The Northern Campaign Strategy Room had become Meng Tian's world. The initial thrill of his successful raid and the subsequent approval from the Emperor had long since faded, replaced by the grim, grinding reality of his new position. He was a hero in a gilded cage, a celebrated strategist whose true strategy had to remain a deeply buried secret.
His days were a constant, exhausting performance. He and his staff, led by the now fanatically loyal Major Han, would spend their hours working on the "official" battle plan—the Emperor's suicidal frontal assault. They generated mountains of paperwork, requisitions, and troop movement schedules, all designed to create a convincing illusion of progress.
And then there was the new addition to his staff. The Emperor, in his infinite and suspicious wisdom, had assigned a Political Commissar to Meng Tian's command. The man, a high-ranking officer named Colonel Jiao, had been drawn from the Emperor's own household guard. His official duty was to "ensure the army's morale and political loyalty to the throne." His real duty, as Meng Tian had understood from the moment the man had walked into the room, was to be the Emperor's personal spy.
Colonel Jiao was a man carved from ice. He was impeccably polite, his every word a tribute to the Chief Strategist's genius, but his eyes were cold, watchful, and missed nothing. He sat in on every meeting, a silent, judging presence, his questions always framed as a humble desire to "learn from the master's brilliance."
Today, he was probing the story of Operation White Fox again.
"A flawless victory, Chief Strategist," the Commissar said, his voice a smooth, cultured monotone. He was reviewing the falsified after-action report. "Truly remarkable. To have achieved such a devastating blow against the enemy with zero casualties is a feat unheard of in the annals of warfare. The Emperor is, of course, most pleased. I am simply trying to understand the tactical specifics, so that your methods can be taught at the War College."
The statement was a river of honeyed praise, but underneath it ran a current of pure, cold poison. It was a test.
Meng Tian met the man's gaze across the great map table. As the Commissar spoke, Meng Tian felt the familiar, low hum of his Battle Sense begin to stir. It was a strange, disquieting sensation, to feel this combat-honed instinct flare to life here, in the sterile silence of a strategy room. He focused his perception on the man before him, not as an opponent on a battlefield, but as a piece on a chessboard, trying to sense his next move.
He could not read the Commissar's mind. But he could feel his state. He could sense the man's rigid, fanatical discipline, his absolute, unquestioning loyalty to the Emperor. But beneath that iron surface, he sensed something else. A profound, deep-seated disbelief. The Commissar was not here to congratulate him. He did not believe the story of the bloodless victory for a second. He was here to find the lie. He was patiently testing every part of the official story, looking for a single crack in the facade, a single thread he could pull that would unravel the entire deception.
Meng Tian realized he was in a new, far more dangerous kind of battle. This was not a war of ships and cannons, but of whispers and implications, and his opponent was a master of the craft. He knew he had to deepen his own deception, to give the Commissar a performance so perfect, so convincing, that the man's suspicions would have nothing to latch onto.
He stood and walked to the map, adopting the role of the master strategist sharing his wisdom with a student. He masterfully recounted the fictional version of the battle, his voice filled with a calm, analytical authority. He invented new layers of heroic detail, of tactical brilliance, to explain the "bloodless" victory.
"The key, Colonel," he explained, his pointer tracing a path on the map, "was in the approach. Our intelligence, which I am not at liberty to discuss, suggested a gap in their patrol schedules, a window of precisely seventeen minutes. We used a new, experimental climbing technique to descend the gorge, which left no trace. The explosives were shaped charges, designed to sever the supports with minimal collateral damage, hence the lack of a large, attention-drawing blast."
He was building a fortress of lies, each one plausible, each one designed to appeal to a professional soldier's appreciation for meticulous planning. The Commissar listened, his face an unreadable mask, nodding slowly at each new detail. Meng Tian could feel the man's suspicion, a cold, probing force, but he could also feel that he was giving it nothing solid to grasp. He was a ship running before the wind, leaving no wake.
Later that evening, after the Commissar had finally departed, Meng Tian was alone with Major Han. The confident mask of the Chief Strategist fell away, replaced by a look of profound weariness and strain.
"He does not believe me," Meng Tian said, his voice a low, troubled whisper. He sank into a chair. "Not a word of it. He is a predator, Han. And he is hunting. The Emperor sent that man to catch me in a lie."
"Then we must be more careful than ever, sir," Han replied, his own face grim. His admiration for his commander had now deepened into a fierce, protective loyalty. He was a co-conspirator now, his fate tied to Meng Tian's.
Meng Tian looked at his secret map, the one showing his true, heretical strategy. He knew he could not launch his next two planned surgical strikes, not with the Emperor's watchdog observing his every move, scrutinizing his every requisition order. He had to create a diversion. He had to give the hunter a false trail to follow.
He turned to the great, official map on the wall, the one showing the plans for the suicidal frontal assault. He made a decision.
"We will give the Commissar what he wants to see," Meng Tian said, a new, hard light in his eyes. "We will begin to actively and publicly plan for the Emperor's grand invasion. I want you to draft new requisitions, Han. For a thousand transport carts. For a hundred thousand winter uniforms. For siege artillery. I want you to schedule troop movements, massing our divisions in Manchuria. I want this room to be buzzing with the work of preparing for the war the Emperor desires."
He looked at his young, loyal chief of staff. "We will make Colonel Jiao believe that the success of Operation White Fox was a fluke, a one-time gamble, and that I have returned to the fold of conventional, orthodox strategy. We will make him believe we have abandoned our 'unorthodox' ideas."
Major Han understood immediately. They would build a phantom army, a war that existed only on paper, a grand deception designed to lull the Emperor's spy into complacency.
He began to work, his pen flying across the paper, drafting the first of the false requisitions. Meng Tian was now running two secret operations simultaneously: his real, hidden plan to win the war with surgical strikes, and a new, massive, fake plan designed to deceive the Emperor's own spy. His web of honorable deception had become a tangled, complex maze of mirrors and shadows. And with every lie he told to protect his men, with every false order he gave to protect his secret, he was moving deeper and deeper into the darkness.