Handan. Capital of Zhao. A city dressed in noise and dust.
Even from here, I could feel it breathing—cluttered streets, clattering carts, the clipped bartering of silk-sellers and grain-hawks. Soldiers shouting. Scholars posturing. Peasants trudging home with baskets half-empty. The scent of hot oil, iron, and ambition. It always rises, that scent. Even beneath the perfume of civility, it lingers.
I stood on the upper floor of my residence, a hand resting lightly on the polished wood of the terrace railing. Below me, the gravel paths of my estate curved through trimmed hedges and tidy stone borders, the chaos of the city kept firmly outside these walls. Here, there was quiet. Order. Intent.
Behind me, the study waited: lacquered floor gleaming like a black mirror, the long table lined with contracts and scrolls, shelves packed with records and numbers that had long since ceased to intimidate me. A brass kettle simmered in the corner. The smell of boiled herbs. Cedar. Ink. My world.
They see the robes first. Always. Charcoal with silver threading. Nothing flamboyant, of course—no noble would respect that. But fine enough that even the courtiers know: I am not one of them, but I am not beneath them. My cuffs carry embroidery so subtle you must lean close to see it. The right people do.
I keep my beard trimmed, my hair knotted, my posture easy but never careless. These are the details that matter. A merchant has no title, no lineage, no mandate from Heaven—so he must craft his image like a weapon. And mine is sharp.
Born in Wei. That much they know. Son of merchants, grandson of traders, and so on. We dealt in silks, in grain, in anything worth the risk. I learned early that coin is power, yes, but only when it moves. And only when it whispers. A loud merchant is a short-lived one.
"A sharp ear," my father once told me, "is worth more than a sharp sword."
He died with nothing but debts. I remembered that lesson.
Wei grew fat and slow. I left. Handan offered better margins. Zhao is a kingdom caught between war and wine—rich, soft in places, cracked in others. The nobles drink richly and scheme poorly. The king pretends to rule while his ministers pretend to obey. And underneath it all, fear simmers.
Which is to say: it is perfect.
From this terrace, I watch it all. The rooftops sprawl toward the horizon, gilded in late-afternoon sun. I do not look for beauty. I look for movement. Change. Weakness. The breath between decisions.
I recently closed a grain deal that will double my return by winter. But wealth is a small prize. Any man with luck can earn coin. Few can earn influence. Fewer still can hold it. And legacy? That is beyond the reach of almost all.
They still call me a merchant. As if that word means small. As if counting silver excludes you from shaping empires.
Let them sneer. Let them pretend I am invisible while eating off plates I brought into this city.
Every man has his price. That much is true.
But so few of them know how to calculate value.
They measure in coin. I measure in leverage.
And from up here, looking down on the city, I see nothing but opportunity.
They don't see it yet.
But they will.
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The sound of laughter and the soft murmur of raised cups filled my residence—a symphony of indulgence I had composed to perfection. Oil lamps bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow, their flames dancing off polished wood and painted stools adorned with motifs of clouds and cranes. Symbols of longevity and grace, some might say. To me, they were merely props in tonight's performance.
Nobles reclined around low tables, their robes heavy with golden embroidery, their gestures practiced and measured, though brimming with unspoken competition. Servants moved as they should—like shadows—refilling cups with wine so rich it glistened in the light and placing trays of delicacies that could disarm even the shrewdest guest: braised quail, steamed fish wrapped in lotus leaves, candied fruits that shimmered like jewels.
Every detail—the melody of the zither weaving through the air, the precise richness of the wine, the soft clink of porcelain—was deliberate. This was my court, my stage, and every player danced to the tune I set.
I leaned back in my seat, letting my eyes sweep over the room. The glow of the lamps painted their faces in warm hues, but beneath the laughter and toasts, I saw the truth: ambition, calculation, hunger. They drank deeply, laughed freely—but only because I allowed it. After all, this was the Warring States, a time when even the flick of a fan could hide a dagger.
"My friends," I said, raising my cup with the kind of practiced ease that demanded attention, "drink deeply tonight. In these times, who can say when such peace may come again?"
Their murmured agreement rippled through the room, a predictable chorus to my carefully chosen words. I let a faint smile linger—a mask of contentment, while my thoughts had already slipped past their laughter like a knife beneath silk.
Peace. What a fragile, ridiculous illusion. One I had mastered the art of crafting—and breaking—as it suited me.
I lifted the cup to my lips, the movement as natural as the air itself, though far from thoughtless. The wine—smooth, spiced, and aged to perfection—was more than a drink. It was my silent accomplice, loosening tongues and dulling suspicions. And loosened they were.
A noble from Chu, sleeves embroidered with phoenixes, spoke first. "Qi, with its wealth and coastal power, is the natural leader of the seven. Its trade fills its coffers, its navy rules the seas."
I leaned forward slightly, tilting my head as though considering his point. Inside, I dismissed it as naïve. "Indeed," I said, "but wealth often brings decadence. The brightest flame burns the quickest, don't you think?"
The noble from Yan, his voice as gruff as his frost-bitten homeland, grunted. "And yet, Qi stands. Meanwhile, Wei crumbles under its own weight. Once mighty, now too old and tired to defend itself."
I let a small laugh escape. "Age brings wisdom—or stubbornness. And Wei has no shortage of stone for its walls, even if the spirit within them cracks."
A young scholar, eager to impress, spoke next. "But Chu is the true power. Fertile lands, rich in resources, and a culture steeped in tradition. The south will rise."
I turned to him, my voice smooth as silk. "Ah, but tradition can bind as much as it inspires. Chu may have its jungles and marshes, but who truly commands its court? The king—or his ministers?"
Laughter rippled through the room, and I took a slow sip of wine, savoring the control I held over the discussion. Each guest offered their predictions like gamblers at a table, placing bets on kingdoms and kings. I listened, my mind weaving their words into patterns. Each opinion revealed more about the speaker than the subject.
"Qin," an older noble said cautiously, his voice low. "It is raw, brutal. But there is something there—an inevitability."
The room fell silent for a moment, and I felt their collective unease. Qin. The shadow that loomed over every conversation, the name that no one wanted to say too loudly, as though it might summon something from the west.
I broke the tension with a smile. "Inevitability is a dangerous thing to trust. The wheel of fortune turns for us all. But…" I paused, letting the room hang on my words, "a kingdom that hides its teeth often has the sharpest bite."
The discussion swirled on, voices rising and falling like waves. I let it flow, my mind already moving beyond the table. Each opinion was a thread, and I was weaving a tapestry. Let them weigh kingdoms like gamblers at a feast. Let them speak boldly here, where the wine is safe and the swords are far.
Then, almost casually, one of the guests mentioned a name—a name that stilled my hand on the cup.
"Have you heard of Ying Yiren?" one of the guests asked, his tone laced with dismissive amusement. "A prince of Qin, kept here in Handan like a caged bird."
I inclined my head, feigning polite interest, though my thoughts were already racing ahead. Ah, Yiren. Now that's an intriguing piece on the board.
In this fractured world, power was rarely wielded with swords alone. Diplomacy, as I often remind myself, thrives on subtleties—sometimes even on the illusion of trust. Take the practice of hostages, for example. Sending princes and noble heirs to live under the roofs of rival courts wasn't cruelty. No, it was strategy—an exchange of living guarantees. A prince becomes a promise, his every breath a silent reminder: behave, or the boy pays the price.
A clever tactic, really. These boys—future kings, or so they hoped—grew up among their captors, learning their customs, their strengths, their flaws. But make no mistake, they were no mere students. They were pawns on a far grander chessboard, held hostage to ensure their fathers' obedience. A delicate balance: the captors kept their threat alive without ever wielding the blade, while the boy's family weighed his life against the whims of war.
The guest continued, oblivious to my sudden interest. "The boy—well, a young man now—is a nobody. One of Qin's lesser princes. Hardly worth mentioning."
I smiled faintly, hiding the flame of possibilities sparking to life in my mind. A lesser prince? Perhaps. But a lesser piece, in the hands of a skilled player, can topple kings.
Still, I said nothing. Let them chatter. Let the game unfold. The best deals are never made at the table—but in the silence before anyone sits down. So I watched. And waited.
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The embers of the banquet's final laugh had barely cooled—yet my mind burned brighter than ever. Back in the privacy of my chambers, the night's conversations played out like a drama on an unseen stage. The mention of Ying Yiren, the hostage prince from Qin—what a simple spark to ignite such a blaze. I settled onto the woven mat by the low table, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air, and let the evening unfurl in my thoughts.
Ah, my guests. Their faces betrayed more than their words revealed. I watched their reactions to Qin—the way their voices tightened, their laughter grew forced. Fear, awe, envy—it was all there, woven into every gesture, every sideways glance. They spoke of Qin as one speaks of a storm on the horizon: distant yet impossible to ignore, looming, inevitable.
And Yiren. The name lingered longer than the wine on their lips. A hostage, a pawn, a reminder that even kings must kneel sometimes. Yet in that name, in the weight it carried in the room, I saw something no one else dared to. Opportunity.
Oh, they fear Qin, yes. But fear is not a wall—it is a door. The same door I've walked through a thousand times, from the narrow alleys of trade to the broad halls of diplomacy. Danger lies within, true, but so does value. The most uncomfortable truths, the most precarious situations—those are the places where fortunes are made and where legacies are born.
And I have no desire for mere fortunes. Coin jingles. Names thunder. Wealth can fill your coffers, but only a name can fill the centuries. Merchant. The word clings to me like the smell of copper, a scent I've grown to despise. No, I'm not content to count gold while the world moves around me. Let the other merchants scrape and barter; I'll carve my name into history's ledger, where none would dare erase it.
Ying Yiren. A pawn, perhaps. But the pawn is the only piece that can become a king. They underestimate him as they underestimate me. And therein lies the thrill, the very thing that keeps my blood alive when the world insists I stay small. To see what others cannot. To step where others fear to tread.
I stood and poured myself a final cup of wine, its pale, translucent sheen catching the lamplight, a gentle reminder of its earthy origins. My reflection stared back at me from the polished bronze pitcher—sharp, deliberate, calculating.
A smile tugged at my lips. "Qin," I murmured, savoring the word. "The name they fear. And perhaps… the name they will follow."
Qin's strength was no accident; it was forged in a crucible of bold reform. Decades ago, under the reign of Duke Xiao, a man of extraordinary foresight, Qin took a gamble that reshaped its destiny. He invited Shang Yang, a Legalist visionary, to his court—a move most other rulers would never dare. Shang Yang's reforms were radical, ruthless even. But they worked. Oh, how they worked.
I admired the audacity of it. To strip the old nobility of their power, to tear down the rigid hierarchies that strangled innovation, to build a state where merit outweighed lineage—was that not the dream of every man who dared to rise above his station? Shang Yang centralized control, rewrote the laws with an iron pen, and rewarded those who produced and fought while punishing the idle. Farmers and soldiers—the lifeblood of any kingdom—found purpose and pride in Qin, while the idle aristocrats faded into irrelevance.
That spirit—the spirit of structure, order, and unyielding ambition—aligned so perfectly with my own. I had built my fortune on understanding where power lay and how to wield it, and Qin… Qin had built its empire on that same principle. It was no wonder the other states trembled at its name. They whispered of Qin's black banners and harsh laws as though they were curses, but I saw them for what they were: the future.
I let the thought linger for a moment, my fingers tracing the rim of the now-empty wine cup. The picture sharpens. Yes, Yiren. You and I have much to discuss. But not yet. Timing, as always, is everything. Let them keep speaking in half-truths and riddles, while I lay the foundation of something greater. Tonight, I made them drink my wine and spin their tales. Tomorrow, they will drink to my name.
The lamp flickered, shadows stretching long across the room. I blew it out. Darkness took its place—except for the faint moonlight through the lattice. One night ends. Another dawn sharpens.