Li Ming's best guess for Ziyuan's shallow reservoir of power was simple: centuries of clutching the oracle-bone grimoire had stained her with its residue. That's why she needed the book in hand for even the most basic spells. For anything heavier—like the ritual that would one day rouse skeleton legions from beneath the Great Wall—she had to wave the grimoire and stake her own immortality, even her daughter's. One heartbeat from suicide, just to rattle bones.
Li Ming smirked. If he learned that summoning, he wouldn't wake every skeleton—but calling up a thousand? Child's play.
With the book secure, he told Kreacher to stop spooning down the Life-and-Death Elixir. "Make her porridge. Thin, plain. She hasn't eaten in three days. Let her sip while I eat properly."
The mage sank into the Fountain of Eternal Life like it was a hot spring, grimoire propped in his hands, weariness flickering across his face. Ziyuan stirred across the cavern, but he ignored her. After three days unfed, she'd be lucky to crawl.
Still, the smell of food dragged her upright. She braced against the wall, eyes burning holes in his back. "What did you do to me?"
Li Ming didn't look up. "What didn't I do? Things you couldn't dream of. But I'm reading—so go sit, think it through."
Her knuckles whitened at her sleeves, fear flickering before fury. "I'll kill you—"
"Oh, please." He finally glanced at her, bored. "With what? That glare? While I'm holding this?" He waggled the grimoire. "You can't curse me, can't cut me, can't even scratch me. Quit posturing—it's creepy."
She drew breath to rage again, but he cut her off, reading her like a headline. "You've lived two thousand years and still paw your clothes like a spooked teenager. And what, you think I'm your type? Sorry. I don't date great-grandmothers. You're killing my appetite."
Her lip twitched so hard it nearly spasmed. She swallowed it, cursing him silently instead.
When he finally turned a page, Ziyuan chuckled low. "Then you know. The fountain alone won't grant immortality. The elixir's ingredients are gone. The First Emperor bled a nation dry to gather them, and that was two thousand years ago. Even if you commanded an empire, you'd find nothing. I'll watch you grow old. Weak. Waiting for the end."
Come visit Marvel and watch me age, Li Ming thought. With your toolkit, you'd be dissected in a lab before tea time.
Aloud, he shrugged. "No elixir? Then I cultivate. You, on the other hand—two thousand years and still ordinary."
Her eyes narrowed. "You… have a method?"
Of course she wanted it. She'd hated Qin Shi Huang for two millennia, plotting revenge in every breath, but without cultivation she'd never bridged the gap. A man with a path now stood in front of her. She wouldn't let go.
Problem was, his path wasn't Kamar-Taj's. They siphoned power from other dimensions, infinite reservoirs so long as they breathed. Li Ming carried power inside, sharpened by meditation, multiplied by artifacts like the Merlin Rings. A different road. If his reserves ever ran dry, he was finished—he wasn't a brawler. But one-on-one, with what he had? Any sorcerer short of the Ancient One would fold.
And still… what if he cycled his power like a cultivator, refined it, amplified the output? No Western mage had tried. Ziyuan had spent two millennia empty-handed, but through her memories, Li Ming had glimpsed a top-tier method she'd never dared claim.
He smiled. Nodded once. Yes, I have one.
Her eyes lit—then dimmed when he shook his head. "But why would I share it? You greeted me with a sword. You'd carve my name into your vendetta list. On what planet do I hand you power?"
He tapped the grimoire. "I came for two things: this book and that fountain. I'm soaking in one, holding the other. You can't beat me. Got a bargaining chip that actually moves me?"
"I do."
He blinked. "What chip?"
Ziyuan drew a long, steady breath. "My daughter. She may be two millennia old, but she gained immortality as a maiden. Her face is young—and fairer than mine."
Li Ming stared. Was she out of her mind? Bartering her own child for power?
But it tracked. In the third tale, the daughter had said, I've been there once—I remember the way, guiding the O'Connells to Shangri-La as if mother and daughter had only crossed paths once in centuries. Ziyuan had already sacrificed everything—her own immortality, her daughter's, even her life—all for the one cursed dagger that could pierce the Emperor. Revenge was her only god.
A chill ran his spine. Even tigers don't eat their cubs. This tigress would.
Not that the daughter impressed him more. She and O'Connell's boy had gone from trying to kill each other to swooning in an afternoon. A debutante in an immortal's skin.
If he didn't have the strength to swat them both aside, he'd have bolted at Ziyuan's "offer." You didn't want your name etched into a vendetta list that spanned ten millennia.
"I have a wife," he said flatly. "Keep your daughter."
He rose from the fountain, turned to Kreacher. "Dinner ready?"
"For you, yes," the elf said, checking the pot. "The lady's porridge needs more time."
Li Ming cast Ziyuan a look—still calculating, still searching for leverage. "Don't fuss. We'll eat, pack, move. Leave the pot. If she's hungry, she can ladle it herself."
After the meal, gear packed, Li Ming glanced back one last time. Ziyuan was still staring into nothing, lost in her own schemes.
"Hopeless," he muttered, and opened a portal.
Sand whispered underfoot when they stepped out. In her memories, Qin Shi Huang lay buried here, beneath this desert. Tonight's goal was simple: test whether the undead tongue could carry to the First Emperor. Ask, politely, for a glimpse at the cultivation method he'd studied in life.
If the Emperor refused, that was the end of it. Memory extraction only worked on the living. And the First Emperor was anything but. Forcing him with spells? Dangerous. Foolish.
Li Ming squared his shoulders. This was no petty priest or cloistered sorceress. This was the man who had unified the Six States, who had forged the script that bound a nation. He deserved respect.
Night pressed in—no moon, no stars, just the hiss of wind across an empty desert. On his way to "chat" with the First Emperor, Li Ming couldn't shake the feeling he was grave-robbing.
He scratched his head, pulled a rune-carved box from his sling bag, and tipped it over. Sacred scarabs spilled into the sand in a clicking wave. "All right, team," he said. "Find His Majesty."
Scarabs were natural excavators. Within minutes they unearthed a shaft. Li Ming dissolved into a stream of golden sand and poured down, beginning his ancestral visitation.
Traps littered the descent. He left them. Future "tourists" deserved surprises. In fact, he added a few sigil-nets of his own and seeded a breeding colony of scarabs. "House rules," he told them. "Anything that crawls in is food. Cooking style's your choice."
At last, he reached the heart of the tomb: four bronze horses pulling a stone coffin. Li Ming ignored it—the decoy emperor. The true sovereign slumbered in the terracotta charioteer, frozen mid-charge.
He rapped the clay knuckles, cleared his throat, and spoke in the undead tongue. "Your Majesty. You at home?"
The answer came rough with age yet unmistakably imperial: "Who art thou, that summonest Us?"
The archaic diction made Li Ming wince. He rubbed his nose. "Li Ming. Passing through. Thought I'd check on you."
A pause. Then: "We know thou wieldest arts—a fangshi. The small one skulking behind thee is likewise. Speak plain. Why hast thou called Us?"
Li Ming grimaced. "Can we not… talk like that? Throws me off. Look, I want one thing—your cultivation method."
"Our method was forged from Qin's adepts, tailored to Us alone," the Emperor replied. "It is not gifted lightly. Yet—revive Us, and thy merit shall purchase Our art."
On paper, revival was simple. Portal, ladle, done. In practice, Qin Shi Huang had been sealed for two thousand years. Would he reemerge to steady China—or plunge it into chaos? Tanks and machine guns might slow a terracotta army, but aircraft? Atomic fire in a few decades would end everything.
Intent was everything. If the Emperor sought only to defend the nation, Li Ming would open the gate without hesitation. But if he wanted the dragon throne back, China could splinter under the weight.
Li Ming sobered. "Your Majesty, do you know what's happened outside?"
"Thou art not the first to trespass," the Emperor said. "Some died seeking fortune. Their souls lingered. From them, We learned a little."
Li Ming glanced at the bones scattered across the chamber, then spoke of the present—looming war, suffering, hope beyond. At last he asked, "This is no longer an age of blades. There are no emperors now. If I revive you, will you try to claim a crown?"
The Emperor didn't answer immediately. Surprise sharpened his tone. "The island of the Sushi Kingdom dares strike China? Are ye all so feeble? Revive Us, and We shall scour it clean."
Not the answer Li Ming wanted.
But then a long breath rolled through the stone. "We have trained a thousand years in silence. We know now the throne matters little."
He'd heard Li Ming's plea: spare the innocent, protect the people, fight only when war came. Modern weapons would check any empire-building.
"What I need," Li Ming said carefully, "is a safeguard. Swear to Heaven's Way you won't slaughter innocents. If someone strikes you, strike back—but no exterminations. And before full revival, we clasp hands and bind an Unbreakable Vow: no trouble for China. With your power, few could stop you."
"We understand," the Emperor said, then corrected himself, voice steady. "No—I understand. I am Chinese as well. I want the land that raised me to stand strong."
The oath was spoken. Li Ming opened a portal to shimmering water. "Kreacher," he said, "ladle him a taste."
The elf dipped a spoon into the Fountain of Eternal Life. As the liquid soaked into clay, cracks spidered across the statue. With a brittle snap, Qin Shi Huang stepped free. Half-formed, soot-dark, every breath a labor.
"Apologies," Li Ming muttered. He passed his staff to Kreacher. "Drop the invisibility. Witness the vow."
The elf blinked into view. The Emperor stared. "What creature is this? A monster to bind Us if We stray?"
"A house-elf," Li Ming said, rolling his eyes. Truth was, after Imhotep, this felt like a familiar dance.
They clasped hands. Magic cinched, vow sealed.
"If you still itch for a crown," Li Ming added as the bond tightened, "there's another path. You're immortal. When we push into the stars, claim a colony. Bored waiting? Build rockets. Still too slow? Conquer alien empires. Just—leave China alone."
The Emperor opened his mouth to ask about stars—then froze. Through another portal he saw it: a cavern, a pool like a sky of sparks.
Across the chamber, Ziyuan froze too, porridge bowl suspended. Then she saw him. Recognition flared. Two thousand years of hatred ignited.
She didn't speak. She drew a dagger and charged.
The Emperor spared her a flicker of attention. For millennia she had bound him; his own resentment coiled like steel. But survival first. She was too weak to matter. He plucked the blade from her grip, cuffed her into unconsciousness, and turned his back.
Then, without ceremony, Qin Shi Huang dove into the Fountain of Eternal Life.