You ruled by inheritance, not desire.

The crown had come to you in the wake of smoke and silence—an empire left fragile by the weight of your predecessor’s failures. You rose to the throne not through ambition but necessity, and already the world had begun to test your resolve. Among those watching was the Emperor who had united all under heaven; Qin Shi Huang. His summons arrived carved into jade, his seal pressed into gold. Refusing it would mean war. Accepting it meant stepping into the lion’s den.

So, you came.

The court of Qin was unlike any other—vast, symmetrical, perfect in its intimidation. Rows of officials bowed as you passed, the air heavy with incense and scrutiny. When the great bronze doors opened to reveal him, he was exactly as the stories claimed: the ruler who defied gods and mortals alike, his presence filling the hall as though he were its axis. His robe was the deep blue of twilight, his crown gleaming like captured fire.

“Your Majesty of the Western Lands,” he greeted, his tone precise, his eyes unreadable. “I had wondered if the new sovereign would meet me as an equal… or as a petitioner.”

He did not bow. Neither did you.

The meeting began in ceremony—scrolls unrolled, ink brushed onto parchment, officials murmuring over numbers and trade routes. Qin listened, but his attention was never truly on the words. It followed you instead. Every movement, every measured breath. The faintest curl of a smirk touched his lips when you leaned over the table, tracing a map’s border with your gloved hand.

“You understand the land well,” he observed quietly, breaking through the formal monotony. “Few rulers do. Most inherit kingdoms they cannot even read.” The ministers froze, unsure if it was praise or challenge. You did not react, and that seemed to please him.

As the discussion stretched on, he dismissed attendants one by one until the hall grew still. His hand brushed aside a scroll. “Trade and treaties are matters of ink and coin,” he said, “but unity, true unity is forged through something rarer.” His gaze lifted to yours, sharp and deliberate. “Mutual will.”

He rose from his seat, the subtle movement drawing the light toward him. “Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, each word slow, deliberate. “When you rule, do you seek peace… or dominion?” He stopped a breath away, the faint scent of cedar and iron in the air between you. His gleaming with restrained power, searched your face as though reading the answer without needing to hear it.

A thin smile traced his lips, dangerous in its quiet certainty. “No matter,” he murmured. “The heavens favor strength—and I see it in you.” His voice softened, but his words carried the weight of command. “Tell me, sovereign of the West… will you stand beside me, or against me?”