The Assassination of Qin Shi Huang: Silent Guardian Chapter 2

Tonight, my mission reaches its culmination. For the past two years I have waited, observed, and blended into the darkness. I finally have the opportunity to kill the Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang.

The Phylax’s information is infallible. Qin has been traveling across China for months, just as they said he would, inspecting his empire—but the inspections are only a pretense. Beneath the façade of governance, he pursues something far more elusive: immortality. His alchemists whisper of a substance that will grant him eternal life. He chases these promises like a dying man gasping for air. He has sent envoys to the mountains, seas, and the ends of the known world in search of it. They return with formulas laced with mercury, and still, he drinks.

Soon, he will rest in this yurt, far from the security of the imperial palace. The countryside hides him, his presence unnoticed by ordinary people; however, I know why he is here. Another rumor of alchemical wisdom has drawn him to this place. His scholars claim that the key to eternity lies hidden somewhere nearby.

Qin Shi Huang believes he can command the universe itself. He has reshaped China to suit his will. Yet, time is not a kingdom to be conquered. No matter how tightly one tries to grip it, it cannot be tamed. Not even the Phylax have the power to curb time to become immortal.

The yurt is modest for a man of his power. These journeys demand discretion, not grandeur. His usual contingent of guards is smaller than usual. I know that once he enters the yurt, the guards will be out of earshot. The stillness of the night has lulled them into complacency—a perfect opportunity. No one expects an assassin to strike here, in this forgotten corner of the empire.

It’s strange how the years of planning feel like the tricky part. Killing the emperor is almost a relief after years spent in obscurity, mastering ancient China’s culture, customs, and language. 

I hold up the knife in my hands. It is a custom-forged jian dagger—my favorite weapon from this period. The firelight dances along the iron, and for a moment, I catch my reflection in the metal. Three asymmetrical scars cut across my cheek, each one a story I no longer bother to tell. My face in the blade looks older than I remember—hardened, worn thin by too many years of silence and violence. The firelight catches the hollows beneath my eyes, the tightness in my jaw, and the way my expression never quite lets its guard down. I think about how rare this used to be, to see yourself so clearly. For most of human history, a reflection was something caught in passing—glimpsed in still water, never fixed, never certain. Most people wouldn’t have truly recognized their own face. What a strange feeling that must have been—to go through life only half-known to yourself.

Once Qin is dead, the real challenge begins. Five thousand miles. That’s the distance between here and the Sanctum at the Acropolis, the Phylax headquarters. Five thousand miles of the most challenging terrain imaginable. I must make the journey alone.

If I can find horses or camels along the way, it will ease the burden—at least a little. However, horses are scarce, especially when crossing regions plagued by bandits, hostile tribes, and unforgiving deserts. The bureaucratic checkpoints and constant suspicion from local authorities make every move feel monitored.

Traveling with a caravan would be safer. Unfortunately, that’s against Philip’s rules. I’m sure he didn’t create them, but in my mind, they’ve always been his. Following the rules is part of the discipline he instilled in me, even though I haven’t seen him in over fifteen years. 

Silence is a privilege; dealing with others is true loneliness. Regardless, what I do—what the Phylax does—is a calling far beyond the trivial need for companionship. Without us, there will be nothing left of humankind in the future.

The fabric of the yurt rustles as Qin steps inside, the heavy tent flap falling behind him with a muffled thud. A dim lantern glows, casting long shadows across the room—shadows where I remain concealed. His gait is uneven. From here, the potent stench of jiu—the rice wine flowing freely during his tours—reaches me. It’s thick on his breath. His ordinarily sharp focus dulled by the haze of drink.

He moves with arrogant carelessness. He believes no one would dare cross him, even in this remote tent with only a few guards stationed elsewhere in his camp. That arrogance is his downfall. He doesn’t see me crouched in the murk, tracking his every move.

The knife rests in my palm as I inch forward, stealthy as the night outside. My plan is simple: make it appear that one of Qin’s guards betrayed him with a clean cut across his throat. No one will question the death of a man who ruled by fear.

I move with precision, angling my steps to position myself behind him. As I’m about to strike, my movement catches his awareness. He spins around faster than I can anticipate. His arm shoots up to block my blow at the last instant. The blade glances off his forearm, drawing blood—but not enough to stop him.

A primal yell tears from his throat as he stumbles back, calling for his guards. “Dù wèi!” Fear strangles his voice. 

Even as Qin’s yell fills the small space, I remain calm. No panic, no fear—I know the guards are too far away to hear him. It’s all in the operational synopsis. They’re stationed farther down the encampment, well beyond where his voice can reach, at least for the next few moments. The Phylax always ensures these details—timing, distance, vulnerabilities. I trust their information with complete conviction, even more so when Qin stumbles backward, clutching his wounded arm.

I move swiftly, refusing to give him time to recover. A second knife slips into my fingers. It is a comforting weight. My movements are fluid, honed by years of training. I dart forward, closing the distance quickly.

I strike again before Qin can react. The first blade slashes into his other arm, cutting deep into muscle. He lets out a strangled gasp, fear spreading across his face. I don’t stop. I drive the second knife into his chest. Circling him, I pull him tightly against me—one hand clamps over his mouth to muffle any further cries.

Before his strength fades, Qin musters one final act of defiance. His fingers claw desperately at the air, searching for something—anything—to aid him. His hand stretches outward, trembling as it finds a thin string hidden against the fabric of the tent. He grips it, pulling hard before I can grasp what he’s doing. The realization hits me too late—the string must be connected to a bell in the guards’ tent. A signal to bring them running.

I yank him back, away from the alarm, holding him as his body weakens. When he finally goes limp, I release him, letting him slump to the floor. I retrieve my knives and pause.