Just a few days after his first cry echoed through the palace in Handan, Ying Zheng began to feel the coldness of the world. A winter wind seeped through the cracks in the windows, carrying the scent of smoke from outside the city. War had not yet reached the gates of the Zhao capital, but news of clashes on the border continued to arrive. The people were restless, the nobles anxious, and the soldiers busily prepared themselves.
Inside the room, warmed by a stone stove, Zhao Ji watched over her child with great care. Every tiny movement of the baby worried her. Not only because she was a new mother, but also because she was well aware of their fragile position here. Her husband, Prince Yiren, was merely a political hostage of the Qin. The arrival of a son could pose a threat—both to the Zhao family and to themselves.
The Qin servants always spoke softly around the baby. They knew that if news of Yiren's son's birth reached the wrong ears, the baby could become a target. Even so, Zhao Ji couldn't help but smile every time he looked at that tiny face. His eyes were sharp, his lips were tiny, and despite his small frame, his grip was firm. "You will grow up to be an invincible man," Zhao Ji whispered, as if planting a prayer into his son's ear.
Yiren rarely stayed in the room for long. Although he wanted to be by his son's side, he had to be cautious. His presence often attracted the attention of Zhao's officials and guards. Every suspicious glance from them was a reminder that he still lived under the shadow of an enemy. However, every time Yiren returned to his room and saw his son sleeping soundly, his stern face softened. "I promise I'll bring you home," he murmured, holding his tiny fingers.
The days in the Handan palace passed slowly, but they were filled with tension. Outside, the politics of the kingdoms continued to stir. Qin, though powerful, could not act recklessly against Zhao because Yiren and his family were there. Zhao used his as a bargaining chip, while Yiren had to play the role of a self-aware "guest."
Baby Ying Zheng grew up amidst these whispers. When he was only a few months old, his mother often took him for walks in the palace gardens, always accompanied by two or three loyal servants. The grass was green, but in the distance, the sounds of soldiers training, swords clashing, and commanders shouting could always be heard. It was the soundtrack to his life—the constant sound of war.
When Ying Zheng was almost a year old, signs of his intelligence began to appear. He rarely cried unprovoked, and his eyes would always follow every sound or light. Zhao Ji, who had heard stories of Qin's ancestors' notorious stubbornness and iron will, sensed that these traits were already beginning to appear in her son. "Look, even before he can walk, he already seems to be staring at the world," her said one afternoon to Yiren.
However, life in Handan wasn't just about looking after children and avoiding danger. The intrigues of the Zhao court were a daily occurrence. Some Zhao officials saw the birth of Yiren's son as a problem. They worried that this child might become a link between Qin and Zhao, or even a tool for Qin's future revenge. Rumors began to circulate in the palace halls—rumors that could one day become a real threat.
To protect his family, Yiren began to build a small network in Handan. He approached several merchants, formed relationships with influential servants, and maintained good relations with several lower-ranking officials sympathetic to Qin. Although he was a prince, his life here was not that of a free nobleman, but rather a player in the complex political arena.
Nights in Handan were often filled with anxiety. Zhao Ji once woke up with a nightmare: her baby was being forcibly taken by soldiers, carried away, and she was powerless to do anything. After that, she became even more protective. She even refused to let Zhao's servants hold her son, except those she trusted completely.
Yiren understood his wife's concerns. "As long as we're here, we must persevere," he said one night, gazing at the dim oil lamp. "That day will come. Qin won't let us stay here forever. When the time comes, I will take you home."
Days passed, and Ying Zheng continued to grow. At two years old, he was already walking with small but steady steps. Zhao Ji always smiled when she saw him running around the small hall where they lived, as if the towering palace walls couldn't contain his enthusiasm. He did not know that one day these small steps would take him to the pinnacle of power, rule the entire country, and etch his name in world history.
But for now, he is just a child—the son of a hostage, born in enemy land, living between his mother's love, his father's steadfastness, and the ever-looming shadow of war.