Fu Su looked at the fresh blood in his palm, momentarily unable to comprehend what had happened.

Unbearable pain rapidly swept through his entire body from his chest, bringing an indescribable aura of despair.

He was going to die.

This thought flashed through Fu Su’s mind—completely unacceptable.

They said many people saw their entire lives flash before them before death, but Fu Su’s mind was completely blank.

How could he die? After years of painstaking effort, the outcome he anticipated was certainly not dying in a foreign land!

He couldn’t die… he still had unfinished matters… someone was waiting for him to return to Xianyang…

Fury and unwillingness swept away all thoughts. Before Fu Su’s eyes flashed his father emperor’s stern face, his tutor’s expectant and trusting gaze…

In the end, he would fail them…

Against his will, consciousness gradually withdrew from that pierced body.

Pain instantly vanished, yet brought no relief from finally being freed.

Fu Su knew he was already dead.

He’d considered life and death. He thought he would die on the emperor’s throne—after governing the nation perfectly and arranging successors, closing his eyes without regrets on the soft dragon bed.

He never imagined dying so suddenly. Yesterday he’d still been discussing with Meng Tian, Wang Li, and others how to deal with the Xiongnu. Today he received his father emperor’s posthumous edict commanding him to commit suicide and be buried with the emperor.

He’d also considered his father emperor’s death. He thought his father would one day die of old age in Xianyang Palace, with civil and military officials kneeling outside the hall in farewell, heaven sending heavy rain in mourning.

He never imagined his father would die on the road during an eastern tour, issuing him such a harsh posthumous edict.

“Crown Prince Fu Su—repeatedly unable to expand territory and establish merit, wasting many soldiers, repeatedly submitting memorials with blunt speech slandering, day and night resentful at not being recalled to become Crown Prince, without an inch of achievement, ashamed to be Great Qin’s Crown Prince… ordered to commit suicide and be buried with the emperor…”

The shrill voice of the eunuch delivering the edict seemed to faintly echo in his ears. Fu Su’s first reaction was disbelief, but the other was prepared—delivering the edict with only Meng Tian and him present, even Wang Li excluded outside the tent. When he and General Meng Tian wanted to lead troops back to Xianyang to clarify matters, just as he stood up, he was pierced through the chest by a sudden blade.

He vaguely seemed to hear Meng Tian’s roar, yet Fu Su didn’t worry about the latter’s safety.

After all, Meng Tian commanded hundreds of thousands of northern frontier troops. No matter who inherited the throne, during initially unstable succession, they couldn’t casually replace commanders at the front. Only the Meng family would likely decline from now on. With bad luck, the powerful Meng brothers might become history.

Conversely, Wang Li, because he superficially wasn’t too close to Fu Su, would be valued by whoever inherited the throne.

But his tutor definitely couldn’t preserve his life.

Truly… such unwillingness…

Actually, regardless of who inherited the throne, even if Fu Su didn’t know the truth, he could somewhat guess.

Hu Hai accompanied the First Emperor on the eastern tour. As the only son attending at his side, manipulating the posthumous edict was simply too easy. He just never imagined Hu Hai truly so bold—not only coveting the throne but mercilessly having him executed in Shangjun.

His tutor had warned him years ago to guard against Hu Hai, but he hadn’t paid attention.

Having that boy Hu Hai sit on this throne—did he even consider whether he was qualified…

Fu Su thought hazily, finding himself truly ridiculous. After death, still thinking about these things—even if he understood everything thoroughly, it served no purpose.

When a person dies it’s like a lamp extinguishing—all thoughts turn to ash.

But why was he still wandering the mortal world? Clearly, hadn’t he already died?

Fu Su looked down at his semi-transparent body. Not far away was his corpse with chest pierced through. Previously only seeing his blurred self through bronze mirrors, this was the first time examining himself from such a perspective.

Both familiar and strange—himself.

Moreover, a self whose eyes would never open again.

Inside the military tent was complete chaos. Fu Su stood there as if isolated from the world.

No one could see his existence.

When a person is about to die, the seven mortal souls scatter first, then the three ethereal souls depart.

His current condition—was his soul yet undispersed?

Was it because his obsession was too strong that he hadn’t entered reincarnation?

Fury gradually receded like tide from his mind, exchanged for doubts and concerns lingering in his heart.

Fu Su could already calmly watch Wang Li take charge of the situation, swiftly suppressing small-scale unrest. He didn’t execute Meng Tian according to the supposed First Emperor’s posthumous edict, but despite the eunuch messenger’s protests, merely placed General Meng Tian under house arrest while Wang Li himself assumed military authority.

Truly worthy of the person his tutor favored.

This sentence suddenly emerged in Fu Su’s heart. One emperor, one set of ministers. If he had ascended the throne as planned, though the Meng brothers would be valued as before, actual control should have been his tutor and Wang Li. One civil, one military—they would certainly lead Great Qin toward glory.

But this fantasy’s premise was him still being alive.

If only time could flow backward—then he wouldn’t have lost vigilance upon his father emperor’s summons, leading to assassination.

A mourning hall was quickly erected. Fu Su watched helplessly as his corpse was placed in a fine nanmu coffin, yet lacked courage to step forward.

He closed his eyes. What he most wanted to know now was whether his father emperor had truly passed away.

When he reopened his eyes, the scenery around him suddenly changed.

Fu Su looked around, discovering he was already inside Xianyang Palace’s warm hall. Thousands of li passed instantaneously between eye blinks. In this moment Fu Su truly recognized the reality of his death.

The warm hall usually piled with bamboo scrolls was today crowded with people. Prime Minister Li Si, head covered in sweat, was doing his utmost to pacify clamoring officials.

Fu Su knew regarding the false posthumous edict, Li Si must have played a very important role. But matters had reached this point, long irreversible. Too lazy to bother for now, he directly passed through the wall, heading straight for his father emperor’s bedchamber.

The soul state was a magical experience for him. His body moved with intent, passing through walls. No one could see his existence.

No wind brushing his cheeks, no feeling of summer heat. The dead seemed like shells stripped of bodies, simultaneously taking away some joys and sorrows belonging only to the living.

Fu Su walked increasingly slowly, his facial expression growing increasingly indifferent.

Many palace servants were inside and outside his father emperor’s bedchamber, changing furnishings and objects. Fu Su scanned once, not seeing the person he wanted to see, then turned and left.

He wandered around Xianyang Palace, discovering palace servants’ expressions showed more relief. The First Emperor governed by law, even stricter with palace rules. Now the First Emperor had passed, invisible burdens on palace servants’ shoulders seemed lifted—some servants even began lazily slacking off.

But generally speaking, aside from mourning banners hanging everywhere in Xianyang Palace, it was basically no different from the past. Since Duke Xiao of Qin who built Xianyang Palace, it had welcomed and seen off six Qin monarchs. Even with changing times, it remained unaffected.

Fu Su ultimately stood suspended above Xianyang Palace, looking down at this undulating palace complex that slowly turned blood red under sunset’s reflection, then completely dark.

Until the last ray of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, the entire earth fell into darkness. The distant Xianyang City’s myriad household lights gradually brightened. Xianyang Palace also lit palace lamps everywhere—a scene of brilliant illumination.

Fu Su felt his soul power slowly becoming diluted, knowing his time lingering in the mortal world wasn’t long.

He abandoned the idea of seeking Hu Hai, because he knew in his current state, even finding Hu Hai, he could do nothing.

Hatred? He felt if his father emperor had spirit after death, he’d probably seek Hu Hai first for reckoning.

Fu Su took one last look at brightly lit Xianyang Palace, heading toward Gaoquan Palace without lingering attachment.

Not here, not here either…

Not in the side halls either…

Fu Su, originally calm, slowly grew anxious again. Restless, he traversed the entire Gaoquan Palace at fastest speed.

The entire Gaoquan Palace was gloomy and eerie, only a few lonely oil lamps burning—all old servants who’d served him in the palace. Many young palace servants had long since disappeared—unknown whether they left themselves or were taken away.

Gaoquan Palace wasn’t large. He didn’t spend much time but didn’t find the person he sought.

Where exactly…

Fu Su was desperately anxious, only now knowing what he most couldn’t let go of wasn’t the Great Qin Empire, nor so-called family, but the tutor who’d accompanied him over ten years.

Wanting to become emperor was because he believed himself the most qualified and capable among the princes—naturally accepting without yielding. But he didn’t actually pursue power and position—all like playing chess, where the opponent made one move, he had to respond with one.

Perhaps he simply wasn’t suited to be emperor, otherwise he wouldn’t be forced to such straits.

But his young tutor was truly a talent of the realm. From initially resisting becoming his subordinate to finally unwavering support, enduring over ten years of hardship—yet he’d repaid him with a future without light.

His tutor—hadn’t already been completely eliminated by Hu Hai and others while he still didn’t know, right?

Fu Su thought wildly, mentally and physically exhausted, suddenly remembering his tutor returned to Xianyang because his father was gravely ill.

He’d never been to the Gan residence, only vaguely remembering it was in Shengping Alley.

He first flashed to the Commandant’s Office controlling Xianyang’s security and city defense, checked the Xianyang City map, found Shengping Alley’s approximate location, and the next moment appeared before the Gan residence entrance.

Two torches for illumination flickered in wind at the residence entrance. Inside appeared entirely normal. Fu Su only cursorily observed before impatiently passing through the wall.

The Gan residence was even smaller than Gaoquan Palace. Fu Su quickly found his worried tutor in a darkened chamber. The young Minister was sitting before a brazier, head bowed reading something by firelight.

His tutor was still alive.

Fu Su breathed a huge sigh of relief, involuntarily reaching out to pat the other’s shoulder, wanting to confirm he was well.

Just then the young Minister seemed to sense something, raising his head to look around. Finding nothing, he showed obvious disappointment.

Fu Su’s delighted expression froze on his face, once again realizing they were now separated by yin and yang.

The young Minister covered his chest, unwilling to give up, scanning the room several circles. He even rose and went outside to ask servants if visitors had called. After receiving negative answers, he returned dejectedly, head hanging.

Fu Su felt nothing amiss. First time at the Gan residence, he looked around curiously at his tutor’s living quarters.

Well, bamboo scrolls everywhere as usual. Though silk letters were more numerous than at Gaoquan Palace.

But why was a brazier lit indoors in this heat?

Fu Su moved closer to check, discovering besides charcoal fire in the brazier, there were also ashes—something being burned.

His gaze fell on silk letters piled nearby. Neatly written policy essays came into view.

Indescribable shock when seeing these policy essays. Moreover, seeing fresh ink and familiar handwriting, Fu Su knew his tutor had written these recently.

Before Fu Su could understand why his tutor did this, the young Minister had already knelt again beside the brazier, picking up the topmost silk letter, unfolding it to read.

Fu Su happened to see the opening earlier, immediately leaning over to continue reading along with his tutor’s hands. The more he read, the more shocked he became. What the silk letter described was actually the land reclamation system! Memorialize land reclamation at frontier defenses, garrison guards attending to both cultivation and defense, solving problems of transporting military provisions over long distances with difficult transportation through self-reliance, while stabilizing frontier defenses that over time would become military strongholds. Forces could be deployed anytime during defense, also pacifying refugees. The land reclamation system could initially implement two types: military reclamation and civilian reclamation. Soldiers could reclaim land between drills, while farmers could take up arms during agricultural off-seasons. The state only needed to issue some cattle, farm tools, and seeds.

Fu Su was shocked. This was completely a field he’d never considered or encountered. If he became emperor and implemented this, it wouldn’t only solve enormous military expenses but ease Qin farmers’ heavy taxes, plus allow Qin armies to radiate throughout the Central Plains without worrying about logistical supply shortages!

At this moment, Fu Su truly realized what his original intention for wanting to become emperor actually was.

Not because he was born Crown Prince.

Not because of his father emperor’s or ministers’ expectations.

Nor craving the taste of power.

He wanted to faithfully implement everything his tutor conceived on the empire’s territory, wanted to build their empire, wanted to see how far they could go.

Just as Fu Su was uncontrollably fantasizing, his tutor threw the silk letter in his hands into the brazier without attachment.

Fu Su instinctively reached out wanting to retrieve the letter, but it passed through his semi-transparent fingers, accurately falling into the brazier, quickly engulfed and consumed by flames.

“Bi Zhi!” Fu Su called out in shock and heartbreak. But aside from himself, no one could hear his voice. He could only watch shocked and furious as that extremely precious silk letter turned to ash in the brazier.

At this time, the young Minister picked up another silk letter.

Only now did Fu Su think—what he’d seen earlier in the brazier should be silk letter ashes!

His tutor was actually burning these silk letters that could be called national policy!

The young Minister expressionlessly burned silk letters one by one. Fu Su in soul state tried stopping him, even shouting angrily, but all had no effect. The young Minister remained unmoved, burning nearby silk letters.

Fu Su finally lowered his head dejectedly, sitting cross-legged beside his tutor, eyes wide trying to stuff as many policy essays as possible into his brain during gaps in the letter burning.

But the other burned sheet after sheet. However slowly, it was faster than Fu Su could read. So many policies Fu Su only glimpsed openings before being mercilessly tossed into the brazier, making him increasingly curious, increasingly angry.

Why burn such painstaking work so utterly without attachment?!

Why couldn’t he stop it?!

Why had he… died so simply…

“These were written for you, but unfortunately, I never imagined you wouldn’t even have a chance to see them…” The young Minister’s somber voice sounded in the room, carrying suppressed grief. “But it’s fine. I’ll burn them for you to see.”

Fu Su froze, only now realizing these silk letters were written for him, and his tutor now burning them was also for him. Fu Su nearly laughed in anger, blocking the other’s hand: “Stop burning! I can see them now!”

But his words and actions had no effect. The young Minister maintained his silk-letter-burning motion and frequency without any change.

Right—even if he could see now, it couldn’t change the fact of his death.

Fu Su collapsed sitting on the ground, feeling powerless pain for the first time since death.

He felt even though he was gone, no one cared.

But only now did he deeply feel he had truly died.

He could no longer express his feelings. No one could listen at all.

He could do nothing.

Could only sit here watching his tutor burn his painstaking work sheet by sheet.