I’ve been reborn as Ying Qi, the Eighteenth Son of the First Emperor, who died young. All I want is to keep my head down and survive.
But then I see an old farmer exhausting himself with a straight-beam plow, and hear that the border troops have mutinied because of food shortages.
Knowledge surges through my mind: this Great Qin is sick.
Starting with a single curved-beam plow, I quietly improve farming tools and carefully calculate grain supplies.
The First Emperor’s gaze shifts from indifference to curiosity, then burns like fire.
He takes me before a vast map: “Qi’er, tell me, how do we build a foundation that will last for generations?”
I trace the rivers and mountains with my fingertip. “Father, the foundation lies not in metal and stone, but in the hearts of the people and the roads between them.”
The court erupts. Confucians and Legalists trade accusations.
Meanwhile, I have already begun quietly laying out my plans:
Concrete roads stretch from north to south, standardized parts begin rolling off the production line, and the first outlines of an Institute of Science take shape.
When the Xiongnu cavalry once again comes knocking at the frontier, they will be met by volleys of steel crossbow bolts and beacon-fire telegraphs.
Standing atop the walls of Xianyang, I smile at the machines and flames arrayed behind me.
“Welcome to a new Great Qin.”
