The fifteenth year of King Xiaocheng of Zhao, early spring. The outer ward of Handan.
Dust billowed through the market. Beneath a willow tree, several swarthy old commoners squatted in the damp mud of early spring, their straw sandals caked with grime. They scratched at their patchy beards, spittle flying as they cursed.
“Hmph! Those Yan barbarians are as low as they come. While we were locked in battle with the Qin dogs, they had the gall to sneak in and attack us. As if Yan State were any kind of threat!”
“General Lian Po has already taken the army into the field. He’ll send those Yan men running for their lives!”
Not long ago, King Xi of Yan had decided that Zhao State, fresh from its war with Qin, was ripe for the taking. “All the strong men died at Changping, and the orphans aren’t grown yet,” he’d reasoned, and so he sent an army of six hundred thousand to attack Haocheng. Zhao’s general, Lian Po, had led his troops out just a few days earlier.
“Those Western Rong bastards! If they hadn’t buried four hundred thousand of our sons at Changping, the Yan dogs wouldn’t dare cross our border!”
A glob of phlegm landed beside the feet of a boy hurrying past.
Ying Zheng tugged at his faded hemp robe and walked between the spit-flinging old Zhao men as if he hadn’t heard a word.
The closer he came to home, the faster he walked.
He stopped in front of a quiet little courtyard enclosed by four walls and slipped in through the side gate.
“Mother.”
A graceful-looking woman heard the door open and hurried out to meet him.
“Did you hear anything about Qin?” Zhao Ji seized Ying Zheng’s hand and pulled him inside. Once they were alone, she leaned close and pressed him in a low, urgent voice.
Ying Zheng drew his hand free, his expression cool. “Why are you in such a hurry, Mother?”
Zhao Ji’s face went white. She grabbed his wrist, squeezing so hard her knuckles blanched.
“How can I not be? You’re the son of a Qin royal grandson. The blood of generations of Qin kings runs in your veins! If—if your father succeeds…” Her voice climbed to a sharp pitch.
Ying Zheng’s brow twitched. He forced down his rising anger and barely dared to breathe, afraid someone might be listening through the walls. Slowly, he stood and turned away from her.
“Mother, be careful what you say. There are no Qin royals here. There’s only Zhao Zheng.”
Zhao Ji’s legs gave way, and she sank onto the mat. Covering her face with both hands, she murmured, “Your father will come for us. Mr. Lu sent word just last year…”
Ying Zheng opened his mouth, but when he looked at his mother—the only family he had—he couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking.
He was only eight, but a childhood spent in fear, always hiding and on the run, had forced him to grow up far beyond his years.
If that Qin royal grandson had been worth relying on, he wouldn’t have abandoned his wife and child and fled back to Qin alone.
Ying Zheng kept the thought to himself. Zhao Ji’s one hope was that Ying Yiren, thousands of miles away, would remember them and bring them back to Qin.
Zhao Ji cried for a while. Six years of tears had long since run her dry. She wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and stood.
“With Mr. Lu’s help, your father won’t forget us.”
The “Mr. Lu” she meant was Lu Buwei. He had spotted the impoverished hostage prince Ying Yiren in Handan and decided he was a rare commodity. He had spent a fortune cultivating influential connections for him, and had even offered him a beautiful woman.
That woman was Zhao Ji.
Zhao Ji took a bowl of millet porridge mixed with beans from the steamer and pressed it into Ying Zheng’s hands. “Finish this, then get some sleep.”
Ying Zheng lowered his head and ate quickly, his throat bobbing with every swallow. He was half a head taller than boys his age, broad-shouldered too, and one bowl barely took the edge off his hunger. Still, he didn’t complain. He licked the bowl clean and went back to his room without a word.
The house wasn’t small—not for Zhao Ji and Ying Zheng, at least. Lu Buwei was fabulously wealthy, and even though he was far away in Qin, he had made sure the mother and son wanted for nothing.
But when Ying Zheng opened the wooden door, his room was bare. It looked nothing like a home.
He was used to it. He and his mother often had to change hiding places, and whether they owned much or little, none of it really belonged to him.
Ying Zheng unrolled a bamboo slip and read by the light filtering through a crack in the door.
The sun sank at last behind ink-dark mountains. Thin clouds faded to the color of diluted ink, and the moon slowly climbed above the treetops, casting a silvery frost over the ground.
Ying Zheng closed his eyes for a moment and ran his fingertip over the incised characters on the bamboo slip, silently reciting the passage.
He didn’t know whether Lu Buwei’s promise would hold.
But if he ever made it back to Qin, Ying Zheng couldn’t bear the thought of being useless. He wouldn’t tremble at the sight of a noble’s carriage like the beggars on the streets of Handan. And he wouldn’t stake his life on a man’s “promise” the way his mother did.
Night fell.
A streak of light suddenly flashed through the quiet darkness—a shooting star across the sky.
On the walls of Handan, an old soldier on patrol looked up. He tumbled backward in terror and cried out.
The squad leader followed his gaze, but the sky above them was empty and black, not a cloud in sight. He scowled and snapped, “Keep your eyes on the patrol! You’re getting senile.”
The old soldier rubbed his eyes. His failing vision showed him nothing now. He decided the flash must have been a trick of the light, then awkwardly clambered back to his feet.
Under Zhao Regulations, men over sixty were exempt from garrison duty. The old soldier was sixty-three, and his eyesight was bound to be failing. But Zhao State was desperately short of soldiers. The Battle of Changping had killed four hundred thousand young men, and this year Yan State had taken advantage of their weakness to invade. The old soldier’s son had died in an earlier battle, so now the old man had been called up to guard the city.
It had been like this for centuries. One day Qin attacked Zhao, and every household wore mourning white; the next, Zhao invaded Yan, and the rivers ran red. Year after year, war followed war. There was no peace to be had.
A mote of light flitted through Handan.
System 108 streaked toward the exclamation mark on its Radar Map.
[Sunshine overhead, the System beams; 108 says, “Rise, rise, rise—the transmigrator’s cheat is here~”]
System 108 hummed its own cheerful little electronic jingle as it hurried toward the blinking exclamation mark on the map.
It was a system under the Historical Livestream Game, assigned to the Savior Department. Its job was to find transmigrators to play saviors, then edit uplifting documentaries full of love and compassion for the viewers. A little spiritual cleansing never hurt anyone.
This time, 108 had been tasked with assisting an unlucky newcomer who had just arrived in the Warring States Period. As the Main System’s smartest assistant, it would help its player thrive in both the real world and the game: take part in a turbulent age, earn a noble title and high office, clear instances in-game, rack up Popularity Points through livestreaming, and reach the pinnacle of life!
Before long, 108 reached its destination: a ramshackle courtyard.
[Let’s see what the Host is doing… AAAAAH!]
In the middle of the thatched hut lay the still-warm body of a boy. A woman knelt over him, wailing until her voice broke.
“My poor child! Why did you have to be so foolish? Why did you run headfirst into the wall and kill yourself?!”
The transmigrator’s body was still warm.
But warm or not, he was already dead!
System 108 stared, despairing, at the thick arrow over the corpse’s head. Its deep-blue point aimed straight at the body, as if mocking 108.
[Major crisis! Major crisis! Host is dead!]
System 108 spun wildly in place, firing off a terabyte of identical messages to the Main System in a single second.
Half a quarter-hour later, the Main System’s cold reply arrived:
[Major accident confirmed. You are authorized to bind a local resident in this world as a replacement player.]
Relief washed over 108. It immediately darted off toward the new coordinates.
The moon shone clear and bright.
Ying Zheng blew out the oil lamp and lay down fully clothed.
He and his mother had to keep changing hiding places to evade Zhao’s watchful eyes. He had grown used to sleeping in his clothes, ready to run at a moment’s notice.
[High-intensity soul detected… Binding requirements met. Bind to the Savior Livestream System?]
A strange voice suddenly rang out in Ying Zheng’s mind.
Ying Zheng shot upright. He grabbed the dagger hidden beneath his pillow and scanned the room, but there was no one there.
His fingers tightened around the hilt. “Who’s speaking?”
[This is System 108.] A blue-violet orb appeared before him, its voice trying hard to sound friendly. [This System can help the Host build a career, perhaps even earn a noble title and high office. Complete instance quests, gain Popularity Points, and you can redeem technology from beyond your era.]
[All the Host has to do is complete a tiny, thrilling, world-saving quest.]
System 108 pitched its heart out, praying that the child in front of it wasn’t too young to mistake it for a ghost and refuse.
Ying Zheng tilted his head, studying the unmistakably nonhuman blue orb. He listened to 108’s enthusiastic speech for a full quarter of an hour without saying a word.
By the end, Ying Zheng had more or less understood. This thing—whether it was a ghost or a god—wanted him to save all the people of the world.
“Can you help me get to Qin?” Ying Zheng asked.
He had no interest in saving all the people of the world. He was very interested in using this thing to save himself.
[Yes.]
“I agree to bind.” Ying Zheng accepted at once.
Perhaps this thing called a System had an ulterior motive. So what? Lu Buwei had ulterior motives too, and he had still helped Ying Yiren escape to Qin.
Ying Zheng wasn’t afraid of being used. He was only afraid he wouldn’t be worth using—that he’d die quietly in Handan without ever making a difference.
[Player binding successful. Enter ID (name).]
Ying Zheng hesitated, then sighed. “Zhao Zheng.”
[Binding successful. Checking player information…
Player name: Zhao Zheng (Ying Zheng)
Age: Eight
Identity: Hostage prince of Qin
Let the game begin! The road ahead is long, but the future looks bright. A noble title and high office… Ahhhh!]
System 108’s voice cut off abruptly.
“Sir?” Ying Zheng tilted his head, his young face creased with confusion.
You’re Ying Zheng!!! System 108 screamed soundlessly.
I’m supposed to help Ying Zheng earn a noble title and high office? I’ll just get in his way!
Wait, is Qin Shi Huang really suited to be a savior? He looks much more like the final boss guarding the last level…
When no answer came, Ying Zheng assumed he hadn’t been polite enough. Zhao Ji had told him how much Ying Yiren respected Lu Buwei.
Ying Zheng’s heart tightened. Whether the thing before him was a ghost, a god, or a human, it was the only lifeline he had.
His posture was far too composed for his age, but his voice held the faintest trace of nerves. “Whether I make it back to Qin or not, I’ll treat you as my teacher. Please help me.”
For all his maturity, he was still only eight.
The blue orb trembled.
[Player potential exceeds expectations… Revising dialogue.
Begin saving the world! The System will assist the player in raising civilization and uniting the entire cosmos.]
