The Emperor's directive arrived on a sheet of the finest silk paper, its calligraphy a work of art, its message a double-edged sword. It granted Admiral Meng Tian the authority to hand-pick a single company of men for an "experimental deep-strike reconnaissance mission." The objective was explicitly stated: the Klyuchi Pass Bridge. The Emperor had approved the first, crucial part of his heretical plan.
Major Han, standing beside him in the strategy room, read the directive, and his face lit up with ecstatic triumph. "He agreed, sir! He saw the brilliance of it! This is our chance!"
Meng Tian felt a colder, more sobering reaction. He saw the directive not as an endorsement, but as a leash, loosened just enough to see if he would hang himself with it. This was a test. His life, his honor, and the lives of the men he was about to choose depended on its success.
He would not select his team from the fresh-faced, doctrine-spouting officers of the Beijing military colleges. For a mission like this, born of intuition and shadow, he needed warriors, not students. He traveled to a remote, windswept training base near the Great Wall, a place where his own former marine units—the veterans of the bloody landings in Japan and the chaotic jungle warfare of Sumatra—were stationed. These were the men he had bled with.
He gathered the hundred best soldiers in the base's dusty parade ground. They were a hard-bitten assembly of men, their faces tanned by the southern sun, their eyes holding the quiet confidence of those who have faced death and survived. They stood at sharp attention as he approached, a ripple of respect and curiosity passing through their ranks.
Meng Tian stood before them, his presence radiating a calm, absolute authority. "Soldiers," he began, his voice carrying easily across the silence. "I have been given a new command by the Emperor. I am to select a small, elite force for a mission of utmost danger and vital importance to the security of the Empire. The work will be difficult. The risks will be extreme. Success is not guaranteed, but your courage will be. I am asking for volunteers."
Every man stood a little taller. Not one of them flinched.
As he looked out at the sea of determined faces, Meng Tian did something no other general in the Qing army could do. He subtly activated his Battle Sense. He was not looking for a vision of the future. He was using his power in a new way, as an instrument of profound insight into the men before him. He was not just looking at their uniforms and their service records; he was sensing their inner state, their qi.
The parade ground transformed in his mind's eye into a field of faint, glowing energies. He could feel the eager, fiery ambition of the younger sergeants, burning brightly. He could sense the steady, disciplined hum of the career soldiers, the men who were the army's backbone. He was searching for a specific combination of signatures, a harmony of different energies: raw courage, deep wells of resilience, the spark of ingenuity, and, above all, a core of unshakeable loyalty. His power allowed him to see past the facade of military discipline and into the very souls of the warriors.
His gaze swept across the ranks. He identified his officers, men whose energy signatures showed a balance of discipline and the ability to think independently. He found his scouts, men whose auras were quiet, patient, and keenly aware. He located his demolition experts, men whose energy felt focused, precise, and dangerously calm. He was assembling his team, piece by piece, building a perfect instrument for the task ahead.
But then, his senses snagged on one man. An anomaly.
He was an older sergeant standing in the back rank, a man named Lin. His posture was not ramrod straight like the others; it was slightly slouched, almost casual. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his expression one of a deep, abiding cynicism. While the others radiated eagerness or disciplined focus, Sergeant Lin's energy signature was a stark contrast. It was not a bright flame. It was a dense, quiet, incredibly solid core of pure, stubborn survivability. It was the energy of a man who had seen everything the world had to throw at him and was thoroughly unimpressed. It was the energy of a man who would simply, stubbornly refuse to die.
But there was something else. A flicker within that solid core. A shadow. A secret. Meng Tian's power told him there was more to this man than met the eye.
He finished his selection, calling out the names of a dozen men. They stepped forward, their faces proud. Sergeant Lin was among them. After dismissing the others, Meng Tian asked the chosen few to remain. He then approached Sergeant Lin directly, singling him out. The other chosen men watched with curiosity.
"Sergeant," Meng Tian said, his voice quiet, for the man's ears only. "Of all the men here, you seem the least eager to volunteer. Your expression is that of a man attending a funeral, not a call to glory. Why are you here?"
The old sergeant was not intimidated. He looked his commander directly in the eye, his gaze level and unafraid. "I am here because half of the young fools you just picked served under me in Sumatra, General. And they are brave and they are loyal, but they believe in glory. Someone has to be there to make sure they don't die for it stupidly. Someone has to be there to drag their bodies back home if they do."
The blunt, cynical honesty resonated with Meng Tian's own current state of mind. He felt an immediate kinship with this man who saw past the gleaming banners to the bloody reality beneath. He decided to push further, guided by the strange, shadowy flicker he had sensed in the man's core.
"You have served in the north before," Meng Tian stated. It was not a question. It was a guess, a shot in the dark, but a shot aimed by the unerring finger of his supernatural intuition. "On the Russian border."
Sergeant Lin's cynical mask shattered. His eyes widened in genuine shock. He looked around to ensure no one else could hear. "Yes, General," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Years ago. A border skirmish that was never officially reported. We were captured." He looked down at his hands. "I was one of two men who escaped a Russian prison camp north of the Amur. I have never spoken of it. It is not in my record. I feared it would be seen as a stain, a failure."
Meng Tian understood. In the rigid honor culture of the army, being captured was a disgrace, no matter the circumstances. This man had been carrying this secret, this shadow, for years.
Meng Tian placed a heavy hand on the old sergeant's shoulder. "Your experience in that terrain, your knowledge of how to survive their winters and their prisons, is more valuable than ten legions of War College graduates, Sergeant. Your 'failure' is now the Empire's greatest asset for this mission."
He looked Lin in the eye, man to man. "You will not just be a soldier on this mission. You will be my personal advisor on all matters of northern survival. You will be the man who keeps the others alive. Your official duty is to be this company's cynic, its voice of caution. Your job is to tell me when my plans are foolish."
Sergeant Lin, the jaded, cynical veteran, stared at his commander, his mouth slightly agape. For the first time in years, a different light entered his eyes. He saw not just a general, but a leader who saw his true worth, who saw his shame as a strength. He drew himself up to his full height, his posture no longer slouched, and executed the sharpest, most heartfelt salute of his long career.
Meng Tian had used his power not for battle, but for understanding. In doing so, he had not just chosen a soldier; he had found the key to his mission's survival. He had forged the core of a team that would now follow him into hell and back, not just out of duty, but out of a profound and absolute personal loyalty. He now had his chosen instruments for his secret war.