The Young Man from the Great Qin

Chapter 24: Fusu’s Predicament Resolved

The Western Warehouse workshop, the furnace fire fading.

Mo Yuan used iron tongs to pick up the last piece of chromium ore. Sparks splashed onto the back of his hand; he didn’t flinch, only staring at the doorway. “Did Zhao Cheng confess?”

Xiao Ren wiped the black soot from his fingertips and pulled a jade pendant carved with the character “Gao” from his robe, tossing it casually onto the table. The pendant struck the wooden surface, rolled halfway, and stopped.

“He didn’t confess everything,” Xiao Ren said. “But he’s afraid of death. The Minister of Revenue won’t openly protect him—the accounts are too filthy. Someone will take him away tonight to a ‘safer’ place.”

Mo Yuan looked up. “Dead men are safest.”

“Exactly.” Xiao Ren turned, pushed open the back door of the workshop. Night wind rushed in, sweeping up a few scraps of paper from the floor. “Zhao Gao wants to silence him. We need to get what the young master holds before he acts.”

“The list?”

“Not just the list.” Xiao Ren didn’t slow his pace. “But also the registry of old nobles who sent money and Fangshi (alchemists) to Zhao Gao. Fusu has been investigating for half a year, holding a blade in his hand, but he hasn’t dared to draw it. Because he’s missing a pair of hands to grip the hilt.”

Mo Yuan followed him in. “Will the young master give it up?”

“He has to. Keeping that thing in his hands will only get him killed sooner or later.”

Mo Yuan didn’t ask further.

Half an hour later, at the Prince’s Retreat on the outskirts of Xianyang.

No guards, only two old servants dozing by the gate. Xiao Ren circled to the back of the courtyard wall, picked up a stone, and tapped it three times. After a moment, a side window creaked open a crack. A pale hand reached out and caught the half-copper tally Xiao Ren passed through. A very low voice came from inside: “Wang Wu?”

“Xiao Ren.”

The window pushed open wider. Fusu wore plain clothes, dark circles under his eyes, clearly having not slept for a long time. He watched Xiao Ren flip through the window and land lightly, movements crisp and without a trace of hesitation. His brow twitched slightly, but he said nothing. He only stepped aside, clearing the space by the window, and said softly, “Come in. It’s cold outside.”

Xiao Ren entered, bringing a gust of night wind that made the candle flame flicker. Fusu closed the window, walked to the desk, and sat down, his hands tucked into his sleeves as if warding off the chill, or perhaps enduring something. The room was piled high with bamboo slips, almost covering the entire desk—every one a memorial draft on the excessive severity of punishments. Some still bore fresh ink stains, as if written not long ago.

“You came late at night regarding Zhao Cheng?” Fusu asked, his voice deeper than usual, carrying a long-suppressed exhaustion.

Xiao Ren didn’t answer. He walked to the desk, picked up a scroll of bamboo slips, glanced at it, and put it back. “How many of these have you submitted?”

“Three,” Fusu said. “All withheld by the Emperor without reply.”

“‘Withheld’ is already being polite,” Xiao Ren said. “If you submit a fourth, Zhao Gao will have reason to accuse you of ‘forming factions and interfering in court affairs.’ At that point, even if the Emperor doesn’t protect you, no one else can save you either.”

Fusu said nothing. He stared at the bamboo slips on the desk for a long time, long enough for the candle flame to flicker twice. Then he spoke, his voice lower than before: “Then what can I do? Watch the people suffer and say nothing?”

“You can speak,” Xiao Ren said. “But not in Xianyang.”

Fusu looked up, his gaze carrying a hint of alertness and a touch of bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

“There is a shortage of a supervising censor in Meng Tian’s army on the northern frontier,” Xiao Ren said. “General Meng’s wish, and mine as well. You go north, far from this mess. There are three hundred thousand troops there. As long as you are in the army, Zhao Gao will not dare to move against you for a single day.”

Fusu was silent for a long time. He looked down at his hands, fingers interlaced, knuckles white, as if thinking hard, or perhaps thinking of nothing at all. After a while, he spoke, his voice so soft it sounded like muttering to himself: “What can I do in the north… Father has neglected me, no one in court speaks for me. There, I’ll only be swapping one predicament for another.”

“It won’t be so,” Xiao Ren said. “I’ve dealt with Meng Tian before. He doesn’t take sides; he only cares if people are useful. You’re not going there to hide, but to train. Train in military affairs, in managing people, in learning how to make an entire camp of soldiers willing to die for you.”

Fusu looked up, as if wanting to say something, but swallowed his words. He was silent for a moment, then finally asked, “Do you really think… I’m capable?”

“If you didn’t think I was capable, you wouldn’t have climbed my wall in the middle of the night.” Xiao Ren said.

Fusu froze for a moment, then smiled faintly. The smile was light, but more genuine than any of the words spoken earlier.

He stood up, walked behind the bookshelf, and took out a bronze box. The box wasn’t large, but it felt heavy in his hands. He didn’t hand it over immediately. Instead, he looked down at the sealed wax on the lid, pressed it with his thumb. The wax had dried, a crack forming along the edge. “Inside are the names of thirty-seven people, along with copies of their correspondence with Zhao Gao,” Fusu said. “I intended to present them to Father when the time was right. But it seems I won’t have that chance.” When he handed the box over, his hand didn’t tremble, but his knuckles were still white.

Xiao Ren took the box, didn’t open it to look, and slipped it directly into his robe. “This thing in your hands is a death warrant. In my hands, it can become a blade piercing Zhao Gao.”

“That’s good,” Fusu said. “That’s good.”

He said it twice, as if finally setting something down.

“Tomorrow at Mao hour, Meng Tian’s personal guard will come to fetch you,” Xiao Ren said. “After leaving Xianyang, do not look back.”

Fusu nodded, his eyes reddening slightly, but he didn’t let those tears fall. “Master…” he started, then paused, as if searching for words. “Take care of yourself.”

Xiao Ren didn’t answer. He turned and walked to the window, pushing it open. Night wind rushed in. Before flipping out, he glanced back. “We each get what we need. You preserve your life and your ambition; I clear the obstacles and the enemies.”

With that, he flipped out the window. The night wind pressed down the candle flame, then let it reignite. Fusu stood alone before the desk, looking at the half-open window for a long time. The eastern sky was already turning white; dawn was approaching.

Back at the Western Warehouse, Mo Yuan was packing his gear. Hearing the footsteps, he didn’t look up. “Young master, is it arranged?”

“Yeah.” Xiao Ren put the bronze box into a hidden compartment and locked it. “After Xu Fu presents the elixir tomorrow, Xianyang will be in chaos. Use the confusion to smuggle that batch of new sword ingots out of the city and hand them to Meng Tian’s messenger.”

“What about Zhao Gao…”

“He’ll be busy handling Fusu’s departure from the capital,” Xiao Ren said. “No time to worry about us.”

“Will he let the young master go?”

“No,” Xiao Ren said. “But he won’t make a move on the day Fusu leaves the city; that would be too obvious. He’ll wait at least three days. Three days is enough for us to finish what we need to do.”

Mo Yuan tied up the last piece of luggage and stood up. “Then what do we do next?”

“Wait,” Xiao Ren said. “Wait for dawn, wait for Xu Fu to enter the palace, wait for Zhao Gao to fix all his attention on that elixir.” He walked to the window, pushed it open a crack, and glanced outside. “Wait for the fish to bite.”

Mo Yuan didn’t ask further.

The next morning, a thin mist hung over Xianyang. Prince Fusu’s caravan departed the city gates****. No honor guard, no farewell party, only a few ordinary carriages and twenty black-clad personal guards. Fusu lifted the carriage curtain and took one last look at the palace walls of Xianyang. There were no flags on the walls, no guards lined up; it looked like a silent pile of stones. He looked for a long time, then lowered the curtain.

The caravan disappeared at the end of the official road.

At the same moment, on the city tower of Xianyang Palace, a lean figure stood with his hands behind his back. Zhao Gao wore a black deep robe, his face grim and sinister. He stared at the dust rising in the distance for a long while before speaking. “He’s gone?”

A low voice came from the shadows behind him. “Yes. He left the city at Mao hour, with twenty guards and three carriages.”

Zhao Gao didn’t turn around. “Has Xu Fu arrived?”

“He is already waiting outside the hall.”

“Let him in.” Zhao Gao adjusted his cuffs, a look of obedience bordering on the eerie spreading across his face. “The Emperor is waiting for immortality.”

He turned and walked down the city tower. The dust behind him slowly dispersed, as if nothing had happened.

At the Western Warehouse workshop, Xiao Ren stood before the furnace, holding an iron rod. The furnace fire illuminated half his face. He inserted the rod into the furnace to stir, then pulled it out, glanced at the color of the tip, and said to Mo Yuan, “The temperature is sufficient. Add the material.”

Mo Yuan poured a bag of white powder in. The furnace fire turned from red to blue, emitting a low hiss, as if something inside the furnace was gasping for breath.

Mo Yuan put down the empty bag and asked, “What is this?”

“Something that will reveal the true nature of Xu Fu’s ‘immortality elixir,’” Xiao Ren said. He stuck the iron rod back onto the iron rack beside the furnace, turned, and walked to the hidden compartment. He unlocked it and took out the bronze box. He didn’t open it, just weighed it in his hand, then put it back. “After dawn, Zhao Gao will think he has won,” he said. “Fusu is gone, Xu Fu has entered the hall, and no one in court dares to speak.”

Mo Yuan asked, “Then has he won?”

Xiao Ren didn’t answer. He bent down, picked up a scrap of iron that had fallen to the ground, glanced at it, and casually tossed it into the waste pile. Outside the window, the sky was brightening bit by bit.