The Hall of Supreme Harmony was a cavern of silent, suffocating grandeur. Sunlight, thick with motes of ancient dust, streamed down from the high clerestory windows, glinting off the polished floor and the gilded dragons that coiled around the immense lacquer pillars. The air was heavy with the scent of old cedar and the cold, mineral smell of power.
Admiral Meng Tian walked the long, silent approach to the Dragon Throne. He moved with the steady, measured gait of a man accustomed to the rolling deck of a warship, his pristine white dress uniform a stark slash of light against the deep reds and golds of the court. His medals, testament to a victory that had redrawn the maps of the world, gleamed on his chest. As he passed, the assembled high ministers of the court—men in fine silks, their faces impassive masks of courtly intrigue—parted before him like water before the prow of a battleship.
He was the Hero of the Sunda Strait, the conqueror of the Dutch East Indies, the most famous military commander in the Empire, second in glory only to the Emperor himself. He could feel their gazes on him, a complex mixture of awe, respect, and the stinging nettles of jealousy. They saw a hero.
Meng Tian felt like an impostor. The brilliant white of his uniform felt like a lie, a shroud attempting to cover the dark, grubby work he had been forced to do in Batavia. The medals felt like a mockery, honors won in a clean war of ships and cannons, now tarnished by the memory of a dirty back-room interrogation.
He reached the foot of the dais upon which the Dragon Throne sat. He stopped, his gaze fixed on the floor, and performed the full, formal kowtow, his forehead touching the cold, smooth stones in a gesture of absolute submission. The ritual was ancient, profound, a physical manifestation of the Emperor's supreme authority. When the chamberlain's signal came, he rose to his feet and finally lifted his head to meet his Emperor's gaze.
Qin Shi Huang sat upon the throne, a figure of serene and terrible stillness. He was not smiling. His eyes were not warm with the pride a master feels for a favored servant. They were the cold, analytical, and utterly dispassionate eyes of a hawk studying its prey from a great height. They were eyes that sought not to congratulate, but to dissect. The empty chair that had haunted Meng Tian's thoughts, the symbol of a formal inquiry, was gone. This was something else. This was not a meeting. It was a judgment.
"Admiral Meng Tian," the Emperor's voice resonated through the silent hall, each word imbued with power. He began by recounting Meng Tian's victories, a public affirmation of his success for the benefit of the watching court. He spoke of the brilliant naval strategy, the swift conquest, the expansion of the Empire's glory. But the praise was a gilded cage, its bars made of subtle, probing questions.
"The Hero of our Southern expansion," QSH declared, a thin smile gracing his lips. "You have pacified a new and vital province with a speed and efficiency that has… impressed the court. Your swift handling of the recent British-backed sabotage was particularly noteworthy. Your official report stated the perpetrators were apprehended. Tell us, Admiral, for the edification of the court, what was their fate?"
The question was a perfectly aimed spear. Meng Tian felt the eyes of every minister fix upon him. He knew he was being tested. The truth—that he had extra-judicially tortured and murdered a single suspect based on intelligence from a private network—was unspeakable. It would confirm him as a rogue agent, a man who acted outside the Emperor's law.
He met the Emperor's gaze, his own face a mask of military calm. "They resisted arrest, Your Majesty," he lied. The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but his voice was perfectly steady. "They were Dutch loyalists, armed and dangerous. They were killed in the ensuing struggle. A regrettable but necessary outcome to ensure the swift restoration of order."
He hated the ease with which the lie came to his lips. A month ago, he would have choked on such a dishonorable falsehood. Now, it was just another tool, another weapon in a new kind of war.
Qin Shi Huang accepted the answer with a slight, slow nod, though his penetrating gaze never left Meng Tian's face. "A decisive and efficient solution. As expected." He paused, letting the silence stretch, before pivoting to a new line of attack. "And the Nanyang merchants? Your reports speak of their unwavering loyalty and their confidence in the security your fleet provides. And yet, our Spymaster hears whispers from the south. Whispers of economic disruption, of vital shipping contracts being canceled. It is a strange way for loyal subjects to behave, is it not?"
It was another test, this one of his control over the province. Another moment where the clean, official report clashed with the messy, chaotic reality.
"Whispers are the weapons of our enemies, Your Majesty," Meng Tian countered smoothly, his mind racing. "The British sow dissent where none exists, hoping to achieve with rumors what they could not with warships. The Nanyang merchants' loyalty is, and has always been, to the stability and profit that the Great Qing provides. Once the sabotage threat was so decisively eliminated, their confidence was immediately restored. Minor, temporary disruptions are to be expected in the consolidation of any new territory."
He was defending a fragile reality, a carefully constructed narrative of success built on a foundation of half-truths and bloody secrets. He felt like a man trying to shore up a crumbling dam with his bare hands.
Qin Shi Huang listened, his expression unchanging. He seemed to accept the explanation, but Meng Tian could not shake the feeling that the Emperor was seeing straight through him, that he was simply allowing the lies to be told, cataloging each one for future reference.
Finally, the Emperor rose from his throne, signaling the conclusion of the audience. "Your victories in the south, however they were achieved, have earned you a greater responsibility," he announced, his voice booming with official pronouncement. "The pacification of a minor colonial holding is complete. Now, a true war awaits. A war against a great power."
He pointed a long finger toward the vast map on the wall, toward the endless expanse of the Russian territory. "You are hereby appointed Chief Strategist for the Northern Campaign. You will oversee all planning for our coming war against the Russian menace. It is a vital role, one that requires our most brilliant military mind."
The court murmured in awe. It was a promotion of staggering significance.
"You will, of course, work from the capital," the Emperor added, his voice dropping slightly, though every minister heard the underlying meaning. "Directly at my side. Your insights will be invaluable."
The words were an honor. The reality was a leash.
The scene ended with Meng Tian, the celebrated hero, bowing deeply once more. "This servant accepts the Emperor's wisdom and this great honor. I will serve the throne until my death."
He kept his head bowed to hide the sudden, chilling realization that had washed over him. He had not been promoted. He had been imprisoned. He had been recalled from his command, from his loyal fleet, from the network he had built, and placed in a gilded cage here in the heart of the capital. A cage where his every move, his every word, his every thought, would be under the direct, unblinking, and deeply suspicious eye of his Emperor. His honor was a sham, his victories were tainted, and his loyalty was now officially in question.