At the banquet in Xianyang Palace, I was the twentieth son of Ying Zheng. I was huddled in the shadow of the palace pillars, clutching a cleanly chewed sheep bone. On the high platform, the emperor of all ages sat as straight as a puddle, while the ministers bowed and raised their glasses. It's been a year, and the standard time-travel system in my head has never made a sound. The court is a slaughterhouse, the royal family has no family ties, and the First Emperor can turn his back faster than turning the page in a book. I put down my bones and stood up to straighten my old robe - if I didn't hang it up, I would just have to die on my own. In the shadow of the corner, the countdown to the death of the Second Emperor of Qin was counting down.
