the stray hairs on Ying Zheng’s head, then straightened the wrinkles of his robe. “Zheng’er, sleep well and eat well. Don’t overwork yourself and harm your health.”

“I will,” Ying Zheng said. “Uncle, Aunt—take care.”

Zhu Xiang and Xueji smiled at him—two faces already marked by wind and frost—and got into the carriage, heading east.

Ying Zheng watched them go. Only when the dust finally settled did he mount his horse and ride west.

Beyond the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, spring grasses stretched endlessly into the horizon. Life has few joyful reunions—and many farewells.

But farewells will meet again.

Ying Zheng thought: next year, he must remind his uncle and aunt early—he must not break his promise like last year.

—End of Main Text—