The wind that swept across the plains of northern Manchuria was a razor. It carried the first, sharp bite of the coming Siberian winter and the scent of cold, empty earth. Here, at a forward operating base so new it was little more than a sea of tents and freshly dug earthworks, Meng Tian stood and watched his men become demigods.
His elite units, the "White Foxes," were gathered in a wide, cleared circle. They were testing the first weapons forged from the Emperor's impossible steel. These were not the standard-issue, mass-produced dao broadswords of the regular army. These were new sabers, elegant and deadly, their design a hybrid of the curved cavalry blade and the straight, thrusting jian. Their balance was perfect, but it was the metal itself that was miraculous.
Meng Tian and a grim-faced Major Han watched as a brawny sergeant, one of their best swordsmen, performed the demonstration. A thick iron bar, the kind used for reinforcing cannon emplacements, was set on two wooden blocks. The sergeant took a deep breath, his new saber a sliver of gray light in the pale afternoon sun. He swung.
There was no jarring clang of impact. Instead, a high, clear ringing note, like a temple bell, sang through the cold air. The iron bar fell to the ground in two perfect, clean-sheared halves. A collective gasp, a sound of pure, unadulterated awe, went through the assembled soldiers. They had all seen swords shatter against such targets. They had never seen one sing through it.
The sergeant, his own face a mask of disbelief, then took a piece of silk, tossed it into the air, and with a flick of his wrist, sliced it in two as it floated down.
A roar of approval erupted from the soldiers. They crowded around the demonstrators, clamoring for their turn, eager to hold these divine weapons. Their morale, already high, was now soaring into the realm of religious fervor. They were no longer just soldiers of the Emperor; they were the bearers of his divine wrath.
Meng Tian felt a surge of professional pride. With weapons like these, his men were ten times more effective. But beneath the pride was a deep, gnawing unease. This was tangible proof of the Emperor's power, a power he was leveraging for his own heretical strategy. Each cheer from his men felt like another stone laid on the path of his deception. He was using the Emperor's divine gift to carry out a plan that was a direct betrayal of the Emperor's orders. The hypocrisy left a bitter taste in his mouth.
A figure emerged from the command tent, and Meng Tian's unease sharpened into pointed dislike. It was Colonel Jiao, the Emperor's political commissar, his face a cold, unreadable mask. He had been observing the entire demonstration from a distance, his hands clasped behind his back.
"A magnificent weapon, Chief Strategist," Jiao said, his voice a smooth, cultured monotone that never seemed to match the harsh surroundings. "A true gift from the Son of Heaven himself. It is no wonder the men believe he is a god returned."
Meng Tian inclined his head slightly. "The Emperor's wisdom provides us with the tools for victory, Colonel."
"Indeed," Jiao continued, his eyes glinting with a cold, analytical light. "With such swords, the grand frontal assault you have so brilliantly planned will surely be unstoppable. The men's morale will be absolute. The Russians will break before our vanguard even reaches their trenches."
It was a trap, as subtle and as deadly as a hidden viper. Jiao was testing him, reinforcing his commitment to the "official" battle plan—the suicidal, human-wave assault that Meng Tian knew would be a massacre.
Meng Tian met the Commissar's gaze, his own face an impassive mask of command. He played his part, a role he was beginning to despise.
"You are correct, Colonel," Meng Tian said, his voice firm. "This steel will give our brave soldiers the heart of tigers. I will dedicate the first ten thousand blades produced to the vanguard divisions. They will have the honor of being the tip of the Emperor's spear."
He was lying through his teeth, promising to waste these priceless, miraculous weapons on a strategy designed by a distant, arrogant monarch, a strategy he knew was doomed to fail. Jiao nodded slowly, a flicker of what might have been satisfaction in his cold eyes. For now, the Chief Strategist was playing his role correctly.
Later that night, the command tent was lit by a single oil lamp. The flap was sealed against the biting wind. The grand, official map of the frontal assault was rolled up and put away. On the table now was another map, a secret one, showing a vast, detailed topography of eastern Siberia.
"He believes us," Major Han whispered, pouring his commander a cup of tea.
"For now," Meng Tian replied, his voice heavy with the strain of his dual existence. "But his belief is a cage. We cannot afford a single mistake."
He looked at the secret map, his finger tracing a long, looping path that snaked hundreds of miles behind the Russian lines. His deception had bought him time, and the new steel had given him the means. It was time to unleash his true strategy.
"We will not waste a single one of these blades on the vanguard," Meng Tian said, his voice low and intense. "The first two hundred sabers belong to us. To the White Foxes."
He looked at Major Han, his chief of staff and now his sole co-conspirator. "Assemble the unit. Full combat gear. They will carry rations for fourteen days. We move out under the cover of the new moon, two nights from now."
Han's eyes widened slightly. "The mission is a go, sir?"
"It is," Meng Tian confirmed. "Our target is the rail nexus at Chita."
Chita. It was a name that made Major Han's blood run cold. It was not a border fort or a forward garrison. It was a major logistical hub, the heart of the entire Russian Trans-Siberian Railway in the region, hundreds of miles deep in enemy territory, defended by thousands of regular troops. It was an insane objective for two hundred men.
"We will not engage the main garrison," Meng Tian explained, as if sensing Han's fear. "The Russians believe their rear is secure. Our intelligence shows the key railway bridges and switching yards to the east of the city are guarded by second-rate reservists. That is our target. We will not conquer Chita. We will cripple it. We will sever the artery that supplies their entire army in the east. We will paralyze them before the main war, our 'grand assault'," he said the words with a sneer, "even begins."
It was a mission of incredible daring, a single, surgical strike aimed at the enemy's brainstem, relying entirely on speed, stealth, and the absolute technological superiority of their new weapons.
The final scene shifts to a lone White Fox commando, sitting outside his tent under the cold, diamond-sharp light of the moon. He is carefully, almost lovingly, sharpening his new saber with a whetstone. The blade does not make the familiar scraping sound of common steel. Instead, it lets out a low, pure, musical hum as the stone passes over it.
The soldier pauses, admiring the edge, a line of light so fine it is almost invisible. He plucks a single loose thread from the cuff of his worn uniform and lets it drift down onto the blade. The thread parts without a sound, falling away in two pieces.
He nods to himself, a grim, satisfied expression on his face. He sheathes the impossible sword, its song falling silent. Then he looks north, toward the vast, silent, and unforgiving darkness of Siberia. He is no longer just a soldier. He is the Emperor's sword, a living weapon about to be plunged into the heart of the enemy. Meng Tian was staking everything on this single, heretical mission. And the fate of the war would be decided not by a million men on a battlefield, but by two hundred ghosts in the dark, armed with the stuff of miracles.