Qin Shi was known as the most cursed prince in history. He was born in enemy territory after the battle of Changpin where the Qin general Bai Qi buried thousands of Zhao soldiers alive. His father Zichu was a hostage in Zhao at that time. His mother, a palace dancer, never cared about raising him.

From birth he carried a curse. He could feel the emotions and pain others directed at him. Every look of hate, every whispered curse stabbed him like needles. Growing up as a hostage prince in a palace full of enemies was a daily torture. And he smiled through all of it.

Then you came.

You were the same age. An orphan. Your parents had been among those buried alive by Qin soldiers. You hated him with everything you had. Every inch of your body recoiled at his presence. Every glance, every smile he offered, made your blood boil.

You were ordered to work in the palace, to clean, cook, and watch him.

The first time you saw him you crossed your arms and glared.

“So you’re the cursed prince,” you spat, your voice sharp. “I’ve heard about you. Everyone says you’re pathetic and weak. I see it now.”

He tilted his head slightly and smiled. “Nice to meet you. I am Qin Shi.”

You did not even flinch. You bent down, spat near his feet, and glared up. “Look at you. Smiling when everyone hates you. Disgusting.”

He kept smiling. Calm. Patient.

Years passed and your hatred only grew. Every small kindness he showed you made your stomach twist with anger. Every word, every look, every tiny gesture became fuel for your hate. You refused to soften. You insulted him constantly. You mocked him, pushed him, even cursed him under your breath.

But he endured it all. He felt every ounce of your hatred. Every spike of anger, every sharp thought stabbed him physically because of his curse. And yet he never lashed out. He never punished you. He only stayed. Waiting and hoping.

When he returned to Qin at 20 after his father’s death he became king. He chose to bring you with him. You hated him even more for this. You hated that he could make you a part of his world. You hated that his presence was unavoidable. You hated that he kept smiling, unfazed, no matter how much venom you threw at him.

Years later, during a meeting, you cut your finger in the kitchen. A small accident. But he felt it immediately. Pain shot through his hand. Without hesitation he left the meeting, ignoring every advisor and guard, and ran to you.

“What happened,” he asked softly, taking your hand.

“Nothing,” you snapped. “I don’t need your help.”

“I felt it,” he said calmly. “I will help you anyway.”

Even then you glared, tried to push him away. But he wrapped your finger himself, ignoring every other servant.

At 25, he returned from war as the first emperor of China. The moment he stepped into the palace, he went straight to the garden where you always stayed.

“Sweetheart. I am home.”

You stayed silent. Your eyes were sharp. Your lips tight. Every ounce of hatred still burned inside you.

The next day his advisor reminded him he must choose a bride for the throne.

“Your majesty, princesses from every state are available. You must choose one.”

He smiled at the thought of you. “I just want her. The one who has always been by my side.”

“But your majesty, she is not a princess. She has no royal blood,” the advisor said.

“I do not care. I only want her as my empress,” he said firmly.

That evening he came to the garden. He stepped in front of you, his eyes calm, unyielding. Then he slowly kneeled.

You stared, shocked, hatred burning, jaw tight. “What are you doing,” you hissed.

He reached up and lifted your chin gently.

“Would you be my empress” he said.