The Hall of Supreme Harmony, the grandest ceremonial space in the Forbidden City, was electric with a tension so thick it felt like a physical presence. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and glinting off the polished floor tiles and the ornate silks of the assembled Grand Council. The mood was a discordant symphony of confusion, elation, and barely suppressed rage.
At the heart of it all, seated on the Dragon Throne, was the Emperor, a figure of serene and absolute authority. Below him, at the foot of the dais, stood Yuan Shikai. He was performing a kowtow of perfect, prescribed humility, his forehead touching the cool floor, his posture a model of servile gratitude. But within the man's mind, a storm of calculation was raging.
The chief eunuch's voice, high and reedy, echoed through the vast hall, reading the imperial edict. Yuan Shikai was no longer merely the Minister of Industry. He was now the "Supreme Overseer of Imperial War Preparedness," a title so grand and with such sweeping powers that it stunned the entire court into a rare, collective silence.
Yuan rose slowly, his face a mask of profound, grateful humility. He felt the eyes of the court upon him. He saw the triumphant, greedy smiles of his own allies, men who saw his ascent as their own. He saw the cold, murderous fury in the eyes of the Manchu aristocrats, most notably Prince Chun, whose face was a thunderous shade of purple. The Prince looked at him not as a colleague, but as a cancerous growth on the body of the state.
This was a trap. Yuan knew it in his bones. The rumors of his financial dealings, though baseless whispers in his opinion, must have reached the throne. An Emperor did not reward a servant suspected of disloyalty with such immense power unless it was a test. A magnificent, terrifying test. But Yuan, in his supreme self-confidence, believed he understood the game. The Emperor needed him. His genius for industry, for logistics, for making things happen in a court paralyzed by tradition, made him indispensable. The Emperor could not afford to cast him aside, not with a war brewing in the north. This promotion was not a prelude to his execution; it was a leash, yes, but a golden one. He would take this new power, this incredible authority, and use it to accelerate his own plans, to weave his influence so deeply into the fabric of the military and the state that he would become truly untouchable. It was a dangerous, exhilarating gamble, and Yuan felt a thrill of excitement.
Having bestowed the title, the Emperor did not dismiss the council as expected. He held up a hand, calling for silence. The murmuring of the court died instantly.
"We have given Minister Yuan a great responsibility," the Emperor's voice rang out, clear and powerful. "But the forging of a weapon requires more than a skilled smith. It requires the finest steel. Today, We bestow upon the Empire a new policy, to ensure that the steel of our great nation is the strongest on Earth. We shall call it the 'Anvil Policy,' for on it, a new China will be forged."
He gestured, and a eunuch unrolled a massive scroll. The Emperor began to outline his plan, and with each sentence, he sent a new shockwave through the ancient, conservative court.
"First," he declared, his voice cutting through the silence, "We decree the Mandate of Standardization. From this day forward, all industrial components within the Empire shall be made to a single, imperial standard. The screws for our new rifles in Hanyang will be identical to the screws made in Guangzhou. The gauges of our railways in Manchuria will match those in the south. The shell casings for our artillery will be interchangeable, from the coast to the frontier."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the baffled faces of the old scholars and princes. He was drawing directly from his first life's experience, from the brutal logic that had allowed him to conquer and unify the Warring States.
"An army whose soldiers cannot share bullets is an army that has already defeated itself," he proclaimed, the statement so simple, so logical, that it was unassailable. "An empire whose parts do not fit together is not an empire, but a collection of squabbling workshops. Efficiency is victory."
"Second," he continued, not waiting for the first edict to be absorbed, "We decree the founding of the Imperial Institutes of Science. We will no longer rely on the scraps of knowledge offered by the Western barbarians. We will forge our own. Three great academies will be established: The Imperial Institute of Metallurgy in Wuhan, near our greatest foundries. The Imperial Institute of Chemistry in Nanjing. And the Imperial Institute of Physics, here, in Beijing, under Our direct observation." He was laying the institutional groundwork for a scientific revolution, framing it in terms they understood: knowledge as the ultimate weapon.
"Third, and finally," he said, his voice dropping slightly, though it lost none of its authority. This was his most radical move, a direct assault on the bedrock of Manchu power. "We decree the Meritocratic Mandate. Leadership of these new institutes, and of the new standardized industries, will not be granted based on birthright, or family, or favor within this court. It will be granted based on one thing and one thing only: merit. Merit proven through rigorous, open examination. These positions, and the power they hold, will be open to any subject of the dragon throne—Manchu or Han, scholar or merchant, rich or poor. The only currency of advancement in the new China will be talent."
A collective gasp went through the ranks of the Manchu nobles. He was tearing down the walls of their privilege, inviting the teeming masses of Han Chinese to compete for the highest positions in the most critical new sectors of the state. It was a declaration of war on their entire way of life.
The Emperor then sealed his trap. He turned his gaze back to Yuan Shikai.
"Supreme Overseer Yuan," he commanded. "Your first task will be to execute the Mandate of Standardization. You will form a commission, you will draft the new imperial standards for all vital industries, and you will see to their implementation. It is a monumental task, vital for our victory in the north. We trust your genius is equal to it."
It was a perfect, diabolical move. It assigned Yuan a task that perfectly matched his genuine talents, making the promotion seem logical and necessary. But it also bogged him down in a colossal bureaucratic undertaking that would be intensely scrutinized by every faction in the court. Every decision he made would be a political battle, every standard he set would be questioned by his rivals. He was being given immense power, but it was the power to paint a target on his own back.
The ceremony concluded. Yuan Shikai, now the second most powerful man in the room, bowed low once more. As he rose, his eyes met those of Prince Chun across the hall. The Prince's face was a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. The Emperor had not just set a trap for a single corrupt minister. He had thrown a torch into the dry tinder of the court's deepest resentments, deliberately igniting a massive internal power struggle between the old guard and the new men. And above it all, on the Dragon Throne, he would sit and watch the fires burn.