Bai Qi, General of Qin. He never lost a battle, never saw his army defeated. He buried more than four hundred thousand Zhao soldiers alive; the kingdoms trembled at his name, and he was known as the Butcher of Men.
— Records of the Grand Historian, Volume 73
Sima Qian recorded the truth coldly—without ornament, without sentiment. A single line was enough to summarize the life of a man beneath whose feet the earth itself trembled.
But… was that truly the end of the story?
In 257 BCE, as court intrigues coiled like serpents within Qin's palace, a royal decree was issued: death for the general. In the palace's inner courtyard, ministers assembled, their faces shadowed by fear and awe. The scene before them was no mere rumor, but a waking nightmare.
At the center sat a man in his late forties. His black hair fell disheveled across his face, his eyes hollow, his body little more than an empty shell. Sweat dripped from his brow under the searing summer heat, yet the iron chains that bound him weighed heavier than the season's fire.
The royal minister stepped forward with calm, deliberate strides. He wore a long, simple robe with wide sleeves, cinched at the waist with a sash. In his hands he held a scroll, its characters carved with precision. Casting a fleeting glance upon it, he began to read—his voice low, but laden with the weight of authority:
"Bai Qi… you have crossed the boundaries of honor. You have committed deeds that cannot be forgiven. You did not only destroy the enemy—you instilled terror in the hearts of your own people…"
He paused, eyes lifting to meet the rigid figure of the general, then spoke with harsher finality:
"By the laws of the Imperial Court, and in the name of balance among the realms, I strip you of your title, and of every honor bestowed upon you by the state. You are no longer a soldier, no longer a general—only a symbol of cruelty that cannot be absolved."
The words fell into the hall's silence like stones tumbling down the steps of the great palace. Bai Qi's heart trembled—not from fear of death, but from the loss of everything he had built in his name.
He stared at the minister without a word. There was no need for denial or defense. The Zhao scum had received what they deserved. He had devoted his life to that cause, and taken dark satisfaction in burying them alive. Yet, in the depths of his heart, there lingered a hidden sorrow. War was all he had ever known—perhaps it was a gift, perhaps a curse. But now, what did it matter?
The presence of the executioner behind him became clear. Bai Qi raised his gaze to the heavens one last time and closed his eyes.
"If only… I were given another chance…"
Pain stabbed through him—sharp, searing—and then, suddenly, it was gone. His body grew lighter than air, coldness seeping into his bones until he shivered.
"Is this… the end?"
The thought echoed in his mind as he braced for the wails of tormented souls in hell. But there was nothing. Silence.
When he opened his eyes, a radiant light flared—and faded—leaving behind a strange space.
He was no longer in a dungeon or palace courtyard, but in a lavish royal chamber. A bed draped in silk. Golden lanterns flickering softly.
He approached a mirror—and froze. His hand, once scarred and calloused, was smooth.
The reflection that stared back was not that of Qin's most feared butcher, but of a boy no older than thirteen.
A strange lightness coursed through his body, and confusion clouded his mind. How had he come here? Why this form?
Suddenly, pain tore through his head, memories colliding like storms—his past life as Bai Qi, the general, unraveling and dissolving into something else.