In the Great Qin Dynasty, I, the Unruly Commander, begin by dual-cultivating with Yan Ling Ji.

Chapter 171 The Crimson Palace

Li Bo was carefully shuffling along the frost-covered walls of the palace. The jade belt hook that the Grand Historian had placed in his palm before his death now gleamed with a deep blue hue in the dawn light—the three-pronged barbs on the hook head fit perfectly against the bronze lock of the Imperial Ancestral Temple's underground palace. As the key turned for the seventh time, the scent of thousand-year-old cypress mixed with the smell of rust wafted over.

"General Li Mu's armor..." He stroked the peeling cinnabar on the mural in the underground palace; the war god's armor gleamed with a cold bronze light under the ever-burning lamp. During the Sand Dune Palace Coup in 295 BC, this armor was soaked with the blood of Prince Zhang. Now, the creaking of the chains startled bats, and as their black wings swept past the "Hu Fu Qi She Tu" (a mural depicting nomadic peoples in cavalry archery) at the corner of the wall, Li Bo heard the shouts of battle outside the palace walls.

The moment King Zhao crushed the teacup, Li Bo was being forced to the edge of the observatory by three golden-armored guards. These assassins, their Adam's apples branded with black bird totems and their pupils bloodshot, were clearly people who had been taking Five-Stone Powder for years. He swung his hand and shattered the sundial's support, causing the bronze Twenty-Eight Mansions compass to crash down, smashing the nearest golden-armored guard into a bloody pulp.

"Ignite!" Li Bo roared as he rolled toward the astrological candle oil storage room. Ten years ago, when he accompanied the Grand Astrologer to observe Mars' conjunction with Antares, he had seen three hundred catties of mermaid oil here—a fuel made from giant fish from the South China Sea that ignites upon contact with oxygen. As the first rocket pierced the window paper, a fiery dragon instantly shot up the dome along the bronze star orbit model.

Below, crocodiles thrashed in the heat of the Taiye Pond, and Zhao Kuo's roar pierced the thick smoke: "The West Gate has fallen!" His private army suddenly ripped off their outer robes, revealing the standard leather armor of the Zhao border troops underneath. The datura smoke from the hollowed-out arrows fired by the modified crossbows made the golden-armored guards move as sluggishly as drunkards.

"The Prince of Pingyang is here with the edict left by King Wuling!" The rebels, mixed among the guards, suddenly shouted. This shout was like ice water thrown into a pot of boiling oil, creating a fatal gap in the imperial guards' formation—some turned to look towards the ancestral temple, while others even pointed their blades at the backs of their comrades.

When King Zhao smashed open the gilded gate of the ancestral temple, most of the twelve jade tassels on his crown were broken. This king, who had once murdered his brother with poison and usurped the throne, now dug his trembling fingers into the cracks of the "Zhao Clan's Territory Map" mural. Suddenly, the vermilion city walls of Handan in the mural cracked, and the mechanism activated by Li Bo caused the dusty armor to fall like meteorites.

"You...how worthy..." King Zhao's right leg was pinned down by Li Mu's bronze armor as he looked at the silk scroll bearing Li Bo's will. Sunlight streamed through the caisson ceiling, illuminating the gold-powdered seal script. The characters of King Wuling of Zhao's abdication edict from 299 BC had been meticulously copied by the Grand Historian over twenty years, resulting in a near-perfect forgery.

At this moment, Zhao Kuo's bronze mirror focused on the sunlight of the hour of Si (34-34 AM). The reflected light from the golden roof of the ancestral temple pierced the pupils of the imperial guards like sharp swords. Taking advantage of the moment, he threw out the Zhanlu sword—a sword bestowed upon him by the King of Zhao seven years ago, its blade engraved with "Eternally Guarding the Rivers and Mountains"—but now it pierced through the king's robe embroidered with black birds.

As the ancestral temple's protective covering began to crumble, Li Bo saw Zhao Kuo's final smile between the beams and pillars. This man, who always loved to warm wine and read military texts on snowy nights, had used his body to jam the bronze door mechanism. Seven crossbow bolts pierced his breastplate, and the blood pooled on the ground, forming a strange hexagram—exactly the same pattern that the Grand Historian had drawn in his blood before his death.

"Go...to the underground palace..." The blood seeping from Zhao Kuo's teeth stained the jade belt hook. The moment Li Bo rushed into the underground palace of the Imperial Ancestral Temple, the twelve gates slammed shut, shutting out the pursuers and the poisonous smoke. Something cold brushed against his cheek in the darkness—the lingering chill of a thousand-year-old ice cellar, condensing into frost flowers that clung to the scales of his Warring States period armor.

As King Pingyang received the homage of his officials, Li Bo knelt amidst the ruins of the Observatory. His fingertips traced a broken divination stick; fragments of Zhao Kuo's armor clung to the crack of the inscription, "The dragon soars too high, regrets follow." A southeast wind whipped up the embers of the incense burner, which fell upon the new king's crown like unmelted snow…