The Grand Council convened in an atmosphere of barely suppressed glee. The news had arrived that morning via the new transcontinental telegraph line, a crackling, electrifying report that had sent waves of jubilation through the upper echelons of the Qing court. The Japanese had done it. Their fledgling, modern navy had launched a daring, surprise torpedo attack on the Russian Pacific Fleet anchored at Port Arthur, crippling several of their best battleships. The Russo-Japanese War, a conflict that had been simmering for months over competing interests in Korea and Manchuria, had finally exploded into open warfare.
Before the Emperor, his ministers could barely contain their excitement.
"A blessing from Heaven, Your Majesty!" exclaimed a high-ranking Manchu prince, his voice booming in the great hall. "The Japanese dogs fight our enemy for us! The Russians are now beset on two fronts. Their attention will be divided. It is the perfect opportunity for our own campaign in the north!"
"Indeed!" another minister agreed, stroking his beard with a triumphant air. "We should let the two barbarian powers bleed each other dry. When they are exhausted, we can march into Manchuria and reclaim what is ours with minimal effort. The board is set perfectly in our favor."
Qin Shi Huang sat on the Dragon Throne, listening to their short-sighted, self-congratulatory chatter with a profound and weary contempt. They were mice celebrating a fight between two cats, oblivious to the fact that the winner would surely turn its attention to them next. He let their foolish joy fill the room for a moment before he raised a hand, imposing an immediate, chilling silence.
"You see a convenience," the Emperor's voice cut through the hall, cold and sharp. "I see a grave threat."
The ministers stared at him, their jubilant expressions freezing into masks of confusion.
"You cheer for the viper because it has struck the bear," he continued, his eyes sweeping over them with disdain. "Have you forgotten that this viper has venom? Have you forgotten that I, myself, had to put this Japanese dog on a leash not so long ago? Their ambition is a cancer. It is relentless and rapacious."
He rose from his throne, a rare gesture that signified the immense gravity of his words. He began to pace before them, a caged tiger lecturing a pack of hyenas.
"Consider the possibilities, if your minds are capable of such a feat. Russia is a clumsy, lumbering giant. Japan is a small, ferocious viper. If the giant is distracted by us in the north, the viper may well win its fight in the east. What happens then? A victorious Japan, gorged on Russian territory and filled with a new, arrogant sense of its own destiny, will not be a friend to China. It will turn its eyes back to the continent. First to Korea, which it will swallow whole. And then to Manchuria, the very prize you believe will fall into your lap. A triumphant Japan on our border is a far greater threat to the long-term health of this Empire than the over-extended Russians ever could be."
He fixed them with a glare that made several of the ministers flinch. "An uncontrolled Japanese victory is strategically unacceptable."
He had completely upended their simple, celebratory worldview, forcing them to see the complex, interlocking gears of global power politics.
"So what does Your Majesty propose?" the Grand Secretary asked meekly. "Surely we cannot aid the Russians?"
"We will do more than aid them," the Emperor said, a cunning, dangerous light in his eyes. "We will make them dependent on us. We will make them pay for the privilege of fighting a war they cannot afford."
He shocked the council to its core as he laid out his brilliant, counter-intuitive strategy. They would not simply watch the war; they would intervene, not with soldiers, but with commerce.
"Russia's weakness is distance," he explained, his voice that of a master strategist laying out a battle plan. "Their industrial heartland is in the west. To fight Japan, they must ship every bullet, every boot, every bag of flour thousands of miles across a single, fragile railway—a railway which, as you know, our own forces have recently rendered… unreliable." A few of the ministers who were privy to Meng Tian's secret mission exchanged nervous glances.
"Therefore," the Emperor announced, "we will offer to sell them what they need. We will become their quartermaster. We will sell them grain from our southern provinces to feed their armies. We will sell them the coal from our northern mines to power their remaining ships. We will even sell them the low-grade steel from our lesser foundries so they can repair their damaged tracks."
"At a profit, of course," he added, a thin, predatory smile gracing his lips. "A very, very handsome profit. All to be paid in gold bullion, delivered directly to the vaults of our new Imperial Bank."
He allowed them a moment to absorb the sheer audacity of the plan. He was proposing to fuel his primary enemy's war effort against a secondary enemy, all while draining their treasury directly into his own.
"Think of it," he commanded them. "This policy accomplishes three goals simultaneously. First, it makes Russia completely dependent on our goodwill for their war against Japan, which cripples their negotiating position in our own separate conflict over Manchuria. Second, it enriches our Empire, funding our own modernization with our enemy's gold. And third, it ensures that the Russians remain just strong enough to bleed the Japanese viper white, exhausting it and curbing its ambitions for a generation. We will control the outcome of their war without firing a single shot. We will turn their conflict into our opportunity."
It was a masterful, ruthless plan, a grand strategy that left the council members speechless with its scope and cunning.
"But who could possibly deliver such a delicate, insulting proposal?" one minister finally whispered. "The Russians would never accept such terms from a senior official."
"You are correct," the Emperor said. "Which is why we will not send a senior official."
He turned to his chief eunuch and gave a quiet order. A few minutes later, a young man was escorted into the Grand Hall. He was little more than a boy, dressed in the simple, humble robes of a low-level clerk. He looked terrified, his eyes wide as he took in the grandeur of the hall and the assembled power of the Empire. He fell to his knees and kowtowed, his forehead pressing against the cold floor.
"Rise," the Emperor commanded.
The young man rose, his body trembling.
"State your name for the council."
"Chen… Chen Jian, Your Majesty," he stammered.
The Emperor addressed his stunned ministers. "Gentlemen, this is Chen Jian. You do not know him. He is not the son of a duke or a prince. His family has not served this court for generations. Until three months ago, he was a peasant boy from a village in Hunan. But last week, he achieved the highest score in the entire Empire on the new special examination for Geopolitical and Strategic Analysis. His understanding of logistics, economic leverage, and game theory, according to the examiners, is without peer."
He turned his gaze upon the terrified boy. "Chen Jian. I am appointing you as Our Special Envoy to the Russian Legation. You will go to them this afternoon. You will present them with this proposal. You will make them understand that this poisoned lifeline is the only thing that can save them from a humiliating defeat at the hands of Japan. Your career, and perhaps your life, depends on your success."
The old guard of the court looked on in abject horror. The Emperor had not just created a brilliant new foreign policy. He had, in a single, brutal act, bypassed their entire ancient system of aristocratic privilege and nepotism, and had instead placed the most delicate and important diplomatic mission in the world into the hands of an unknown, low-born prodigy, chosen for nothing more than his raw, proven talent. The unexpected ambassador was on his way.