After a chaotic, breakneck escape through Zhao's gate, with danger snapping at our heels, I finally signaled to Zheng Yi to slow the horses. We'd ridden far enough—for now. The cart jerked as the pace eased, and I allowed myself a breath, though it did little to calm the storm in my chest.
I had returned to sit beside Yiren in the cart. He sat hunched, his face a portrait of misery, his eyes brimming with tears he hadn't the courage to shed. A pitiful sight, really. But I couldn't dwell on his weakness—not when the fires I'd lit in Zhao were surely raging by now.
The lead guard at Zhao's gate would pay with his head—that much was certain. Zhao's court would be thrown into chaos, disgraced by military failure and scrambling for revenge. Their soldiers would split into two parties: one to pursue us, the other to seize Lady Zhao and the boy. I had left men behind—but war answers to no one. The hunt would be inevitable, ruthless, and swift.
And yet, my thoughts lingered elsewhere. On what I had left behind. Everything—my fortune, my influence, my place in Zhao—gone. I had traded it all for this moment, this gamble. A clean break, no turning back. There would be no return for Lü Buwei, and I knew it. A man cannot ride two horses at once; I had chosen my steed. The rest, as always, would burn.
Zheng Yi turned toward me. "We should be clear for now, my lord. The Zhao riders won't catch us for a while."
Reluctantly, I agreed. "Fine. A short rest." My body was screaming for it, though I would never admit as much aloud.
The cart came to a halt, the horses snorting their relief in the silence of the open road. I stepped down, savoring the moment to gather my thoughts—but before I could even draw a second breath—
"Yiren!"
The fool had leapt from the cart and was running back—back toward Zhao.
My chest tightened, not from exertion, but from sheer disbelief. "Stop!" I barked, his name tearing from my throat as I staggered forward, calling after him.
I could scarcely believe it. After everything I'd risked—everything I'd sacrificed for him—he was running straight toward the fire I'd just pulled him from. My pulse pounded as my tired legs fought against the weight of exhaustion, propelling me after him. This wasn't a choice. There was no choice.
When I caught up, I grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. His eyes were wild with desperation, glistening with unshed tears. He tried to pull away, but I tightened my hold, leaning in close.
"Listen to me, Yiren. You cannot go back. Do you hear me? You cannot!" My voice cut through the stillness. "This isn't the time to be stupid, naive, or emotional. Do you understand what will happen if you return? There is only one ending—one! They will kill you. They will kill your wife. They will kill your son. All of you, gone. Is that what you want?"
Tears spilled down his cheeks now as he shook his head, his voice trembling. "I can't just leave them, Buwei! My wife, my boy—I've abandoned them. What kind of man does that make me? I don't deserve to live. I don't deserve any of this!" His legs buckled under the weight of his grief.
I shook him, forcing his gaze back to mine. "Deserve? This isn't about what you deserve. This is about survival. About what they deserve—a future with you alive, not martyred for nothing. Do you think your wife would want you to run back to your death? Do you think your son needs a father who throws his life away in a fit of misplaced guilt?"
Yiren sobbed, lips quivering, but no words came.
Zheng Yi's voice interrupted, low and urgent. "My lord, we don't have time for this. I think I hear riders—they're catching up."
I clenched my jaw. There was no time to reason further. "Zheng Yi, help me."
Together, we hauled Yiren upright. He struggled weakly, but we forced him back onto the cart.
"Go! Now!" I ordered.
Zheng Yi whipped the reins, and the cart lurched forward, hooves pounding against the sandy road as we sped away.
Behind us, the thunder of galloping horses grew louder, mingling with Yiren's muffled sobs. I glanced at him—head bowed, body trembling with emotion. My own heart remained a fortress. There was no space for weakness—not now.
The cart slowed as the wooden marker of the Qin border came into view, standing alone like a weary sentinel against the open sands. The air was tense, heavy with the sound of hoofbeats closing in behind us. I stepped down and turned to Yiren. He sat frozen, pale, his hands trembling as he clutched the edge of the cart.
"Yiren," I said, my tone firm, "the jade. Quickly."
He hesitated. Then, clumsily, he reached into his robes and produced the prince's jade. Its polished surface caught the dimming light.
The Qin commander approached, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. He took the jade from Yiren's hand, examining it with the precision of a man weighing life and death.
"This is Prince Ying Yiren," I said, voice steady. "The hostage held in Zhao. I am Lü Buwei, his advisor. We have escaped and are pursued by Zhao forces. We require your protection."
The commander's eyes moved from the jade to Yiren, his silence dragging longer than comfort allowed. Then he nodded. With a barked order, his men moved into position, forming a tight ring around us—just as the Zhao riders broke the horizon.
They came fast, their armor gleaming, war cries splitting the air.
The first clash was thunderous. The Zhao charged with reckless fury. The Qin met them with discipline that bordered on artistry—movements deliberate, coordinated, surgical. Each blow of steel against steel echoed across the empty plain, punctuated by sharp cries and pounding hooves.
Sand rose in thick clouds, blurring the battle into a storm.
Zheng Yi and I had pulled Yiren from the cart before the fight began. We stood behind the Qin commander, far enough from the centre, but close enough to see every strike. Yiren stood stiff beside me, his breath shallow, his eyes wide with fear. I placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Hold yourself together," I said quietly. "A prince does not falter."
A Zhao soldier broke through the line, blade raised—he fell in a single stroke. Blood sprayed across the sand. The Zhao ranks began to falter.
The fight ended swiftly. Outnumbered, outclassed, the Zhao riders turned and retreated. Their cries faded into the distance.
The battlefield fell silent. Only the wind and the slow drip of blood into sand remained. I gave the Qin commander a short nod of thanks.
Then I turned to Zheng Yi. "Forward."
We rested only briefly before moving on. The journey to Xianyang stretched over the next few days—uneasy, quiet, and tense. The Qin escort remained ever watchful, riding in formation, their presence a constant barrier between us and the memory of pursuit.
By the time the capital's towering gates came into view, the sun was low once more, casting long shadows across the road.
As we crossed into Xianyang, I caught Yiren leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the familiar streets he hadn't seen in nearly a decade. His eyes glistened—not just with relief, but with grief. And something harder to name.
For a moment, I let the silence stretch between us.
Then I said, low but firm, "Yiren. Do not let your mind linger on what is lost. Look forward. There is much to be done."