The imperial gardens in winter had a quiet, desolate beauty. The lotus pond was a sheet of milky, opaque ice, trapping the dead leaves of summer in a state of suspended animation. The intricate rockeries were dusted with a fine layer of frost, making them look like the bones of ancient beasts. It was here, in this frozen landscape, that Ying Zheng planned to plant a seed of sedition.
A few weeks had passed since he had established his secret line of communication with Liang Wen. The charcoal messenger system had proven effective, yielding several small but crucial pieces of intelligence. The most potent of these was the damning information about the pearl shawl, a perfect weapon waiting to be wielded. But a weapon is useless without a skilled hand to wield it. Ying Zheng was a four-year-old boy. He could not confront Cixi himself. He needed a proxy, a champion. His choice was Prince Gong.
The Prince was a man of proven competence, a veteran of court politics, and most importantly, he was deeply and genuinely concerned about the decline of the Qing military. He was the perfect target. All Ying Zheng had to do was deliver the message in a way that was both undeniable and completely untraceable back to himself.
The encounter could not be left to chance. It had to be a carefully orchestrated ambush disguised as a coincidence. Another charcoal message from Liang Wen had informed him of the Prince's daily routine: a solitary walk through the western gardens each afternoon to clear his head. And so, Ying Zheng began his own campaign of "restorative walks."
He was, as always, accompanied by his tutor, Weng Tonghe. The scholar had become a man perpetually on edge, his nerves frayed by the Emperor's unpredictable behavior. He was constantly vigilant, terrified that the boy might have another "outburst" of impossible knowledge. This fear made him an excellent, if unwitting, part of Ying Zheng's camouflage.
"Let's look at the fish!" Ying Zheng announced with a burst of childish enthusiasm, pointing towards the frozen lotus pond. He ran ahead, his small, silk-booted feet crunching on the frosted gravel path, forcing his entourage to follow. He guided them on a path that would inevitably intersect with Prince Gong's.
As expected, they soon saw the Prince approaching, a tall, imposing figure in a dark, fur-lined coat. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed in deep thought. When he saw the imperial party, he stopped and his face settled into a mask of formal neutrality. Protocol demanded he greet the Emperor.
He performed a deep, respectful bow. "Your Majesty. It is good to see you enjoying the winter air. The physicians' advice seems to be agreeing with you. I trust your health is improving."
His tone was correct, respectful, but distant. He was clearly aware of the boy's supposed "fragile" state and had no desire to engage in any conversation that might be deemed stressful. He intended to offer his pleasantries and move on.
Ying Zheng gave a shy, childish nod in response. He then turned to his tutor, his eyes wide and innocent. "Grand Tutor," he said, his voice clear and bright in the cold air. "Tell the Prince the story you told me this morning. The one about the general and the pearls."
Weng Tonghe froze. A look of pure, unadulterated panic flashed across his face. His mouth opened and closed silently. He had told the boy no such story. His lessons were now strictly confined to the most basic, non-controversial calligraphy. This was another one of the boy's terrifying improvisations, and he was trapped.
Ying Zheng tugged on the sleeve of his tutor's robe, affecting a perfect imitation of childish petulance. "The story! The one about the great General Yue Fei! You told me he was a hero of the Song Dynasty!" he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "You said he went to the emperor and told him he couldn't afford to buy new iron armor for his soldiers to fight the Jurchen invaders. And then the general pointed to the palace ladies and said they were all wearing new pearls. You said he told the emperor that a single one of those pearls could feed a soldier for a month!"
It was a masterful fabrication. He had woven together a famous historical hero, a plausible scenario, and a sharp, moral point. The story was simple enough for a child to repeat, yet its political implications were as sharp as a dagger. It was aimed directly at Prince Gong's deepest frustrations.
Weng Tonghe was trapped in a vortex of fear. He could not deny the story without calling the Emperor a liar in front of Prince Gong. He could not confirm the story because it was a complete falsehood. He stammered, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow despite the freezing air.
"Ah… yes, Your Majesty," he managed, his voice a strangled whisper. "A… a lesson on fiscal responsibility. From the classics. A classic tale of virtue."
Prince Gong's expression had changed dramatically. He was no longer looking at them with polite distance. His sharp, intelligent eyes darted from the panicked face of the tutor to the innocent face of the boy. The story, even if it was just a child's mangled fable, had struck him like a physical blow. He, Prince Gong, was the one who had been battling the Board of Revenue for weeks, begging for more funds for the Northern Armies' winter drills and supplies. The specific mention of pearls and military neglect was too precise, too targeted to be a mere coincidence.
He looked at the boy again. The child Emperor was staring at him with large, dark, unblinking eyes. And for a moment, the Prince felt that same, unnerving sensation that Cixi had experienced: that there was no childishness in that gaze. He felt as though he was being watched, assessed, and delivered a message with a purpose he could not yet fathom.
A seed of deep suspicion was planted in Prince Gong's mind. But his suspicion was not directed at the supernatural. He was a pragmatist. He did not think the boy was divine. He thought the boy was being used. Is someone in the court using the Emperor as a mouthpiece to send me a message? A rival faction? A disgruntled minister too afraid to speak out himself?
Ying Zheng had succeeded beyond his expectations. He had delivered the core of his intelligence—pearls over soldiers—into the mind of the one man in the empire powerful enough and motivated enough to investigate it. And he had done it in a way that was completely deniable, hidden behind the triple shield of a child's innocence, a fabricated story, and a terrified tutor.
He gave Prince Gong a small, shy smile, then turned and tugged on Weng Tonghe's sleeve again. "I am cold now. I want to go back."
As his party moved away, leaving the Prince standing alone by the frozen pond, Ying Zheng did not look back. He had set his trap. Now, all he had to do was wait for the tiger to take the bait.