The Northern Campaign Strategy Room was a place of cold, imposing silence. The colossal, three-dimensional map of Siberia was a silent testament to the Emperor's will, a declaration in plaster and paint that this frozen wasteland would be conquered. Admiral Meng Tian stood before it, a sheaf of documents in his hand, feeling the oppressive weight of the task he had been given.
For weeks, he and his young staff had worked day and night, not sleeping, fueled by endless pots of bitter green tea. They had wrestled with the tyranny of geography, translating the Emperor's grand, sweeping vision into the brutal, unforgiving mathematics of war. Now, their work was done.
"Your Majesty," Meng Tian began, his voice calm and formal as he addressed the Emperor, who sat on a raised chair at the head of the room, observing the proceedings like a hawk. "As commanded, we have completed the preliminary strategic draft for the invasion of the Russian territories. Project Northern Fury."
He began to present the plan. It was, on its surface, a masterpiece of logistical planning, a testament to his own genius and the tireless work of his officers. He detailed the immense number of men required—a force of over half a million soldiers. He outlined the staggering quantity of supplies: millions of tons of food, ammunition, winter clothing, and fuel. He described the complex, interlocking timetables for moving the new Type 1 Imperial Dragons by rail to the Manchurian border, and the vast herds of horses and legions of laborers that would be needed to drag the supplies behind them.
But as he spoke, he made no effort to soften the brutal realities that the numbers revealed. He was fulfilling his order, but he was using the plan itself as a silent, powerful protest.
"Casualty projections," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "must account for the severity of the climate. Our medical corps estimates that, even with the best winter equipment, we must be prepared for losses of up to thirty percent of our forces due to frostbite, disease, and malnutrition during the first winter alone. This is before factoring in combat engagements."
A low murmur rippled through the young officers. A loss of over one hundred and fifty thousand men to the weather alone. It was a horrifying figure. Meng Tian was painting a picture not of a glorious, lightning-fast conquest, but of a slow, grinding, and monstrously costly war of attrition against nature itself. He was giving the Emperor the plan he asked for, but he was also forcing him to stare into the abyss of its true cost.
He finished his presentation and stood in silence, awaiting the Emperor's judgment.
Before Qin Shi Huang could speak, another figure stepped forward. It was Yuan Shikai, the Minister of Industry, who had been granted permission to attend the briefing as the man responsible for arming this great venture. He held a thin, leather-bound report of his own.
"Your Majesty," Yuan began, his voice a deep, confident rumble that filled the room. "The Chief Strategist's plan is, as expected, comprehensive and brilliant in its logistical detail. A testament to his skill." The praise was a thin layer of sugar over the poison to come. "But as the man responsible for forging the weapons for this war, I must offer a supplement. A proposal to address the primary weakness in the Admiral's otherwise flawless plan: the soldiers themselves."
Meng Tian's back stiffened. He turned slowly to face his rival.
"The Admiral's plan," Yuan continued, addressing the Emperor but aiming his words at Meng Tian, "relies on traditional soldiers, men drawn from the infantry and the cavalry. Men who require years of extensive training to instill discipline. Men who possess a… fragile morale, as the casualty projections so starkly illustrate. My proposal is to form new, dedicated 'Armored Legions.' The crews for the Imperial Dragons should not be drawn from the regular army. They should be recruited directly from my factories."
He warmed to his theme, his voice filled with a revolutionary's fervor. "We need technicians, not warriors. Mechanics, engineers, men who already understand the machines, who live and breathe the logic of the engine and the gear. Their loyalty will not be to some abstract code of honor, but to the steel beast that surrounds them. They are already cogs in a great industrial engine, Your Majesty. They are not heroes from a storybook. They are perfect for this."
This was a direct, audacious challenge to Meng Tian's authority, to his entire philosophy of war.
"Minister," Meng Tian interjected, his voice dangerously cold, "a soldier is not a cog in a machine. Courage, initiative under fire, the loyalty one man has for another in the chaos of battle—these are the qualities that win wars, not simply an understanding of mechanics. Your factory workers are not trained for the shock of combat. They have not been conditioned to kill or to face death. They will break at the first sign of real resistance."
Yuan Shikai laughed, a short, barking sound of contempt. "Courage is an unreliable and unquantifiable resource, Admiral. The inside of an Imperial Dragon is not a battlefield; it is a workshop. The only courage required is the will to pull a lever when one is ordered to pull it. Your 'honorable warriors' and their 'initiative' are anachronisms. They are a liability. What if a man's 'initiative' tells him to retreat when the plan requires him to advance? The future of warfare is the machine, and the man must become a part of that machine, subservient to its needs. My men are already cogs. They require no conditioning. They are already perfect."
The two men stood in the center of the room, locked in a battle of wills. It was a clash of two opposing worlds: Meng Tian's belief in the honorable, thinking soldier versus Yuan's vision of a dehumanized, ruthlessly efficient human component.
Qin Shi Huang, on his throne, listened to both arguments, his face a mask of cold contemplation. Meng Tian offered the traditional path—honorable, proven, but, as his own report showed, immensely costly in human life. Yuan offered a revolutionary path—dehumanizing, untested, but potentially far more efficient and, most importantly, more controllable.
The Emperor's Legalist instincts were intrigued. An army of technicians, with no ingrained loyalties to military tradition, no allegiance to charismatic generals like Meng Tian, would be an army loyal only to the state. An army loyal only to him. It was a seductive concept.
He finally raised a hand, and the two men fell silent. "The core of the invasion force will remain as planned, Admiral," he said, his voice final. "Your projections are grim, but necessary. We will pay the price." He then turned his gaze to Yuan Shikai. "However, the Minister's proposal has merit. An army of specialists, bound to their machines… it is an interesting concept. We will conduct an experiment."
The words struck Meng Tian like a physical blow.
"The plan calls for three primary armored columns," the Emperor stated. "Admiral Meng, you will form the first and second columns from your traditional army recruits. Minister Yuan," he said, turning his full attention to the industrialist, "you will be granted imperial authority to form the third, experimental armored legion. Recruit the men directly from your factories. Train them as you see fit. We will see which force performs better under the harsh conditions of the north. We will let results be the judge."
It was a stunning decision, a public and deliberate undermining of his newly appointed Chief Strategist. Yuan Shikai had won. He bowed deeply, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He had just been given official authority to create his own private army, a force built on his principles, trained by his men, and loyal to him, all under the guise of an imperial experiment.
Meng Tian stood frozen, the neatly bound pages of his strategic plan suddenly feeling worthless in his hand. He was losing control not just of the war's grand strategy, but of the very soul and composition of the army he was supposed to lead. The schism between him and Yuan Shikai was no longer a private rivalry. The Emperor had just carved it into the official order of battle.