259 BC.
The winter sky over Handan, the capital of the State of Zhao, was gray and heavy. Snow fell lightly, coating the tiled roofs, but the cold wasn't the only thing biting at the hearts of the people. Outside the city walls, the clanging of weapons and the shouts of soldiers had become a daily rhythm. The Zhao and Qin armies continued to clash, leaving the stench of blood permeating the city.
Amidst this tense situation, in a residence heavily guarded by Zhao soldiers, a young woman struggled on a simple wooden bed. Her face was pale, her hair damp with sweat, her lips dry, but her eyes were blazing—the look of those who refuse to surrender to fate. The woman was Zhao Ji, the wife of a Qin prince named Yiren, who was currently far away in the State of Qin.
Yiren, also known as Zichu, was not a powerful prince. He was the son of a concubine who had been held as a political prisoner in Zhao as part of an interstate treaty. During his imprisonment in Handan, Yiren had come to know Zhao Ji, and from that relationship a child was born—a child whose fate would be tied to the future of the entire country.
Outside the room, the sound of falling snow mixed with shouts from the city walls. The Zhao army was fending off a surprise attack from Qin. Shadows of soldiers running could be seen through the cracks in the windows, as if reminding her that the world outside was on the brink of destruction.
But inside, everyone's focus was on Zhao Ji. Three midwives worked quickly, one wiping the sweat from the mother's forehead, the other assessing the birth. "Just a little longer, my lady... hold your breath..." one of the midwives whispered in a low but firm voice.
Zhao Ji's first scream shattered the silence of the night, followed by the distant boom of siege cannons. The contrast created a strange atmosphere: on one side, death lurked outside, on the other, new life was being born within.
The process was long. Each breath was labored, each second felt like a wait for something that would determine life and death. Zhao Ji bit her lip, enduring the pain that seemed to sear throughout his body.
Finally, a baby's cry pierced the air. It was a loud, long, and powerful cry—unlike that of a normal newborn. The sound echoed in the room, making everyone look at each other.
The midwife picked up the baby, wrapped him in a warm cloth, and handed him to Zhao Ji. The mother's tired gaze instantly transformed into a tenderness beyond words. She stared at the tiny face, its skin red, its breathing rapid, but its half-open eyes betrayed something that would one day become a ruler's sharp gaze.
Zhao Ji took a deep breath, then in a low but firm voice said,
"Your name is… Ying Zheng. You will grow to be powerful. You will wrest destiny from the hands of anyone who tries to seize it. You are the only hope to save and reunite this warring nation."
Outside the room, snow continued to fall, blanketing the streets still soaked with the blood of fallen soldiers. No one knew that this newborn would one day become the ruler of the entire land, uniting the seven nations that were now at odds with each other.
In the corner of the room, a servant tightly closed the window, fearing the cold night air would steal the baby's life. But Zhao Ji knew his child was no ordinary baby. The blood of Qin and the spirit of Zhao flowed in this tiny body. He was born amidst war—and war would be the stage for his life.
That night, Ying Zheng's birth did not stop the war, did not change the map of power. But history began to slowly turn, preparing the way for a child who would shake the entire land.