In the thirty-second year of the First Emperor's reign, I leaned out of the window and looked at the fields in the mountain manor. After three years of clearing wasteland and providing relief, I earned my name as the owner of Renzhuang. It took two months to wait for two applicants. The charcoal fire was boiling in the straw shed, and I was holding the meat basin and looking forward to it. When the boy who led the way ran back, his face turned pale: The owner of the village, he said his name is Zhao Zheng. The copper spoon in my hand clattered into the soup pot. The old man with a sword behind him had two words engraved on the scabbard hanging on his waist: Tai'a.
