From the system, Li Xi learned that in just a single day in the player world, Da Qin had already attracted six thousand applications for beta testing, and the number was still climbing. She did not probe further. After simply informing the system of the time for introducing the second batch of players, she handed over the entire review of players’ identities and skills to the system.
Although the system, being an AI, was somewhat naïve, its core programming was still many times more advanced than the technology of the player world. Every trace left online by someone applying for beta qualification could be thoroughly examined by it. Determining a person’s field of study and what skills they possessed was, therefore, not difficult.
At the very least, having the system handle this task was far more efficient. Li Xi was human—she could get tired and exhausted. Going through all that data herself and trying to filter it quickly was clearly unrealistic.
Moreover, because the system had overhyped the marketing, many people online had developed a reactive mindset, criticizing the game blindly without understanding it. Naturally, the beta application page would be filled with complaints, and Li Xi had no desire to let those things ruin her mood.
—After all, what normal person would go out of their way to read insults directed at themselves?
And as it turned out, her thinking was correct. Just as the system released the information that beta slots would be issued ten days later—during which everyone could still apply—a new wave of chaos erupted. The homepage of Blue Star’s largest gaming forum was soon plastered with criticism of Da Qin.
“Haha, this self-proclaimed holographic game marketing is amazing. Thought I could play tomorrow, but ten days later? (rolling eyes)”
“Emmm, OP, your tone… sounds like you really want to be a marketing guy.”
“Verified: OP is a shill for this trash game.”
“Nonsense! I just wanted to slap this crappy game in the face!”
“But… OP may not even get a beta key! According to the official site, applicants are nearing 8,000, yet only 300 accounts are issued in the first wave—less than 4%. Truly tantalizing. This promotion deserves a chicken leg reward.”
“But the game is trash anyway; doing all this is useless. Can anyone really make a game these days? Ugh.”
…
“Guys, relax. Don’t complain. I just saw a small streamer’s footage of this game. Interiors, buildings, really realistic. Seems it could really be holographic.”
“Shill above, you’re killing me. The game is still accepting beta applications. Where’s the footage from? Your shill army sucks.”
The forum players argued for days, but Li Xi never once looked at it, focusing solely on her work.
After informing the system that the second batch of players would be summoned three days after ten days in their world, Li Xi considered carefully and decided to gather all the craftsmen in Liyang. She planned to entrust the main task of building a brick kiln to artisans from her world, especially those skilled in pottery.
At the very least, pottery and brick-making shared a common step: firing.
However, as she had previously worried, using ordinary Qin citizens for labor required consideration of their safety. After deciding to gather the craftsmen, she instructed the Liyang magistrate to assign half of the players already in Da Qin to assist the artisans.
She specifically reminded the magistrate to subtly instruct the players: if any danger occurred at the brick kiln, they must protect the artisans at crucial moments. For the players, this would be just a mission to protect “NPCs.”
After all, they could not truly die in the game and could adjust their perception. Those with low tolerance could switch to zero-pain mode. Li Xi felt no issue if an explosion occurred at the kiln site and players risked themselves to protect the artisans.
The players not assigned to protect the artisans were not idle. With the city walls repaired, their next daily task, following the plan of the socially adept engineer, would have been repairing citizens’ houses.
But Li Xi wanted to build the brick kiln and renew everyone’s houses, so there was no need to waste effort on the old task.
Thus, they proceeded with the main mission they received when entering the game: making fertilizer.
It must be said, the players tasked with manually creating fertilizer in the Warring States had it much harder than those assisting the artisans with kiln construction.
At the kiln, the artisans could fully utilize ancient labor wisdom; players just experimented with hands-on tasks.
In contrast, the fertilizer team had to do everything themselves, both thinking and acting. Their small brains were not very clever, so any passing citizen would notice them standing stiffly like corpses, momentarily unresponsive—actually just temporarily offline to consult reference material.
Upon logging back in, Yan Samoyed collapsed in despair, exclaiming, “Heavens, I wasn’t even this serious when writing my graduation thesis!”
Grabbing her long hair, she moaned, “Someone save me! How am I supposed to make nitrogen and phosphate fertilizer in the Warring States?”
“Dog Bro, why don’t we try some homemade fertilizer first?” A nearby player suggested.
“Hm?” She looked up, puzzled. “Homemade fertilizer?”
The player replied, “Yeah, even clumsy hands can make a home version, fermenting waste. Apparently it’s healthy and eco-friendly. The key is—it’s simple.”
“Then…” Yan Samoyed scratched her head. “Shall we try it?”
At worst, she would continue to go crazy, she thought.
The player immediately said, “I’ll log off to check the instructions!”
While the fertilizer team diligently logged off and on to research production methods, a few days later, a certain small boy finally noticed something amiss.
“Li Xi! Come out here!”
Even from a distance, she heard Chengjiao shouting her name with a force that clearly wanted to fight her.
“Your Highness, you mustn’t go in there…”
The maid behind him was about to cry from anxiety. Being low-ranking, she could only plead; she dared not do more to a royal prince. She silently prayed he wouldn’t go too far.
Hearing the approaching footsteps, Li Xi put down her tools and went out to face the boy.
Casually, she asked Chengjiao, “May I know why Your Highness is looking for Li Xi?”
“How dare you ask me that!” Chengjiao widened his eyes, shocked by her shamelessness.
Seeing him so agitated, Li Xi kindly reminded him to calm down, “No need to rush, speak slowly. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her calm, untroubled demeanor left Chengjiao momentarily speechless. After a pause, he demanded, eyes wide: “I ask you! You are my… pet, aren’t you… aren’t you—”
Seeing the boy refuse to speak the word, Li Xi helpfully finished it for him: “Pig.”
Chengjiao glared. “What do you mean? Are you deliberately insulting me?”
“How could Your Highness think so?” Li Xi feigned surprise.
She quickly justified herself: “You said it’s a rare beast, never seen before. With your status and vision, you must know its uniqueness. Does being a pig erase that novelty and specialness?”
Chengjiao was instantly speechless, his arrogance evaporating.
Then, regaining his composure, he puffed up and shouted, “Then what about that herd? You let people use my land for a bunch of pigs? What do you take me for?”
Li Xi remained calm: “Raising pigs benefits the people’s livelihood…”
Chengjiao interrupted, “Don’t bully me! These pigs have nothing to do with my pasture!”
“And,” he continued, “the pork doesn’t taste good, smells bad. Raising pigs is a waste of resources…”
He seemed to suddenly find a loophole, puffing out his chest: “You’re not that great! I’ll report this to my royal brother!”
Li Xi just shook her head slightly: “Regarding the smell of pork, I have it covered. You just take care of them. In half a month, send someone to me.”
Chengjiao grumbled, “I never agreed to raise these pigs!”
Li Xi ignored him and opened a new topic: “You seem close to the King?”
The boy immediately puffed up proudly: “Of course! In Xianyang Palace, aside from Queen Dowager Zhao, my royal brother likes me best!”
Then he added threateningly, “So if you bully me again, I’ll report you to my royal brother!”
Li Xi ignored him, asking lightly: “Compared to Meng Tian?”
The boy visibly stiffened. Clearly, he realized his weight in Ying Zheng’s eyes—or reliability and trust—was inferior to Meng Tian, a general’s son and Ying Zheng’s personal guard.
Seeing how respectful and affectionate he was toward his brother, and recalling Ying Zheng’s gentle advice for him to accept some hardship, Li Xi’s expression turned serious.
She looked down at the small boy: “I hope Your Highness remembers what was said today.”
With that, she turned back into the room, leaving Chengjiao slightly dazed.
Regaining his senses, the boy frowned, calling after her: “Hey! What do you mean by that?”
Li Xi silently thought: hopefully, the child remembers her words today, consolidating respect for his brother and not following a crooked path.
Because if that happened, Ying Zheng… would be sad.
And she did not want Ying Zheng to be sad.
Xianyang, Chancellor’s Mansion.
A young man with loose long hair walked through a corridor to a wooden door. Without hesitation, he pushed it open and knelt before the man seated at the main position: “Lao Ai, I pay respects, Chancellor.”
Lü Buwei acknowledged him, then looked him over before saying lightly, “Rise. No need for formalities.”
“I have come for a reason you’ve probably already heard, so I won’t waste words.”
He looked at Lao Ai in a calm tone: “Disrobe, and show me your wheel-turning technique.”