The Hall of Auspicious Harmony, a chamber reserved for the Emperor's most solemn councils, was suffocatingly quiet. The air, usually alive with the rustle of silk and the murmur of whispered courtly intrigue, was now heavy and still. A palpable paranoia, emanating from the Dragon Throne itself, had settled over the highest echelons of the Empire. Every minister present knew the reason for this emergency meeting of the Grand Council. They were not here to discuss policy or war. They were here to be judged. The Emperor was hunting for a traitor, and every man in the room was a potential suspect.
They gave their reports on the preparations for the Siberian war, their voices carefully measured and neutral, each word a testament to their unwavering loyalty and tireless industry. They spoke of grain requisitions, of steel production, of troop movements, but the subtext of every report was the same: It was not me, Your Majesty. I am your most humble and devoted servant.
Qin Shi Huang sat upon his throne, a figure of absolute, intimidating stillness. His eyes were half-closed, his expression placid, as if he were merely listening to the droning reports. In truth, he was engaged in something far more profound. He had subtly activated his Dragon's Spark, turning his perception inward, not with the overwhelming, invasive force he had used to terrorize Shen Ke, but with a delicate, wide-angle sensitivity. He was not trying to read their minds or pluck secrets from their thoughts. He was trying to sense the state of the men before him.
In his mind's eye, the chamber dissolved into a sea of faint, overlapping energies. Each man before him was a unique signature, a complex symphony of biophysical signals—the frantic or steady rhythm of a heart, the subtle pressure of blood in the veins, the faint, crackling static of neurological energy. He was a physician taking the pulse of his entire court at once, searching for the one instrument that was out of tune.
As the lesser ministers gave their reports, their signatures were simple to read. They radiated auras of palpable fear. It was a clean, honest terror, the natural reaction of a servant in the presence of an angry god. Their hearts beat like trapped birds, their nerves screamed with anxiety. It was a baseline of loyalty and dread against which he could measure the others.
Then, Admiral Meng Tian stepped forward. The Hero of the South, the new Chief Strategist, looked weary, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had been weeks ago. He gave a clipped, professional report on the progress of his strategic planning, his voice a steady baritone.
QSH focused his senses upon him intently. Meng Tian's signature was unlike the others. It was not a simple composition of fear. It was a turbulent, chaotic storm. The Emperor could feel the iron discipline of a soldier, a core of rigid control, warring against a powerful undercurrent of guilt and turmoil—a dissonance that had not been there before the southern campaign. And beneath it all, he sensed something else, something new: a deep, hidden current of powerful, coiled energy. It was a vibrant, potent force that Meng Tian himself seemed unaware of.
The Emperor could not interpret the specifics, but the overall impression was clear. Meng Tian was a loyal man, his core frequency aligned with the throne, but he was also a man deeply troubled, a man hiding a significant secret. The Emperor's suspicion did not abate; it simply changed its nature. Meng Tian was not a traitor, perhaps, but he was a man with a hidden, growing power and a guilty conscience—a volatile combination.
Then, Minister Yuan Shikai stepped forward to give his report. He was the picture of confidence, his voice booming with unshakeable loyalty as he detailed the remarkable successes of his industrial programs. He spoke of the new, experimental Armored Legion he was forming from his factory workers, promising the Emperor an army of unparalleled devotion, a force forged in the fires of industry and loyal only to the throne.
As he spoke, QSH focused his senses on him, expecting to find the signature of a proud, ambitious man. Instead, he found… nothing.
It was the most shocking discovery of all. Where the other ministers radiated a symphony of fear, and Meng Tian was a storm of inner conflict, Yuan Shikai was a perfect, placid void. His heartbeat was as slow and steady as a hibernating bear. The electrical signals of his nervous system were calm and orderly. His blood pressure was as even as a tranquil lake. There was no fear. No anxiety. No guilt. No conflict.
It was an utterly, profoundly unnatural calm.
QSH had felt the terror of his court, the turmoil of his general. Those were human reactions. This was not. Yuan Shikai's perfect stillness was not the signature of a loyal man at peace with himself. It was the signature of a man whose self-control was so absolute that it bordered on the inhuman. It was the calm of a man with no conscience, a man for whom lying and truth-telling required the exact same amount of physiological effort: none at all.
To the Emperor's supernatural sense, Meng Tian's chaotic, guilt-ridden energy felt honest in its turmoil. Yuan Shikai's perfect, hollow tranquility felt like the most profound and practiced deceit imaginable. It was the scent of a man who had mastered his own soul so completely that he could present a perfect, unreadable facade even to a god.
In that moment, Qin Shi Huang had his answer. He did not have proof. He did not have the specific details of the plot. But he had found the ghost. He had found the hollow man.
Meng Tian, the troubled hero, was a sword that might need sharpening, a tool that needed to be watched. But Yuan Shikai, the flawless sycophant, was the serpent.
He allowed the meeting to conclude, dismissing the council with a wave of his hand. The ministers, sensing a shift in the Emperor's mood, a slight lessening of the oppressive weight in the room, scurried away, relieved to have survived another audience.
As they filed out of the hall, Meng Tian glanced back, his expression a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. He saw Yuan Shikai, who had also turned to leave, stopped by the Emperor's deceptively casual voice.
"Minister Yuan," the Emperor said, his tone mild, almost friendly. "A word in private, if you please."
Yuan Shikai turned back toward the Dragon Throne, his face a perfect mask of loyal deference, bowing deeply. "Of course, Your Majesty. This servant is yours to command."
Meng Tian watched from the doorway for a moment, a dawning sense of dread creeping into his heart. He did not know what the Emperor had planned, but he recognized the quiet, patient tone of a predator that had finally cornered its prey. The witch hunt was over. The interrogation was about to begin.