210 BC, Shangjun

Wang Li clutched the ceramic cup in his hand, holding his breath and focusing intently on the green-robed youth across the low table, trying to discern some clues from his pale face.

What the green-robed youth had written on the silk cloth in his hand was a family letter sent to Shangjun along with grain supplies from Xianyang. In over two years at Shangjun, this was the first time Wang Li had seen A’luo receive a family letter, though that boy Ying wrote a pile of verbose messages every month. So after receiving this silk letter from the chief clerk, he personally delivered it to the youth.

“Well? What happened?” The youth’s handsome face was truly calm without ripples, and Wang Li couldn’t help but begin wildly speculating. Had A’luo’s family arranged a marriage, summoning him back to wed? He knew his own father had pulled such a stunt once—he’d delayed and delayed, and when he finally couldn’t avoid it anymore, returned to Pinyang for the occasion. The result? The girl despised that he’d be stationed at the border year-round and directly broke off the engagement, marrying another. A perfectly good family friendship ended with them never speaking again, and his father no longer dared arbitrarily arrange marriages for him. After all, with younger brothers to continue the family line, why should he waste time on unrelated people?

Of course, it might also be because none of his close friends were married. Crown Prince Fu Su remained alone, A’luo also hadn’t married—naturally he wasn’t in a hurry either.

The green-robed youth placed the silk letter on the table, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his slender, elegant fingers lightly pressing the table surface. He sighed: “My father is gravely ill. He’s summoning me back to Xianyang.”

Wang Li froze, put down his ceramic cup, immediately stood, and strode out of the military tent.

The green-robed youth listened as Wang Li stood at the entrance, arranging personnel to escort him back to Xianyang, instructing personal guards to prepare food, clothing, and supplies for the journey, even thoughtfully adding some furs and other frontier specialties to bring back as gifts for his family and Ying. The numerous arrangements were meticulous and properly handled. A warm arc appeared at the corners of the green-robed youth’s mouth. He picked up the bronze pot nearby and filled the now-empty ceramic cup Wang Li had left on the table with water.

Yet even with such a simple action, his arm trembled, spilling water outside.

Pressing his lips together in frustration, the green-robed youth set down the bronze pot. He had just wiped the water from the table with a cloth when Wang Li finished assigning tasks and re-entered the tent.

“A’luo, don’t worry. The King of Yiyang will be fine.” Wang Li happened to see the youth’s dejected expression with pursed lips and immediately offered clumsy comfort, at a loss. But even he felt his words were dry and dull—naturally tongue-tied, he seemed to lack any gift for eloquence.

“Mm.” The green-robed youth responded softly.

Judging from his father’s handwriting on the silk letter—the brushwork powerful and neat, the sentences smooth and flowing—it was clearly written when his thoughts were clear and his body healthy. So his father’s health must be fine. Then why summon him back to Xianyang now? There must be another reason.

For a moment, the green-robed youth also wondered if his father was using this trick to force him back to Xianyang to marry, but he immediately dismissed this notion. Since he turned twelve, he had been the actual decision-maker in the household. His father wouldn’t act arbitrarily over his head.

He didn’t know what matter prevented his father from stating it plainly in the letter.

After pondering for a long while, the green-robed youth finally decided to take this opportunity to return to Xianyang. His long-planned matter required him to be in Xianyang anyway. Ever since last year when he’d been inadvertently captured by Prince Modun at Wale Outpost, Fu Su had forbidden him from leaving Shangjun with Wang Li. Nearly a year had passed since he’d communicated with Chaofeng and Yaoying. The situation in Xianyang was gradually giving him a feeling of losing control.

“A Li.” The green-robed youth raised his head, his habitually smiling expression becoming rarely serious.

“Here.” Seeing him thus, Wang Li straightened his back.

“Do you still remember you owe me a favor?” The green-robed youth’s tone was grave.

“I remember.” Wang Li nodded, becoming even more solemn. Having known A’luo for many years, to invoke their childhood promise for a request—Wang Li had already decided that no matter what the other asked, however difficult, he would ensure it was completed.

“This trip to Xianyang, I don’t know when I’ll return.” The green-robed youth’s gaze flickered, and his hands hidden beneath the table slowly clenched into fists. With his current body, perhaps once he went, he would never return. He paused, organized his emotions, then slowly said: “While I’m gone, I entrust His Highness’s safety to you.”

Hearing this, Wang Li was stunned for a moment, then his tense body relaxed. After picking up the ceramic cup and draining it, he breathed a sigh of relief: “That’s my profession. A’luo, you always worry too much. Don’t worry.”

“While I’m gone, I entrust His Highness’s safety to you.” The green-robed youth insistently repeated what he’d just said, his tone increasingly heavy.

Wang Li’s smile froze on his face. Was he overthinking? He felt A’luo’s emphasis was on the first half of the sentence, as if… as if he would be gone for a very long time.

But he was probably overthinking it, right?

Wang Li scratched his hair, sat up straight again, and replied seriously: “Leave it to me.”

“I’m counting on you.” The green-robed youth smiled broadly. “After I pack, I’ll go bid farewell to His Highness.”

“Mm, I’ll go supervise those rascals. I’ll see you off in a bit.” Wang Li jumped up to check on the personal guards’ preparations.

The green-robed youth sat dazed for a long time, finally extending his hands from beneath the table. Expressionless, he looked at the wounds in his palms punctured by his nails—some flesh had been torn open, thick blood slowly flowing out, emitting an unbearable stench of decay.

Xianyang, Weaving Chamber

At the northwest palace wall of Xianyang Palace stood a specially designed palace hall—the imperial silk weaving workshop, called the Weaving Chamber.

The Weaving Chamber had windows on all four walls, much larger and higher than ordinary windows, so the hall’s lighting was excellent. On sunny days, sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the entire chamber. The silk and cloth fabrics on the frames before all the weaving maids appeared fresh and brilliant, and newcomers to the chamber would feel their spirits lift.

But this was merely appearance.

Because the chamber held many silk products, and these fragile, precious textiles were extremely fire-sensitive—even the most delicate silks would scorch and curl if merely grazed by lamplight—they didn’t need to work once darkness fell. But likewise, they couldn’t light braziers for warmth in winter.

In the bitter cold of the ninth week of winter, the Weaving Chamber’s four walls of windows stood wide open, cold wind passing straight through. No matter how warmly dressed, hands doing fine needlework and embroidery couldn’t wear thick gloves.

Many weaving maids’ hands had chilblains that recurred every winter. Fingers originally slender as scallions became ugly and coarse through day after day, year after year of toil.

Moreover, being unable to work at night meant they had to work harder during the day.

Most weaving maids were palace slaves—when noble families committed crimes, they were often sent to the Weaving Chamber. So though the work was arduous, it was still considered among the most respectable positions in the palace aside from serving nobles. Because the chamber held many exiled noble ladies, and weaving maids were generally under twenty years old, young and beautiful, the average appearance was much higher than elsewhere. Many eunuch guards liked to wander nearby when they had nothing else to do.

Perhaps hearing of these improprieties, the Imperial Storehouse Director under the Lesser Treasury ordered the Weaving Chamber sealed years ago—unauthorized persons forbidden entry—bringing considerable peace to the place.

Few beyond the weaving maids in the chamber knew that in recent years, the harem’s clothing repairs had been moved to other halls. This Weaving Chamber had become one serving only the First Emperor alone.

More precisely, serving only one robe for the First Emperor.

Caiwei tucked her hands into her sleeves, standing in the Weaving Chamber, looking up at the black deep robe hanging on the clothes rack.

No patterns or embroidery, the style most ordinary and straight-cut. Its sleeves were loose, the upper and lower widths similar, the hem relatively short, exposing both feet. Moreover, the lower front revealed the dangling right inner lapel—the construction appeared crude, the style flat, lacking beauty. Yet it conserved fabric and was simple and convenient to make.

It looked like nothing more than an ordinary deep robe, yet had taken them a full three years.

Though it appeared ordinary, commoners had no right to wear black. But if not stated explicitly, no one would believe this was tailored for the First Emperor.

Caiwei was no longer the little palace maid who could only secretly shed tears when troubles arose. Now twenty-nine years old, she was considered quite elderly in the palace, at the matron generation. Having entered the Weaving Chamber at eleven, she’d now spent eighteen years here, becoming the chamber’s undisputed head seamstress.

In the Weaving Chamber, what wore out most wasn’t actually the hands, but the eyes. Though they didn’t work nights, the accumulated years of constant labor meant weaving maids’ vision blurred before age twenty, their efficiency declining, forcing transfer to other halls.

Caiwei had obtained a pill from her Minister, so she hadn’t developed eye disease. Her eyes remained clear, which was why she’d become the chamber’s head seamstress ten years ago.

Head seamstress meant sitting in the first seat at the chamber’s head, managing all chamber affairs, with no one permitted to question. So though everyone initially thought abandoning their work to specially make an ordinary deep robe was utterly absurd, upon handling it they discovered this fabric was extraordinary—apparently made from ancient black gold and black jade thread, difficult to pierce with ordinary needles, let alone cut and sew.

They’d used the sharpest Sword of the King of Yue to cut the fabric into the simplest pattern pieces, but the sewing troubled them for months.

Fortunately, they obtained a special Weaver’s Needle from the Director of Seals and Tallies. The needle was two inches long, forged from unknown material, fine as hair, yet able to arduously pierce through this black fabric.

Because only one Weaver’s Needle was available, after the chamber was sealed, only two weaving maids took turns sewing each day. This deep robe’s lengthy production also had this reason.

Caiwei knew somewhat more than ordinary weaving maids. She knew this unremarkable-looking black fabric was actually taken from the Black Standard.

The Qin imperial family’s ancestors could be traced to Da Fei, fifth-generation descendant of the Yellow Emperor. Da Fei once assisted Yu the Great in controlling floods. When Emperor Shun rewarded Yu, he also gave Da Fei a black standard and bestowed the surname Ying.

This Black Standard given by Emperor Shun was the fundamental reason why the Qin dynasty revered black.

But no one imagined the First Emperor would set his heart on this enormous Black Standard, actually wanting to cut it into a robe to wear.