The Paragon of Power and Death

For the 2023 Historical Fiction Writing Competition

Theme: Coronation

XIANYANG, QIN 221 BCE

Just as quick as Life descends, it leaves swift with the putrid stench of Death.

Ying Zheng knew of this, he had seen it himself, more times than the stars in the sky. The distinct moment the glimmer of light vanished from their eyes, hands slumped, head bowed down in defeat. Mind, body and soul reduced into nothing - dead; with only the carmine that oozed onto the floor like viscid tar to speak for their past, fleeting existence. Ying Zheng knew. He had witnessed the fragility of human life far too many times, so what was one more?

With a swift swing of his sword, the last of bloods seeped into the wooden floor, transforming it into a ghastly tableau that served as a reminder and warning of his sadism. Ying Zheng’s face remained impassive, not a single crease betrayed him to show the maelstrom of emotions that buzzed below his skin - relief, excitement… he wasn’t sure which could be used to describe the pounding in his chest.

The pool of blood that was once a renowned Confucianist slowly seeped towards him- a crimson daemon stripped of its once glorious strength that seemed to claw with scathing fury toward him even beyond the boundaries of death, yet he did not see guilt or regret in the daunting red; instead, the glimmering rubies on his future crown filled his vision.

‘Murderer!’

‘Savage!’

At the back of his head echoed the taunts of the commoners he had heard outside the palace, but those cries of opposition no longer mattered. So what was a savage murderer as long as they were an emperor? Those that had stood against him were worthless anyways, like cockroaches that scurried beneath his boots. To be vanquished. Quelled. Eradicated.

And eradicate he did.

With the fall of his last enemy and the annexation of the last warring state, he had finally succeeded. Chu, Han, Qi, Qin, Wei, Yan, Zhao; all crushed and moulded into the great empire of Qin - with him standing at the very top.

Glowing, the morning sun slowly broke across the horizons, tingling the skies with hues of orange and magenta, reminiscent of the delicate petals of a blooming rose, a canvas of endless possibilities and a world reborn anew.

The naive boy with unclear origins and overambitious aspirations that had ascended to become a king to a ‘barbarous’ country at the mere age of thirteen would now be coronated as the emperor - the most powerful of beings- to all that lay below the heavens.

Li Si… Lu Buwei… Meng Tian… Those in the past who betrayed and scorned me, how do you feel now watching from the land of the dead?

He was finally free. No longer a pawn to play in the cruel game orchestrated by the officials nor a puppet to be swayed by those who only sought to act for their own selfish motives.

The maroon blood moulded with the red carpet as he took his first step towards the gilded throne sat atop the altar - walking with a calm, practised confidence that had not covered the ugly distance towards arrogance - draped in the finest of opulent silk and threads that had been meticulously embroidered with dragons and phoenixes his predecessors had also been adorned with.

He was the very paragon of power and the pinnacle of strength.

As Ying Zheng ascended the final steps to the altar, his heart swelled with an amalgamation of trepidation and overwhelming joy.

He had made his mark in history.

With slow and deliberate steps, he approached the ancestral tablets, each step echoing in the hushed silence that had descended over the crowd. Breathing in the delicate fragrance of the incense, he made his offerings and bowed deeply, a show of reverence and respect, final and solemn; both a mark of dedication to his ancestors and his promise to bring Qin to new heights.

As the Grand Preceptor (Tai Shi) placed the crown (mianguan) over his head, he was finally bestowed the burden of the Qin empire - the weight of the whole seven Warring States and the weight of the people, his people; both weighing him down and empowering him.

He was the leader of the land below the heavens, the bearer of the hopes and aspirations of his people and the bringer of a new era of unity and prosperity.

All that lay foregone disintegrated to ashes - no longer was he Ying Zheng, sacrificing, offering, worshipping to the Gods; instead, Qin ShiHuang stood before the heavens, weighed as an equal to the deities within the hearts of his people.

“May the emperor live ten thousand years!”

The resounding symphony of cheers and exaltations reverberated far beyond the walls of Yongguan Palace and he could imagine every peasant, merchant, noble and even celestial beings sitting in the heavens joining in unison to pay homage to his reign.

Qin Shihuang seemed to hesitate as he took in the scene before him. His joy should have been intensified, his pride immense, so why did his chest still seem empty, his head wild? Power, power, power. How it consumed him, rushing in his blood, encompassing his very heart and nerve and sinew, leaving no place for petty emotions like mirth or euphoria. All he wanted was more. It was like a mirage to a dying man in the desert, no matter how hard he crawled towards it, it simply shone further away.

The Minister of Ceremonies (Da Situ) bowed deeply before starting the final oaths, “Do you, Qin Shihuang - Ying Zheng, promise to uphold and love the people of the emperor, respect their traditions and beliefs, and pledge your loyalty to the Qin empire and only the Qin empire?”

What was love? What was respect? What was fidelity? He only knew of power - the power to spare anyone the guillotine and send anyone to it, the power to command his people to walk to the ends of the earth to fetch him a simple flask of wine, the feeling of sitting atop his golden throne, looking below at those who lifted eyes glazed with piety; but power could only come from fear, and that was bound to turn mundane in an eternal cycle.

He had neither loved nor been loved, he had neither respected nor been respected and the only loyalty he knew of stemmed from avarice.

Utterly besotted with the idea of power, he had become a shell of a man: a far cry from his aspirations and a cheap imitation of his former self.

HANDAN, ZHAO 247 BCE

The rabbit hopped amongst the fallen leaves, floppy ears twitching with every rustle and button nose quivering with every breath. It weaved through the verdant foliage with a fluidity that could only come from practice, dappled fur glazed with the sunlight that filtered through the canopy above.

Death arrived silently.

The arrow whistled quietly through the air before striking its target dead centre, the rabbit now gone, soul borne with the cold win that blew piercingly.

Ying Zheng grimaced as he watched the rabbit’s legs spasm. as if it still remembered the happy times it had bounded across the woodland. Its heart continued to pump blood, red spewing like water from a burst pipe. Ying Zheng watched silently, feeling nausea roll across his gut.

“How are you doing, my prince?”

Ying Zheng’s gaze flickered to the man that perched atop the obsidian horse - Lu Buwei - the holder of the bow and arrow that had marred their presence with the malodour of death.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Shroud your emotions, hide them as you do yourself.

“Good. Now, my prince, do you know why this rabbit had to die today?” Lu Buwei’s voice quieted into a drawl, playing his act of a wise man giving genuine advice to the future king. Deceit. Deception. Lies. The words fell softly from his lips, like raw honey dripping from a budding pine tree.

“I don’t know, why did it have to die?”

Ying Zheng weakly smiled, desperately trying to portray a curious look as he gazed at the man, secretly knowing that every conversation they had, every word exchanged had most likely been meticulously crafted and planned to manipulate and to exploit.

As hard as he tried to hide it, Lu Buwei’s very nature was so brimming over with ambition and deceit that it flashed in his eyes and curved in his lips. He could shroud the gleam of his eyes at the sight of power, but it still shone tenaciously in his faintly perceptible smile.

“Well, my prince, the rabbit dies because it lacks power. It can only meet its inevitable end with obedience because it is simply a puppet in the mighty lord’s hands; it cannot struggle nor betray fate’s plan, but in return it earns a merciful death, living the life it had with joy and comfort. Do you understand?”

Ying Zheng stiffened, hands clenching into fists as his vision blurred, even a naive prince could understand was Lu Buwei was saying.

Is that what my parents were, what I’ll be?

A puppet? A pawn? Powerless to the Lord that can kill me at any moment?

He remembered his mother, parading in front of the envoys, a queen not spared a morse of dignity, trilling like the perfect debauched little songbird she was.

His father, whose gaze was weathered with grief - a fallen phoenix with clipped wings - a puppet merely for show, was that truly the future he was doomed to?

Ying Zheng, political victory, how ironic for his name to represent something he was the very juxtaposition of. He was weak, frail, powerless.

Anger roared in his heart, promising chaos and destruction that would sauter and rise to end Lu Buwei’s wicked existence. But Ying Zheng quenched it, letting the tranquil atmosphere of the forest suffuse him with its serenity, calming the raging turmoil within him. Ying Zheng still wanted to live, wanted to survive.

So he would wait.

“I understand, chancellor.”

The rabbit continued to lay there, finally motionless, body devoid of energy and eyes glazed with a glossy sheen.

Ying Zheng looked on as Lu Buwei’s lips curved into a wry smile, an expression so rare akin to the morning glories that wilted with the rising sun. But little did the chancellor know, brewing deep within Ying Zheng was a promise, an oath.

Power, you shall be my weapon to victory, my key to success and my escape from this purgatory.

XIANYANG, QIN 221 BCE

The cries of joy from his empire faded into the background as Qin Shihuang came to a gradual realisation.

The original thrill of power had already entropized into tedium - achromatic, blank, lonely - birthing a resentment towards life and what it stood for. It destroyed his ears their hearing, his eyes their sight, depriving him the ability to see beyond, to tap into the hearts of his people.

It was a grim fate: to be the emperor of China was to be alone - to sit by yourself on the gilded throne, surrounded by only enemies and viewed far upon by any possible friends.

Power, it had stripped away his old identity and given him a new one, it coronated him as emperor and doomed him to a life loveless, quenching his hope and thoughts about the future.

Ambition could only fuel him for so long.

Now that his goal had been reached, the future morphed into an uncertain grey.

Qin Shihuang continued to stand on his altar, soaking in the jubilation of his empire. Yet he knew his heart had gone down the wrong path.

But what could be done? Time was pliable, in a constant state of flux. He didn’t know which exact decision or choice had tipped the delicate balance of the future into the tangled mess it had become, or which crossroad had led him down the stray path, but nonetheless, he could not unmake the decision nor walk back up the path.

Lu Buwei had been wrong, Fate’s cruelty spanned far beyond any mortal’s understanding. No matter how strong or powerful you are, you’re still merely an ant in front of time’s giant.

The bright glare of the sun seemed to dim slightly, yet this nuance remained unnoticed by everyone. Instead, silence fell into a hushed whisper at the palace for a different reason.

Qin Shihuang blinked, coming to the sudden realisation that he had not yet answered the final oaths. With the briefest of hesitations, he spoke up, knowing that his choice had already been made for him.

“I promise to uphold and love the people of the emperor, respect their traditions and beliefs, and pledge my loyalty to the Qin empire and only the Qin empire.”

The cheers of the kingdom seemed to come back tenfold, reverberating through the palace grounds, as he steadied his mind and finally accepted fate.

He would have no purpose. He would live no life. He would wait for death as an emperor, sitting alone until the gentle embrace of the reaper finally welcomed him.

Today was the day that marked the start of an era: the day of his coronation as emperor, the day he finally lived up to his name, and the day he felt success rush through his beating heart.

Yet it was also the day he died.