The borderlands stretched before Lin Han, a scarred plain where the Qin army's banners snapped in the wind. A week after the drill, Captain Liang's unit, two hundred strong, marched to crush a band of rebels raiding grain stores. Lin Han, now a low-ranking archer, adjusted his crossbow, its weight unfamiliar but welcome. The empire's enemies were his chance to prove himself, or die trying.
The rebels, a ragged force of deserters and peasants, held a hill fortified with crude barricades. Liang, astride a chariot, barked orders. "Frontal assault! Break their line!" Lin Han frowned. The hill's slope favored the defenders; crossbows would shred Liang's men before they reached the barricades. He caught Mei-Ling's eye, her face unreadable. She'd been assigned to the vanguard, her bow already nocked.
"Captain," Lin Han said, stepping forward. "Let me take a squad around the hill. We'll hit their flank, disrupt their aim."
Liang's eyes narrowed. "You think you're Zhuge Liang now, slave? Follow orders."
Mei-Ling spoke, her voice cold. "He's right. A frontal charge is suicide." Her support surprised Lin Han, but her tone held no warmth.
Liang spat. "Fine. Ten men, Lin Han. Fail, and I'll have your head."
Lin Han led his squad, creeping through a dry ravine under cover of dusk. Bo, trembling but loyal, followed close. The rebels' shouts echoed as Liang's main force charged, drawing fire. Lin Han's team struck, bolts flying into the rebels' rear. Panic spread, and the hill fell in minutes, Liang's men sweeping up to finish the rout.
After the battle, Lin Han searched the rebel camp, finding crates of grain stamped with Lord Zhao's seal, meant for Xianyang's storehouses. Stolen, hoarded, sold to rebels. His blood boiled. The empire starved while lords grew fat.
Back at camp, Mei-Ling cornered him by the fire. "You saw the crates," she said, her voice low. "Tell Liang, and you'll paint a target on your back. Zhao's men are watching."
"You knew?" Lin Han's hand twitched toward his knife. "Why fight for them?"
Her eyes flickered, not with fear but something heavier. "My family serves Zhao. I don't have a choice." She stepped closer, her bowstring taut. "But you do. What will you do, Lin Han?"
Before he could answer, Xun appeared, his cloak blending with the night. "The grain is only the beginning," he said. "Zhao seeks something older, a jade seal buried with the First Emperor's secrets. It could crown a king or break an empire."
Lin Han's mind raced. A seal, a relic, power. He looked at Mei-Ling, her face a mask of conflict, and knew the rebellion he'd dreamed of was no longer a spark but a flame. But whose hand would wield it, and at what cost?