The lecture hall at the United States Military Academy was a place of austere, intellectual reverence. Its steep, tiered seats were carved from dark, oiled wood, and the high walls were adorned with the portraits of stoic, long-dead generals whose painted eyes seemed to judge all who entered. The air itself was still and heavy with the weight of history and the disciplined focus of America's future military leaders.
At the front of this hallowed room, standing behind a simple wooden lectern, was Meng Tian. He stood tall, despite the constant, grinding pain in his leg, which he supported with a simple ebony cane. He was not here as a prisoner, not as a patient, but as an honored guest lecturer, a living legend invited to share his wisdom. The hall was packed. Every senior cadet, every strategy instructor, was present, their faces a sea of rapt, intense attention. They were here to learn from the man whose unorthodox campaign in Sumatra had become a subject of intense study and debate within these very walls.
In the front row sat Captain Douglas MacArthur, his posture perfect, his gaze sharp and analytical. Beside him, a quiet, unobtrusive presence, was Colonel Jiao, his face a mask of polite interest, his mind a cold, calculating ledger, recording every word, every gesture.
Meng Tian began to speak, his voice calm and steady, filling the silent hall. He did not speak of his own victories. He did not boast of his "miracles." He spoke, instead, about the fundamentals of war, the timeless principles he had mastered long before his supernatural gifts had ever manifested. He spoke of logistics, of terrain, and of the fragile, essential heart of any army: the psychology of the common soldier.
"A general who studies only maps of terrain and not the map of his enemy's mind is a general who has already lost," Meng Tian said, his eyes sweeping over the young, eager faces. "Victory is not found in the strength of your steel, but in the weakness of your opponent's will."
He used the ongoing Russo-Japanese War as his primary, bloody textbook, a conflict that every cadet in the room was studying with a morbid fascination. With the dispassionate clarity of a master surgeon, he dissected the strengths and weaknesses of both combatants.
"Observe the Japanese," he said, his cane tapping a large map of Manchuria. "Their logistical discipline is superb. Their soldiers are imbued with a formidable fighting spirit, a concept they call Bushido. This gives them a great advantage in the attack. But it is also a critical vulnerability."
He paused, letting the controversial statement hang in the air. "Their code of honor is inflexible. It demands victory at any cost and treats surrender as an unthinkable disgrace. This will lead their generals to waste their bravest men in catastrophic frontal assaults against fortified positions. They will gain ground, but they will bleed themselves white doing it." His words were a chillingly accurate prediction of the bloody, year-long Siege of Port Arthur that was just beginning to unfold.
"Now, observe the Russians," he continued, moving to the other side of the map. "Their resources are vast. Their soldiers are hardy and brave. Their numbers are overwhelming. But their officer corps is a corrupt aristocracy. Their generals are chosen for their bloodlines, not their battlefield acumen. Their supply lines are a tangled mess of incompetence and graft. Russia is a giant with a strong sword arm, but a rotten, feeble mind. They will consistently underestimate their opponent and will be slow to adapt to their own failures."
He spoke for an hour, his analysis sharp, insightful, and brutally honest. He presented war not as a glorious adventure, but as a complex, unforgiving system of interlocking parts, where a broken supply wagon could be more devastating than a failed cavalry charge. The cadets and their instructors were mesmerized. He was providing them with a masterclass in the art of war, a perspective far more sophisticated and pragmatic than anything they had ever read in their textbooks.
Captain MacArthur listened with a growing, profound respect. He was not just hearing a lecture; he was witnessing a philosophy of command that was both alien and deeply resonant. He recognized Meng Tian as a true peer of the great strategists of history—a Sun Tzu, a Clausewitz, a man who saw the whole vast, terrible chessboard. His admiration was genuine, unclouded by the political games being played by his superiors.
Colonel Jiao also listened intently, but he heard something entirely different. He heard Meng Tian speak of logistics, terrain, psychology, and troop morale. He heard him analyze the great conflict of the day in purely human, logical, and material terms. He heard a brilliant lecture on the science of warfare. And in all of it, there was not a single mention of the divine will of the Emperor. Not a word about destiny, or heaven's mandate, or the spiritual forces that truly decided the fate of nations. He saw this as the ultimate proof of Meng Tian's heresy. His genius was a mortal one, a thing of intellect and calculation, not of divine inspiration. It was a profane gift, and he was using it without acknowledging its sacred source.
After the lecture, as the cadets filed out of the hall in a buzz of excited discussion, MacArthur approached Meng Tian.
"General, that was… masterful," MacArthur said, his praise sincere. "You have given these young men a lesson they will carry with them for the rest of their careers." He paused, then shifted to the true purpose of his visit. "I have come with a new proposal, General. As you know, the Olympic military exhibitions are set to begin in St. Louis. More significantly, President Roosevelt himself will be in attendance for the final weekend of the games. He is scheduled to meet with your country's diplomatic delegation, the one led by Minister Yuan Shikai."
He fixed Meng Tian with a friendly but meaningful gaze. "The President is aware of your presence in our country. He has expressed a great desire to meet the famed 'Hero of Sumatra.' It is felt that it would be a powerful gesture of goodwill, a sign of the growing respect between our two great nations, for you to travel to St. Louis to be formally introduced."
Meng Tian was instantly on his guard. He had found a strange, quiet peace in the ordered, disciplined world of West Point. The thought of being thrown into the chaotic political circus of the World's Fair, of being put on display and forced to interact with his great rival, Yuan Shikai, filled him with a deep sense of dread.
Before he could formulate a polite refusal, however, Colonel Jiao stepped forward, his face beaming with a false, enthusiastic smile.
"An excellent opportunity!" Jiao declared, answering on Meng Tian's behalf. "A chance for the Chief Strategist to personally observe the American Commander-in-Chief and assess his character. Such intelligence would be invaluable to the Emperor. Of course, the General accepts."
Jiao's eyes met Meng Tian's, and the message was clear. This was not an invitation; it was an order. Jiao saw this as the perfect stage. He would bring his heretic into the full glare of the world's spotlight. He would force him into a direct confrontation with his two greatest rivals—the treacherous Yuan Shikai and the barbarian President Roosevelt. He would watch how Meng Tian reacted, how his "flawed" power held up under the immense political and psychological pressure. It was the ultimate test, and Jiao intended to be there to record the results.
Meng Tian was trapped. He had no legitimate military or diplomatic reason to refuse. To do so would be a sign of insubordination, a confirmation of the very disloyalty Jiao suspected. With a heavy heart, he gave a slow, formal nod to MacArthur. He had been led from a quiet, honorable cage into another, far larger and more dangerous one. The stage was now set for all the key players in this deadly game to finally converge, not on a battlefield, but at the finish line of a footrace in the heart of America.