The "diagnosis" of deep nervous exhaustion became Ying Zheng's new, more comfortable cage. The court, led by a relieved Cixi, now treated him with an cloying, suffocating care. His lessons were shortened. His public appearances were curtailed. He was encouraged to rest, to engage in quiet, non-strenuous activities, and most importantly, he was often left alone for long periods in his chambers to "recover his vital energy."
Cixi, believing she finally had the true measure of the boy, had relaxed her most intense surveillance. The web of spies was still there, of course, but the urgent, probing pressure had eased. She thought she had her answer: the boy was a fragile, mentally overwrought vessel, prone to strange outbursts when stressed. The solution was to reduce his stress. This miscalculation, born of her desire for a simple, controllable explanation, gave Ying Zheng the opening he desperately needed.
The winter nights in the Forbidden City were long and cold. The ancient stone walls of the palace seemed to leech the warmth from the air, and a biting wind often howled through the eaves. The nightly ritual of preparing the Emperor's chambers for the cold was a mundane but essential task. Eunuchs would bring in heavy braziers filled with glowing, high-quality, smokeless charcoal to radiate a steady, pleasant warmth throughout the night.
On this particular night, Ying Zheng lay in his bed, feigning a light, restful sleep. He watched through half-lidded eyes as a young, unremarkable eunuch entered the room. The boy was new to this duty, a low-level servant whose face was easily forgettable. He moved with a practiced clumsiness, carrying a large wicker basket filled with smooth, black pieces of charcoal. This was the moment.
The plan was simple, devised by Ying Zheng and relayed through his one pliable eunuch, Little An, who had in turn passed the instructions to the treasury clerk, Liang Wen. It was a method of communication designed around plausible deniability, a dead drop hidden within the most mundane of daily routines.
The young eunuch knelt by the main bronze brazier in the center of the room. He began to carefully stack the black charcoal pieces onto the glowing embers of the previous batch, his movements slow and methodical. As he reached for another piece from his basket, his hand seemed to slip. One piece of charcoal, identical to all the others, tumbled from his grasp. It rolled silently across the thick wool rug and came to a stop in the deep shadow beneath a large, ornate cabinet against the far wall.
The eunuch, seemingly not noticing his small mistake in the dim light of the chamber, finished his task. He gathered his empty basket, bowed silently to the sleeping form of the Emperor, and departed, leaving behind only the soft, crackling sound of the warming fire.
The drop had been made.
Ying Zheng waited. He forced himself to lie still for what felt like an eternity, regulating his breathing, listening to the sounds of the palace settling into its deep-night silence. He heard the distant call of the watchman, the faint shuffle of the guards in the corridor outside his door. Finally, when he was certain he was truly alone, he slipped out of his massive bed. His bare feet made no sound on the cold floor.
He moved quickly to the cabinet and knelt down, his eyes piercing the deep shadows. He saw it immediately. The single piece of charcoal. He reached under the heavy furniture and his fingers closed around it. It felt… wrong. It was far too light.
He carried it back towards the faint moonlight filtering through his window. He examined it closely. To a casual glance, it was perfect. Black, dense, with the faint sheen of high-quality, slow-burning fuel. But as he turned it over in his hands, he saw the masterful deception. The piece had been expertly hollowed out from one end, the cavity sealed with a clever plug made from a paste of charcoal dust and wax. The seal was nearly invisible.
His heart—a machine he could now command to beat at any rhythm he desired—began to pound with a genuine, uncontrolled anticipation. He used his thumbnail to carefully pry at the seal. It gave way with a soft crack, revealing the hollow interior. Tucked inside was a tiny, tightly rolled cylinder of the thinnest rice paper, no thicker than an acupuncture needle.
With fingers that trembled ever so slightly, he extracted the message. He carefully unrolled the delicate scroll. In the pale, silvery light from the window, he could make out a column of tiny, precise, impeccably written characters. It was not a long, rambling report. It was something far better. It was a single, devastating piece of intelligence, a dagger of pure fact.
He held it closer, his ancient eyes devouring the words written by his new, invisible agent.
"Item: Ten Thousand South Sea Pearls, Grade One, Flawless. Cost: Fifty Thousand Taels of Silver. Paid from the accounts of the Imperial Household Department, sub-ledger 3B. Source of funds: Emergency discretionary transfer from the Northern Armies Winter Drill and Supply Budget. Stated reason for transfer: 'Urgent Palace Matter.' Recipient of pearls: The Imperial Workshop, for the creation of a new ceremonial phoenix shawl for the Empress Dowager's coming birthday celebration."
Ying Zheng stared at the tiny piece of paper, the words burning themselves into his mind. This was it. This was the weapon he had been searching for. It was not a rumor from a gossiping eunuch or a general complaint from a disgruntled official. This was a fact. A number. A budget line. A direct, traceable link between the neglect of the empire's military readiness and the personal, extravagant vanity of the woman who ruled it. It was concrete, undeniable, and utterly damning.
He closed his fist around the tiny scroll, the fragile paper crinkling within his grasp. For the first time since awakening in this diluted, pathetic era, he felt a sliver of genuine hope. It was a cold, sharp, and dangerous feeling. His network was no longer a plan whispered in secret. It was a reality. He had an agent. He had a source. He had an asset inside the enemy's fortress.
He walked over to the brazier. The charcoal within was now glowing a deep, satisfying red. The room was filled with a pleasant, dry warmth. He opened his hand and held the tiny piece of paper over the intense heat. He didn't need to use his power. There was a certain satisfaction in using a mundane, simple flame for this task.
The rice paper curled instantly, the black ink turning brown. It blackened at the edges, then, with a silent flash, it dissolved into a wisp of white smoke that rose and vanished into the shadows of the high ceiling.
The evidence was gone. But the information was now seared into his memory, a permanent part of his growing arsenal.
He had his first true pawn on the board. The game had finally, truly begun.