Chapter 21: Extolling the Ancestral Dragon-O cara levou a gente para um ponto turístico onde dá para cultivar imortalidade e fazer arqueologia!(Aquele que segura a pena)

After "escaping" from the clutches of the group of eight, Meng Yi stood outside the courtyard gate and let out a long sigh of relief. The descendants of the future were simply too enthusiastic; he found it a bit overwhelming.

The moment his silhouette vanished from sight, the group inside the courtyard began dancing with excitement.

"My god! Did you see the look in His Majesty’s eyes?" Fang Gaochang’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes gleaming. "That aura! Even from ten meters away, my legs were shaking!"

Jiang Kai nodded repeatedly in agreement. "Yes, exactly! The imperial crown he wore, that black and crimson robe—it was a hundred times more imposing than anything on television!"

Shi Xiaoyu looked utterly enchanted. "Don’t you think Lord Ancestral Dragon is handsome? He’s so imposing yet charismatic! Oh, he’s completely stolen my heart."

The group cheered and squealed with excitement. As they poured out their praise for the First Emperor, a discordant voice cut in.

"Lord Ying Zheng is indeed majestic and awe-inspiring, but it’s a pity he died so young," Li Lin said, suddenly lowering his voice. "I remember the history books stating he died in 210 BC at Shaqiu during his fifth eastern tour. It is currently 218 BC, which means..."

"There are only eight years left," Zhao Lei finished the sentence.

"As long as Lord Ancestral Dragon believes we are from the future, this problem can be solved." It wasn't about letting him live to be a hundred, but surely they could extend his life by a few years. Wasn't that the greatest purpose of their arrival here?

"Once he believes us, I must tell him immediately to quickly deal with that Zhao..."

Before Li Lin could finish, Jiang Ye interrupted, "Keep your voices down! There might be ears in this courtyard. What if someone hears us?"

Fang Gaochang laughed naively, "If these words reached His Majesty’s ears, wouldn't that be even better?"

Jiang Kai, the simpleton, chimed in, "Yeah, exactly. That way, Lord Ancestral Dragon can take precautions in advance and avoid being schemed against."

Jiang Ye clutched his forehead. "You ancestors, is that what I meant?" Seeing they still didn't get it, he lowered his voice further. "Don't forget: it is easy to deal with a gentleman, but difficult to guard against a villain." He emphasized the word "villain" heavily, fearing the blockheads wouldn't understand.

The eight young, hot-blooded people, whose brains had been fried by meeting the First Emperor, finally had a sudden realization.

"Damn! You’re right," Jiang Kai said, slapping his forehead. "How could I have forgotten that?"

"That guy is incredibly cunning," Wu Xiaoshi whispered, not daring to speak loudly anymore.

"Yes, yes, we must be careful. Walls have ears," Shi Xiaoyu agreed, her eyes darting around to check for suspicious figures outside.

"Shh, shh, shh!" Fang Gaochang put a finger to his lips. "From now on, some things can only be said to the First Emperor. Let’s talk less in private to avoid being overheard by those with ill intent."

The eight, now clear-headed, nodded in unison.

Just as they were discussing this, two scouts hidden in the shadows outside the courtyard wall were pressed tightly against the exterior, ears glued to the window lattice. Their hearing had been specially trained; they could capture even the faintest sounds with clarity.

"Eight years of life..."
"Shaqiu..."

The two scouts exchanged a look, flashes of astonishment in their eyes. These people spoke of His Majesty with extreme reverence, bordering on fanaticism. Yet, why were they so certain he would die in eight years?

"Keep your voices down! There might be ears in this courtyard..."

The two scouts stared at each other, feeling deeply embarrassed. They had been ordered to eavesdrop, only to hear endless praise for His Majesty, and now it seemed their presence had been detected... this mission had been handled in such an awkward way.

Just as they were preparing to retreat, they heard the people inside talking again.

"If these words could reach His Majesty’s ears, that would be better..."
"Cunning..."

What did "cunning" mean? Was it a thief who stole chickens? What a bizarre term.

Upon confirming there was no other useful information, the two signaled each other silently and withdrew without a sound. Before leaving, one of them couldn't help but look back at the small courtyard, a corner of his mouth curling upward involuntarily. These people were truly interesting.

The two scouts hurried through the makeshift passages and headed straight to where Meng Yi was staying. Upon entering, they knelt on one knee and reported everything they had heard.

"They claimed His Majesty’s lifespan is coming to an end?" Meng Yi slammed his bamboo scroll shut, his brows furrowed tightly.

The scouts bowed their heads, not daring to look up. "Yes... in eight years... during the eastern tour..." The scouts' voices grew lower and lower.

Meng Yi’s brow remained locked. This matter concerned the life and death of the Emperor. His sharp gaze swept over his subordinates. "If a single word of this leaks out..."

"We understand!" The two scouts pressed their foreheads heavily to the ground.

After they retreated, Meng Yi paced his quarters before finally pushing the door open and stepping out. As dusk deepened, the bronze lamp-trees were lit within the temporary palace at Pengcheng. Ying Zheng was reviewing memorials when he heard a voice outside the hall—it was Meng Yi, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic urgency.

Granted permission, Meng Yi strode into the hall. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing, before glancing at Zhao Gao, who stood to the side. "I have a matter of great importance to report."

Ying Zheng understood and waved his hand. "Minister Zhao, you may withdraw."

As soon as Zhao Gao bowed and exited, and the sound of the hall doors closing faded, Meng Yi lowered his voice. "The scouts I sent have reported back. Those descendants from the future claim that Your Majesty’s remaining lifespan is no more than eight years."

The flame on the lamp-tree flickered violently. Ying Zheng’s hand, holding his brush, hung suspended in mid-air. A drop of cinnabar ink fell onto the bamboo scroll, spreading like blood.