Autumn of 362 BCE, on the western banks of the Yellow River near the Shaoliang Mountains, an exceptionally brutal battle raged.
The fighting had ceased. In the autumn twilight, crimson-armored infantry and cavalry had withdrawn to the southern hills beyond the main battlefield, their banners bearing the faintly visible character "魏" (Wei). On the northern hills, a shadowy mass of black-armored troops stood in disciplined formation under banners marked "秦" (Qin), glaring furiously at the Wei forces to the south, poised to charge again. The Wei army, regrouped into infantry and cavalry formations on the southern slopes, mirrored their hatred, equally ready to strike. The blood-red dusk faded, yet the two armies remained locked in a deadlock—neither retreating nor advancing, leaving the valley littered with corpses and abandoned chariots untouched. Like two tigers locked in a lethal stare-down, neither dared turn away first.
This was a strange war—no victor, only mutual ruin.
The black-armored Qin forces, led personally by Duke Xian of Qin, Ying Shixi, had decimated 50,000 Wei troops in half a day. His heir, Ying Quliang, with a band of 300 warriors, had plunged into the heart of the enemy ranks and captured the Wei commander, Gongshu Cuo! By the standards of early Warring States warfare, this counted as a monumental triumph. Yet, against all odds, the Wei army, instead of scattering after their commander's capture, surged forward in a desperate frenzy to reclaim him. Seeing his eldest son and the 300 warriors drowning in a crimson sea of Wei soldiers, Duke Xian raised his sword and charged with 5,000 elite cavalry to rescue them. Reunited, their morale soared. Ying Quliang spearheaded the breakout, while Duke Xian covered the retreat. Just as they neared safety, a stray arrow struck the duke's back. He stifled a roar, nearly falling from his horse. Ying Quliang, having handed Gongshu Cuo to the rear guard, wheeled back with his men, driving the Wei forces three li into retreat.
But when they returned, Duke Xian's wound told a grim tale: the arrowhead had buried itself over five inches deep, encircled by a sinister black halo. The royal physician, drenched in sweat, hesitated helplessly.
Pale as wax, Duke Xian slumped on the field cot and whispered, "Quliang… withdraw to Liyang." Then he fell unconscious.
"Poisoned?" Ying Quliang's eyes brimmed with tears, yet his voice held steady.
The physician nodded urgently. "A Wei 'Wolf's Poison' arrow. The toxin is… complex."
"Can it be removed?"
"The iron tip is too deep. Extraction would kill him," the physician muttered.
Ying Quliang scanned the tent, then turned to a fierce-looking general. "Eldest Brother. Sever the shaft."
The man was Ying Qian, Duke Xian's firstborn (though born of a concubine) and Quliang's elder half-brother. His rare crescent-moon blade gleamed coldly as he stepped behind his father. Hands trembling, he steadied himself—the arrow's wooden shaft, hardened by layers of lacquer, posed a perilous test. A misjudged strike could jolt the embedded tip, sealing the duke's fate. Praying silently to his sword's spirit, Ying Qian raised the blade and slashed. A flash of light—the shaft split cleanly, untouched by the blade's edge, severed by sheer剑气 (sword energy). Snatching the broken shaft midair, he sighed in relief. Duke Xian stirred not at all. Exhausted, Ying Qian collapsed to his knees.
A collective gasp rose softly from the generals in the tent.
Ying Quliang remained composed. "Prepare for immediate withdrawal. Who will command the rear guard?"
Ying Qian sprang to his feet. "I'll hold them off. If I don't slaughter those Wei dogs who shot the coward's arrow, I'll return without my head!"
"Brother," Ying Quliang said quietly, "with Father gravely wounded, we must prioritize the greater good. No reckless battles. Hold position unless pursued. Stand firm tonight, withdraw at dawn. No heroics. I'll await you in Liyang."
Ying Qian stiffened, then nodded. "Understood. We retreat tomorrow."
Ying Quliang turned to the generals. "Vanguard led by Zi'an clears the path. Chancellor Gongsun Jia commands the central guard to protect the duke. All other generals join the central guard. I'll lead 3,000 cavalry as rear guard. Break camp now."
The generals saluted and strode out. Soon, the northern slopes of Shaoliang buzzed with urgent activity.
Dark clouds swallowed the moon; a bitter autumn wind howled. Qin campfires and watchtowers blazed defiantly, mirrored by the Wei army's警戒 (vigilant) bonfires across the valley. Both sides braced for a dawn battle to reclaim their honor. Under Wei law, a captured commander meant death for all senior officers unless rescued. With their chancellor-general Gongshu Cuo in Qin hands, retreat was unthinkable. The Wei generals assumed the Qin—enraged by their duke's injury—would fight savagely at sunrise. No one imagined they might withdraw.
In this era, night raids were seen as dishonorable tricks. Warfare still followed the chivalric traditions of the Spring and Autumn period: battles were frontal, formal, and daylight affairs. Though both sides kept watch, Wei's camp soon drowned in thunderous snores.
At dawn, frost glittered under a rising sun. The Wei army, now reduced to 80,000 cavalry, cooked over buried pots and formed ranks, ready to die retrieving their commander. By convention, Qin should have arrayed itself opposite, advancing to meet them at arrow's range for pre-battle formalities. Yet Qin's camp showed only curling炊烟 (cooking smoke) and flapping banners—no movement.
The acting Wei commander was Prince Ang, King Hui of Wei's ambitious half-brother. At thirty, this was his first command, yet arrogance cloaked him like his scarlet cloak. Glaring at Qin's stillness, he sneered, "Give the Qin beggars half an hour to eat their last meal!"
When no Qin troops emerged, Prince Ang raised his sword. "Enough mercy! Charge and exterminate them—attack!"
War horns wailed. The crimson tide surged uphill, shattering Qin's wooden defenses… only to freeze in stunned silence.
The Qin camp was empty. Buried firepits, trampled grass, and false flags fluttering in the wind were all that remained. At the camp's edge, damp firewood smoldered—a ruse to mask their retreat.
"Ying Shixi—you coward!" Prince Ang's roar echoed futilely across the valley.
Unbeknownst to Wei, the Qin main force had slipped away under darkness, already reaching Liyang. Ying Qian's rear guard had withdrawn at first light, crossing the Luo River southwestward. By sunrise, his 5,000 cavalry were galloping safely toward the capital.
Ying Qian lashed his horse mercilessly, desperate to return. Part of him burned to hunt down the Wei archer and sacrifice him at his father's banner. Yet Ying Quliang's warning haunted him: with Duke Xian near death and the succession unsettled, a coup could erupt like the civil war fifty-three years prior. Only their united front might prevent chaos.
In its three centuries as a feudal state enfeoffed by King Ping of Zhou, Qin had rarely suffered internal turmoil. Yet fifty-three years prior, when Duke Ling of Qin died, his five-year-old heir, Ying Shixi, was exiled to the Longxi Valley by his great-uncle Ying Daozi, who seized the throne under the pretext of the child's youth. Ying Daozi ruled as Duke Jian of Qin for fifteen years, succeeded by his son, Duke Hui, who reigned thirteen years before passing the throne to his own son, Duke Chu. Two years into Duke Chu's reign, the Left Chief Official Ying Gai staged a coup, drowning the young duke and his mother in the Wei River. Ying Gai then restored the exiled Ying Shixi—now thirty-five—to the throne in the capital Yong.
Though weakened by decades in exile, Ying Shixi had honed a steely resolve during his nomadic years on the frontier, forging bonds with military leaders. Determined to revive Qin's strength, he shocked the nobility three years into his reign by moving the capital east to Liyang. Critics feared proximity to Wei's armies, but Ying Shixi vowed at the ancestral temple: "Liyang shall be the base from which we reclaim the lands west of the Yellow River, driving Wei back across the river and out of Hangu Pass!" His fiery rhetoric rallied the people, silencing dissent.
Wei, strengthened by Lord Wen's reforms and General Wu Qi's campaigns, had seized Hangu Pass and over 500 li of Qin's territory in thirty years, reducing Qin to a narrow strip west of Mount Hua. Only Wu Qi's exile to Chu spared Qin annihilation. Yet Wei's encroachments continued unabated. By Duke Chu's reign, some even proposed abandoning the Guanzhong heartland to retreat into nomadic obscurity.
Ying Shixi's rise shattered this despair. Relentlessly campaigning against Wei, he fought over thirty battles in twenty years without a single defeat. The greatest victory came two years prior at Shimen, where Qin annihilated 60,000 Wei troops, reclaiming Hangu Pass. Had Zhao not intervened, Qin might have retaken all lost lands. For this, King Xian of Zhou gifted Ying Shixi ceremonial armor embroidered with battle-axes and mystic patterns—a divine endorsement of his warlord stature.
Now, at Shaoliang, Ying Shixi sought to secure the Longmen crossing and expel Wei from the west bank entirely. Had he not fallen to a stray arrow, this battle might have rivaled Shimen, restoring Qin to its golden age under Duke Mu.
Heavens—do you forsake Qin? The thought chilled Ying Qian's spine as he galloped toward Liyang.
Ying Qian's cavalry, veterans of endurance, left a thousand men ambush-ready at the Luo River crossing. The remaining 4,000 thundered southwest. By dawn, Liyang's black watchtower loomed. Halting atop a ridge, Ying Qian addressed his commanders: "The duke's fate is uncertain. To guard against turmoil, 3,000 riders will hide here. If smoke rises from the city, storm the gates. Understood?"
"Fierce old Qin, face the nation's peril as one!" they roared—an oath from Qin's folk ballads.
Ying Qian handed the tiger-shaped tally to his deputy, Jing Jian. "Should Liyang revolt, rally all forces to secure Prince Quliang's succession."
At Liyang's east gate, open and unguarded, Ying Qian relaxed—Father lives. Yet caution lingered. He stationed his 1,000 riders outside the palace, violating the "no troops at court" edict, and entered alone with his crescent sword.
Though three years older and Qin's fiercest general, Ying Qian had always deferred to his brother Quliang, the composed, scholarly heir apparent. Now, with their father's succession unsettled, Ying Qian resolved to shield Quliang from court intrigues, even at the cost of his own reputation.
The palace at Yueyang was small and humble, merely a six-courtyard complex. It couldn't compare to the grand palaces of the six eastern states, nor even to the old capital Yongcheng, appearing far cruder and more cramped. Its sole virtue was sturdiness. Ying Qian had no wish to encounter ministers in the second courtyard's council hall, preferring they assume his absence from Yueyang. Bypassing the main gate, he slipped through a side entrance directly into the fourth courtyard's private chambers, certain his gravely wounded father would be recuperating there. True enough, upon entering, he found the courtyard heavily guarded, its tense atmosphere starkly contrasting with the laxity at the city gates and outer palace.
Ying Quliang paced the courtyard with sword in hand. Spotting his elder brother's determined stride, he hurried forward.
"Brother, your return is timely. Is Shaoliang secure?"
"Secure. Those Wei dogs must be howling curses by now. How fares Father?"
"His spirits have improved slightly. The royal physicians are attempting to extract the arrowhead. Go see him."
"Let us go together."
"No. Father commanded that upon your return, you alone are to attend him immediately."
Ying Qian stiffened. "Why this order?"
"Brother, question not. Father has his reasons. Go."
"Very well. Wait here—I'll return promptly if needed." With that, he strode through the threshold.
Half an hour later, Ying Qian emerged, his right hand wrapped in white cloth, face pale and glistening with sweat.
"Brother, what happened?" Ying Quliang exclaimed.
"A scraped elbow while crossing the Luo River. The physicians redressed it," Ying Qian replied with a strained smile. As Ying Quliang frowned in concern, the white-haired chamberlain Hei Bo approached urgently. "Second Prince, His Majesty summons you at once."
Ying Qian waved impatiently. "Go now. I'll attend to matters and return." He departed swiftly, leaving Ying Quliang to follow Hei Bo into the chambers.
The bedchamber stood eerily empty—no physicians, no queen mother, no princess. Duke Xian of Qin lay prone on the couch, a white cloth draped over his bare, battle-scarred back, his normally sun-darkened face now pallid with feverish patches.
"Father, shall I call the physicians?" Ying Quliang whispered urgently.
Shifting his pillow beneath his chest, the Duke propped himself on his elbows. "Quliang, sit. Listen well."
Obediently fetching a wooden stool, the prince settled by the couch. "Your son attends."
"My journey ends here," the Duke rasped. "I delayed naming you heir to shield you from early opposition. Now at twenty-one, you're of age. I confirm you as Crown Prince and successor... Silence! Hear me out." After labored breaths, his piercing gaze locked on his son. "Three injunctions: First, seek no hasty vengeance. Two decades of war have beggared Qin—you inherit ruins. Strengthen the state through hardship as Goujian did. Constant warfare serves nothing. Second, treat ministers well, especially the old clans. Move not rashly against them. Third—most vital—maintain fraternal unity. I made Ying Qian swear a blood oath. Should he waver, reveal this pledge for all to condemn him." From a hidden compartment, he produced a bloodstained silk scroll.
Ying Quliang unfolded the cloth, revealing eight crimson characters: *Should I betray my brother-prince, may Heaven destroy me!*
"Father! Our bond needs no such torment!"
The Duke shook his head weakly. "Mark this: Shared virtue comes easy, shared hearts harder. Great virtue demands greater harmony. How many royal uprisings stemmed from kin-strife? Ying Qian possesses inner clarity—lean on him. This oath guards against contingencies."
"I vow to honor your teachings: Enrich Qin, honor ministers, preserve brotherhood. Should I fail, may ancestors bar my spirit from their halls." The Duke studied his son, then erupted in hoarse laughter. "Good! Good! I await you in the afterlife—" A final blood-spattered cough wracked his body before he collapsed onto the pillow, still.
"FATHER!" The prince threw himself over the body in anguish.
Hei Bo gently steadied him. "Grieve later, Your Highness. Affairs demand attention."
Wiping tears, Ying Quliang regained composure. "Summon General Ying Qian at once."
In his final hours, Duke Xian had gathered no ministers—a critical oversight for any seasoned ruler. His intent had been to settle succession before convening advisors, but the arrow wound's sudden rupture stole this chance. With the Duke's abrupt demise and no written edict, the clear succession blurred dangerously. Any faction supporting Ying Qian's elder brother could now question the deathbed scene, where Ying Quliang alone witnessed the Duke's last moments. Without witnesses or documents, even the verbal decree might be disputed. Everything hinged on Ying Qian's stance—his loyalty could prevent turmoil, his ambition might ignite civil war. Though fraternal bonds ran deep, Ying Quliang couldn't ignore his father's cryptic warning: Why demand a blood oath unless suspicions existed? The chilling possibility of betrayal tightened the new heir's throat—how would he navigate this precipice?
Meanwhile, in the council hall, Qin's ministers churned with unspoken anxieties. No one knew the Duke's true condition or the succession plan. The uncertainty paralyzed political discourse—without confirmed heir or regent instructions, even routine discussions felt treacherous. Seasoned officials recognized these hours as Qin's most vulnerable since Duke Xian's own father had been usurped on his deathbed. Like vassals through history's bloody pages, they kept vigil, knowing power's balance could shift with a dying breath.
Senior Grandee Gan Long, the Duke's trusted advisor now conspicuously excluded from the death chamber, became the silent focus. When Chief Scribe Gongsun Jia approached with feigned casualness, the white-haired statesman deflected: "Does the Keeper of Records seek guidance?" Their taut exchange drew other ministers like moths to flame, though none dared voice forbidden questions.
Gan Long suddenly addressed the crowd: "Heaven favors Qin! Our Duke recovers. Let us petition for full retaliation against Wei!" The masterstroke redirected nervous energy into safe channels. Cheers erupted—"Avenge His Majesty! Reclaim Shaoliang!"—as ministers gratefully seized the patriotic pretext to mask their probing maneuvers. Beneath the clamor for war, the real battle for Qin's future had already begun.
At this tense, murmuring moment, a column of iron-armored warriors marched into the courtyard outside the council hall with synchronized, heavy footsteps, forming gleaming ranks at the entrance. Their spears glinted coldly under the command of Zi'an—Ying Qian's trusted general.
The hall fell deathly silent. Ministers broke into cold sweat, exchanging panicked glances. Had the Duke perished abruptly? Was Ying Qian seizing the throne? If so, none could oppose him. Though not the official commander, Ying Qian controlled Qin's elite cavalry of 50,000—the kingdom's entire fighting force. His battlefield valor and soldierly rapport made him unassailable. Against him, Ying Quliang stood little chance. Power struggles favored those who held the blade. Though capable, the younger prince lacked his brother's military clout. Fraternal war would doom Qin.
As armored boots still echoed, Ying Qian strode in with the Heavenly Moon Sword, flanked by two rows of sword-bearing officers. With a gesture, the officers formed silent sentinels along the hall's rear. Ying Qian positioned himself at the entrance and boomed, "Ministers, take your seats! Hear the royal decree!"
Officials shuffled reluctantly to their stations. The elderly chamberlain Hei Bo entered centrally, unrolling a goatskin scroll. "People of Qin! Our Duke, wounded by poisoned arrows at Shaoliang, feels death approaching. Crown Prince Ying Quliang is hereby confirmed as successor. All ministers must obey. Dissenters face execution. Proclaimed this sixteenth day of the ninth moon, twenty-third year of Duke Xian."
The hall remained eerily silent. The decree confirmed the Duke's death, yet none dared react. Why had no minister witnessed this succession? Was this Ying Qian's trap? To applaud now risked annihilation; silence offered safety.
Ying Qian's gravelly roar shattered the stalemate: "Hail the new sovereign!"
Ying Quliang entered in plain robes and jet crown, composed. Still, ministers hesitated, paralyzed by fear.
Ying Qian's face darkened. "Who defies the decree? Behold!" His blade flashed, silently shearing a stone pillar. The severed top crashed down, its smooth-cut base gleaming ominously.
Officers roared: "Hail the new sovereign! Ten thousand years!"
Ministers jolted awake, scrambling to kneel: "Hail His Majesty!"
Senior Grandee Gan Long added: "Hail General Ying Qian for upholding the succession!" Others echoed: "Ten thousand years to the General!"
Ying Qian thundered: "Blasphemy! How dare you equate me with the sovereign? Silence!"
The hall stilled again. Through these trials, ministers grasped the truth—Ying Qian genuinely supported his brother. Yet with the new sovereign unproven, caution lingered.
Ying Qian bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, proclaim your edicts."
Ying Quliang, steady at the throne, declared: "Ministers, hear three decrees: First, all officials retain posts under Senior Grandee Gan Long. Second, General Ying Qian is promoted to Left Grandee, commanding Qin's armies. Third, Gan Long and Chief Scribe Gongsun Jia shall oversee state funeral rites."
A collective exhale filled the hall. "We obey!"
Approaching Gan Long, the new Duke bowed. "Elder Statesman, burdening you with funeral duties weighs my heart. During mourning, wield full authority against disruptors."
Moved, Gan Long trembled. "This old servant, blessed by your father's grace and Your Majesty's trust, dares not fail."
Ying Quliang concluded: "All else follows precedent. Court adjourned."
Ministers dispersed into solemn clusters, balancing grief and cautious optimism.
Ying Quliang rode southwest to Mount Li military camp with 100 veterans—a mission surpassing even stabilizing the court.
Commander Zi'an greeted him in disbelief. "Your Majesty, why leave the capital so soon?"
Ignoring the query, Ying Quliang asked: "How fares Gongsun Cuo?"
"The old badger! Silent. Starving. Stubborn as ever. Let's sacrifice him at your father's altar!"
"Take me to him."
The captured Wei chancellor lay dying in a stone cell. At sixty-one, Gongsun Cuo had served Wei for decades, leading armies after Wu Qi's departure. Yet two crushing defeats by Qin—most recently at Shaoliang—drove him to self-starvation.
As the cell door groaned open, Ying Quliang bowed. "Chancellor Gongsun, Ying Quliang pays respects."
The prisoner kept his eyes shut.
Zi'an barked: "Old fool! This is Qin's new sovereign!"
A flicker of surprise crossed Gongsun Cuo's face. Ying Quliang continued: "No shame in Shaoliang. Both sides lost. Your army felled my father with a stray arrow. In truth, Wei gained ground."
Gongsun Cuo's eyes snapped open. "Then take my head! When do I die?"
"You mistake me. I release you to Wei."
The chancellor laughed bitterly. "Mock me not! Kill me with dignity!"
Ying Quliang solemnized: "Qin and Wei bleed their people dry. I seek peace. Will you join me?"
"You'd forget patricide?"
"Private grief bows to public good. I swear this sincerity."
Studying the young ruler's resolve, Gongsun Cuo sensed rare statesmanship. Ceaseless border wars had long vexed him—Wei's true rivals lay east and south, not in Qin's western wastes. Yet Duke Xian's relentless raids made peace impossible. Now, with this pragmatic heir, hope glimmered.
"Terms?"
"Pre-Rock Gate borders. West Riverlands remain Wei's."
Gongsun Cuo sat up, astonished. "Qin cedes so much?"
"I'll reclaim it in twenty years."
"Sworn?"
"Sworn." Ying Quliang smiled. "Eat, Chancellor. You'll need strength."
Gongsun Cuo laughed heartily. "Done! Feed me for the road."
"Rest three days. You'll return as Wei's envoy, not captive."
The old chancellor marveled. "With your vision, Qin will rise mightily. Pity I'll not live to see our rivalry." Collapsing mid-chuckle, he fainted.
Three dawns later, Ying Quliang escorted a bronze chariot through Hangu Pass.
Farewelling the white-haired statesman under autumn frost, the young Duke watched Wei's crimson banner merge with distant plains.
By Warring States custom, twice-defeated ministers seldom retained power. Even as Wei's elder statesman, Gongsun Cuo might fall. If so, their peace pact would crumble, inviting Wei's renewed assault. Qin, exhausted by decades of war—granaries empty, fields untilled, men decimated—couldn't survive another defeat. Though recent victories masked it, Qin teetered on collapse. A few years' respite might revive the kingdom; continued war meant extinction.
Now, amid mourning and fragile rule, Wei's invasion would be Qin's doom.
The burden on Ying Quliang's shoulders pressed like a mountain range.
If the peace held, Hangu Pass—Qin's lifeblood for generations—would revert to Wei within the month. Since Qin's founding as a feudal state, this strategic gateway had been its shield. With Hangu Pass secured, Qin breathed easy; without it, the kingdom stood exposed, its heart vulnerable to enemy spears. His father, Duke Xian, had clawed this fortress back through rivers of blood, yet now Ying Quliang would surrender it to Wei. Would the aristocratic elders accept this? Could the people comprehend such a sacrifice? Though his decision stemmed from cold logic—offering Wei bloodless gains to buy Qin respite—he knew the cost. Without yielding Hangu Pass, Wei would never tolerate Qin's recovery after two defeats. Yet for Qin's subjects, this gateway symbolized survival itself.
Heaven above! The thought clawed at him. Could Qin's extinction come at my hands?