In the Jiaofang Hall of Xianyang Palace, Ying Zheng remembered that he exhaled his last breath.
In front of him were Zhao Gao's flattering yet venomous face, Li Si's shadow wandering outside the curtain, and Meng Yi's eyes that would be loyal until death. Then there is blackness, endless blackness, like being thrown into a cold pool in the deepest part of the underworld, even the soul is about to freeze.
I don't know how long it took - maybe a moment, maybe a thousand years - a faint light pierced the darkness.
Then came pain.
The pain oozes from the seams of bones, the pain of muscles being forcibly pulled, and the pain of blood flowing again in the dry river. This pain is so familiar, but also so unfamiliar, it is very similar to the feeling of being pushed into an ice cave by those Zhao Kingdom masters in the winter when I was a hostage in Handan. After struggling to climb up, my limbs and bones were gnawed by the cold. No, more than that. This is creation from "nothing" to "being", and it is the torture of sprouting from decay.
"Uh... Ho..."
