In the courts of ancient China, the question of succession was both a privilege and a curse. A reigning king could father dozens of sons, but only one would inherit the throne. The rest, regardless of talent or ambition, were destined to become shadows of their father's legacy—pawns in a relentless game of power.
To secure stability and legitimacy, kings appointed a crown prince, a successor chosen from among their sons. Tradition dictated that this crown prince come from the queen, the king's principal wife, for her sons carried the highest claim to legitimacy. But court life was seldom so straightforward. In the absence of a son from the queen—or when political currents shifted—princes born to concubines could rise to prominence. But their path was fraught with peril.
Adoption offered a way forward. A childless queen might adopt a son from one of the king's lesser consorts, elevating his status and aligning his fortunes with hers. Under her household, the adopted prince would enjoy the full privileges of legitimacy, erasing the stain of his natural mother's lower rank. For the biological mother, it was a sacrifice—and an opportunity. She secured her son a brighter future, even as she relinquished her hold on him.
The stakes were high. Behind every prince stood his allies: loyal retainers, ambitious teachers and scheming tutors. These advisors shaped the princes' education, whispering strategies and feeding ambitions. A prince's ascent to the throne often meant elevation for his entire circle. For the unlucky ones who backed the wrong contender, however, failure was a sentence of obscurity—or worse.
In the kingdom of Qin, such battles were particularly fierce. The state's appetite for power mirrored the ambitions of its court. The stakes were not merely about who would rule Qin but about who would steer its destiny toward conquest or collapse. And in this volatile environment, Lü Buwei saw his chance.
The Qin court stood as a testament to power, its stone pillars etched with the weight of history. It was a time of transition, a moment suspended between an aging king and the ambitions of the next generation. The old king, Ying Ji, known posthumously as King Zhaoxiang of Qin, sat upon his throne, his figure frail but his presence commanding. For decades, he had steered Qin through wars and alliances, his strategies shaping the state into a force feared across the Warring States. Now, in his twilight years, the king remained a fixture of the court, his voice steady as he issued orders, though his age was evident in the pauses between his words.
In a quieter part of the palace, far from the grand throne room, the crown prince Ying Zhu, later known as King Xiaowen of Qin, reclined on a low couch, a porcelain cup balanced in his hand. Across from him, Lady HuaYang, his wife and principal consort, sipped from her cup with deliberate grace. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with the soft murmur of their voices.
Lady HuaYang was a woman of sharp intelligence and ambition, born into the royal house of Chu. From the moment she had entered the Qin court, she had wielded her influence with precision, subtly guiding her husband while maintaining a facade of quiet elegance. Today, her demeanor was buoyant, her usually reserved smile replaced by a livelier one as she spoke.
"The king grows weaker," she said, her tone casual but her words charged with meaning. She set her cup down gently, the porcelain making a soft clink against the lacquered table. "He has lived long, longer than most rulers. But we both know… he won't last much longer. Soon, my dear husband, you will take your rightful place as the ruler of Qin."
The crown prince looked up from his cup, his expression conflicted. "You speak as if I should celebrate his passing," he said softly. "He is my father."
Lady HuaYang's smile faltered for a moment before she leaned forward, her gaze steady. "Of course, I meant no disrespect," she said, her voice smoothing into gentler tones. "But you cannot deny the truth of it. His reign has been long, and it is only natural for power to pass to the next generation. When that time comes, you will not only be king, but I will be queen. Together, we will lead Qin to its greatest heights."
Her words brimmed with excitement, her posture alight with confidence. Yet, as she reached for her cup again, her hand paused, her expression flickering with the briefest shadow of doubt. "Still," she said after a moment, "there is one thing… one missing piece. Our child. Our heir."
The crown prince's gaze fell, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "I know," he murmured. "But some things are beyond our control."
Lady HuaYang's composure faltered. "Control," she repeated, almost to herself. Her brow furrowed, a rare crack in her usually polished demeanor. "Without a child, the throne is never secure. You know how this court works—ambition never sleeps. If we are to solidify our legacy, to ensure no one questions your right to rule, we must… find a solution."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken urgency. But then, as if shaking off the thought, she straightened, her smile returning, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Enough of that for now," she said, her voice lighter. "The future is ours to shape. Soon, we will have the throne, and Qin will be unstoppable."
The crown prince nodded slowly, though his enthusiasm did not match hers. He lifted his cup to his lips, sipping in silence, while Lady HuaYang's gaze drifted toward the window, her mind already painting a picture of the throne room, the crown, and the power that awaited them. Yet in the corner of her joy, the shadow of childlessness lingered—a quiet reminder of all that remained unresolved.