Future-Ready Since 221 BCE: The Qin Dynasty Adviser
In the year 221 BCE, somewhere between the baked earth of the Wei Valley and the shadowed halls of Xianyang Palace, a man in stiff hemp robes, ink-stained fingers, and a perpetually furrowed brow can be seen hastily scanning rows of bamboo scrolls. He is not a general, scholar, or astrologer. He is the Emperor’s financial advisor. Appointed by decree, burdened by duty, and already contemplating how best to avoid execution.
To be the financial advisor to the First Emperor of a unified China is not a job for the careful, the cautious, or the faint of heart. For those unfamiliar with the court of Qin, imagine your most demanding client. Now give him absolute power, limitless ambition, and a penchant for silencing criticism with the help of armed guards. The Emperor has unified the warring states, burned the philosophical texts of dissenters, and declared himself the divine centre of the cosmos. This is a ruler who demands rivers diverted, mountains levelled, and palaces so vast they need their own postal districts.
And, of course, a wall. A very long wall. The Great Wall of China.
The Wall is one of the most ambitious defensive projects in human history. But at this point, it is simply a terrifying logistical nightmare: thousands of miles of linked fortifications, built rapidly across inhospitable terrain, by conscripted labourers with minimal tools and maximum pressure. Materials are regional—rammed earth in the west, stone in the east, and whatever else can be carried by hand or the backs of oxen.
The financial advisor’s task is to make this happen.
There is no formal budget meeting. The Emperor does not ask what the Wall will cost. He declares it. The advisor is expected to locate resources and deliver results. Provinces are instructed to increase their tributes. Any shortfall is interpreted not as a logistical issue, but as disloyalty. Labour is “acquired” through military drafts, convict sentences, and compulsory peasant conscription. Feeding these workers becomes a challenge in itself, especially when supply lines run hundreds of miles across rough terrain. No cost is too high for the Wall, but no overspend is forgiven either.
Meanwhile, a parallel project unfolds underground.
In the dusty plains near Xi’an, thousands of labourers, sculptors, and engineers are working in silence to create an army of clay. The Terracotta Army, as it will one day be known, is designed to protect the Emperor in the afterlife. From a financial perspective, it is what might today be termed a legacy expense: it produces no revenue, requires high labour input and specialist craftsmanship, and consumes decades of hidden work. But it is politically invaluable. It immortalises the Emperor’s might, reinforces ideology, and symbolises control. Even in death.
The Emperor’s vision is sweeping. The Great Wall must be raised with speed and scale. Beneath the capital, the underground tomb complex expands daily. Thousands of life-sized soldiers are crafted, each with unique features and weapons, destined never to see daylight. The cost? Obscene. The deadline? Non-negotiable.
Like Li Si, the Chancellor of Qin and architect of its administrative machinery, the financial advisor must master the art of appearing essential while never attracting too much attention. Li Si once helped forge the empire. Later, he was executed for failing to read its shifting winds. Still, there are strategies for survival.
A wise advisor praises the speed of construction, frames shortages as signs of overwhelming demand, and attributes all cost-savings to the Emperor’s divine foresight. He avoids attachment to any one project and spreads risk by aligning himself with imperial ideology, not individual officials. He may even contribute to the Emperor’s favourite narrative: that the Wall is not merely a structure, but a symbol of unity; that the Terracotta Army is not just a tomb guard, but an eternal extension of state order. These are not mere expenses—they are political investments in immortality.
There are no retirement plans in Qin China. No pension awaits at the end of service. The best one can hope for is continued appointment and a burial that is respectful, yet not premature. The worst is to be buried with the project.
And yet, some do survive. Quiet, capable men who understand that in a court ruled by a visionary with a short temper and a long memory, the most important skill isn’t accounting—it’s anticipation. Because in an empire where emperors build armies underground and walls across deserts, financial advice isn’t about balance. It’s about boldness—and knowing when to disappear.
The smartest advisors, then as now, aren’t just prepared for what’s next.
They are, without exception, always future ready.
