Autumn, the thirty-seventh year of the First Emperor.
The smoky sting penetrated down his throat and into his lungs, like swallowing a handful of red-hot cinders. Chen Shi opened his eyes suddenly, and the violent cough made all the bones in his body hurt.
What he saw was a low and drafty thatched shed, the rafters above his head were blackened by fireworks, and the mud floor beneath him was so damp that water could be squeezed out. There were half-dried firewood piled around him. In his ears, he could hear harsh Qin Opera curses, the muffled sound of whips hitting his flesh, and heart-rending screams.
