The newly commissioned Strategy Room for the Northern Campaign was a monument to the Emperor's ambition. It was a vast, cold chamber within the Forbidden City, its walls stripped of silks and art, replaced by stark military maps and charts. In the center of the room, dominating the space, was a colossal, three-dimensional topographical map of Manchuria and Siberia. It was a masterpiece of cartography and sculpture, every mountain range, every river, every forest rendered in painstaking detail. It was also, to the trained eye of Admiral Meng Tian, a portrait of a logistical nightmare.
He stood before it, the newly appointed Chief Strategist, surrounded by a staff of brilliant, eager young officers drawn from the top ranks of the Imperial War College. They were the best and brightest of their generation, their minds sharp, their loyalty absolute, their experience non-existent. They looked at the map and saw a path to glory. Meng Tian looked at it and saw a graveyard for armies.
His internal monologue was a bleak litany of obstacles. The sheer scale of it, he thought, his gaze tracing the vast, empty green and white spaces beyond the Amur River. It is a war against geography itself. There are no roads. The terrain is impassable swampland in the summer and frozen, unforgiving tundra in the winter. And their entire empire in the east is supplied by this… His eyes followed the thin, fragile red line that snaked across the entire continent. The Trans-Siberian Railway. A single thread. Easy to cut, impossible to seize and hold.
He knew, with the certainty of a commander who understood the iron laws of supply and attrition, that this campaign was madness. We could lose a million men to the cold and to starvation before we ever see a major Russian army. This isn't a war; it's a death march.
The heavy doors to the strategy room swung open, and the Emperor entered. The young officers immediately snapped to attention, their faces alight with fervent devotion. Qin Shi Huang did not acknowledge them. His eyes were fixed on the map, on the future he intended to conquer. He did not come to participate in the planning. He came to dictate the outcome.
He swept his hand across the map, a gesture of divine authority. "The Russians are weak," he declared, his voice resonating with an unshakeable, terrifying certainty. "They are a decadent people, led by a fool. Their army is a hollow shell, their spirit broken by their previous defeats. Our Type 1 Imperial Dragons will be unstoppable. They will punch through the Russian lines like a fist through wet paper. We will seize the railway, cut their empire in two, and force their surrender. This will be a war of lightning speed and overwhelming force. I expect the city of Vladivostok to be flying the Dragon flag within three months."
He was dismissing the logistical realities as if they were minor inconveniences. He saw only the imagined weakness of his enemy and the undeniable strength of the new weapons he had forged. The young officers around the table nodded eagerly, their minds filled with visions of glorious, rapid victory.
Meng Tian felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He was the Chief Strategist. It was his duty, not just to the Emperor but to the men who would fight and die, to speak the hard truth, even if it was unwelcome. He stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully.
"Your Majesty, your vision is magnificent, and the power of the Imperial Dragons is undeniable," he began, his words chosen with the care of a man walking through a minefield. "However, the operational range of these new machines is limited by their immense fuel and ammunition requirements. The terrain north of the Amur River is a great challenge. Our supply lines will be stretched to the breaking point across hundreds of miles of hostile territory. For every Imperial Dragon that reaches the front, a hundred supply carts will be needed to follow it. A single broken axle, a single early thaw, could halt the entire advance."
He moved to the side of the map, using a long wooden pointer to indicate the coastline. "I would humbly propose an alternate strategy, Your Majesty. One that plays to our greatest strength."
The room was silent. To propose an alternative to the Emperor's stated vision was a profoundly dangerous act.
"I propose a limited, two-pronged approach," Meng Tian continued, his voice steady. "A primary naval invasion, using the full power of the Northern and Southern fleets, to seize the port of Vladivostok. We take their only deep-water port on the Pacific, securing a massive, unassailable supply hub for ourselves. We use the sea, which we command, to negate the tyranny of their land."
He moved the pointer west. "Simultaneously, a smaller, but still powerful, land force will cross the border here, at Manchuli. Its objective will not be a deep advance, but to engage and pin down their main armies. We force them to fight on our terms, near our own supply lines, while their attention is drawn away from the true prize on the coast. Once Vladivostok is ours, we can use it as a base to strike inland at will."
It was a sound plan. A careful plan. A sensible plan, designed to maximize their strengths and minimize their risks.
Qin Shi Huang listened, his expression hardening. His eyes narrowed. He saw Meng Tian's caution not as strategic prudence, but as a lack of faith. A lack of vision. A failure to grasp the new reality of overwhelming power that he, the Emperor, had created.
"You think like an Admiral, Meng Tian," the Emperor said, his voice laced with a cold disappointment. "You see only coastlines and harbors. I see a continent awaiting conquest."
He strode to the map and slammed his finger down in the heart of Siberia, on the city of Chita, a crucial junction of the railway. "The railway is the target. Not a port. The heart of their power in the east. A decisive land victory is the only true victory. We will not nibble at the edges of their empire; we will rip out its heart and feast upon it."
He turned to face his general, his eyes blazing with imperial fervor. "Your plan is careful. It is timid. It is the plan of a man who fears risk. I did not bring you back to the capital to counsel caution. I brought you here to orchestrate a triumph."
The Emperor's word was final. The debate was over before it had truly begun. "You will scrap this naval plan," QSH commanded. "You will draft a new plan for a full-scale land invasion with the singular objective of seizing the railway hub at Chita. Your task is not to question the objective. Your task is to solve the logistical problems. You are my most brilliant commander. Make it happen."
With that, Qin Shi Huang swept out of the room, his black robes flowing behind him like the wings of a dark angel. He left Meng Tian standing in a profound, ringing silence, surrounded by his young, eager staff and an impossible order. He was now solely responsible for planning a campaign he believed was fundamentally, suicidally flawed. A campaign that would cost hundreds of thousands of lives, all to satisfy the arrogant, grandiose vision of an Emperor who saw war not as a matter of logistics and blood, but as an extension of his own divine will.
He looked at the vast, empty spaces on the map. He bore the full weight of command. And for the first time in his life, it felt less like an honor and more like a curse.