The Zhao soldiers who surrendered covered the land as far as the eye could see, falling beneath the Qin army's long spears like grass being cut down. The yellow earth turned to mud with blood. Bodies piled up layer by layer, while cries, pleas for mercy, cracking bones, and the swish of spears blended together into the most terrifying backdrop of his childhood.
His father was buried at the very bottom. They never even found his bones.
His mother, holding his baby brother, who had just turned one month old, had her chest crushed beneath the feet of fleeing soldiers. The last trace of warmth faded in his tiny hands.
Only his grandfather, using what little strength he had left, shoved him into a gap in a mass grave and covered him with corpses, saving his life.
As the old man lay dying, his bony fingers gripped the boy's shoulder. Coughing up blood, he spoke each word slowly:
“Don't hate Qin... Don't become a soldier... Stay alive...”
Those were the gentlest and cruelest words Su Yi had ever heard.
He survived.
Like a weed, he sprouted among the heaps of bones.
But this world was no longer the Zhao of his memories.
His country had fallen and his family was gone. He lived under someone else's roof, stripped of all dignity.
His whole life was swept along by the times. He sought peace but could not find it; he tried to remain loyal and righteous, yet could not uphold both. He struggled through half his life and drifted through the other half, until, as Qin fell, he finally found peace in the simple warmth of everyday life.
