The Grand Strategy Chamber was a new addition to the Forbidden City, a room designed not for ceremony, but for war. It was vast, cold, and dominated by a single, immense object: a meticulously detailed, three-dimensional map of Manchuria and the Korean peninsula that covered the entire floor. Mountains, rivers, and cities were all rendered in perfect scale. It was a god's-eye view of a battlefield, and before it stood the god himself.
Meng Tian entered the chamber alone. He walked with the aid of his cane, each step a carefully controlled movement to mask the persistent, grinding pain in his leg. He saw the Emperor, standing with his back to him, contemplating the map. He also saw the other figures in the room, standing like silent, black-robed statues in the corners: Spymaster Shen Ke and the man who had just condemned him, Colonel Jiao. It was not a strategy session. It was an inquisition. He had been summoned to his own trial.
He walked to the center of the room and performed a formal bow. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice steady.
The Emperor did not turn. He did not acknowledge the greeting. He did not mention Jiao's report, or Siberia, or America, or the web of lies and deceptions that lay between them. He simply pointed a single, imperious finger at a spot on the map, a cluster of miniature, fortified hills representing the Russian fortress of Port Arthur.
"The Japanese are fools," Qin Shi Huang stated, his voice a cold, flat declaration of fact that echoed in the cavernous room. "They are a nation of brave but stupid soldiers, led by sentimental generals. They are wasting their best men, their most patriotic sons, in futile, headlong assaults against a fortified position. They are trying to conquer a mountain by throwing waves of human flesh at it."
He finally turned, and his eyes, as dark and as ancient as a winter sky, locked onto Meng Tian's. "They will fail. They will bleed themselves to death on those hills, and the Russians will win a victory they do not deserve. Tell me, General Meng. You who have studied the Western arts of war. You who are a celebrated genius. How would you take Port Arthur?"
It was a test. The ultimate test. All the unspoken accusations, all the suspicions of treason and heresy, were irrelevant in the face of this single, practical question. The Emperor was not interested in his soul. He was interested in his mind.
A profound sense of relief, of clarity, washed over Meng Tian. Here, on the familiar, solid ground of strategy and tactics, he was not a heretic or a conspirator. He was a master. The political intrigue fell away, and the pure, cold logic of the general emerged.
He stepped forward, wincing slightly as he put weight on his injured leg, and looked down at the map.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice now imbued with the calm, confident authority of a man in his element. "The Japanese fail because they are fighting a battle of spirit. This is a battle of engineering. A fortress is a machine. To defeat it, you must understand how it works and systematically dismantle it."
He took the long pointer from the map table and began his brilliant, ruthless analysis. "Their frontal assaults are a waste. The Russian defenses are too strong, their machine-gun emplacements too well-sited. The key is not to overwhelm the fortress, but to undermine it."
He pointed to the base of the hills. "They must begin with sapping and trench warfare. Digging. Get their men close to the Russian lines under the cover of the earth itself, where the machine guns cannot reach them. It is slow, ugly, dishonorable work. But it will save thousands of lives."
Next, he pointed to the harbor, where the tiny models of the Russian Pacific Fleet were anchored. "But the true prize is not the land; it is the fleet. And the key to the fleet is the high ground." His pointer moved to a single, unassuming hill on the map, a spot marked with its elevation: '203'.
"This is 203 Meter Hill," he said. "It is not the most heavily fortified position, but it is the most crucial. From its summit, one can see the entire harbor. The side that controls this hill can direct artillery fire onto the Russian ships with perfect accuracy. The Japanese must take this hill, no matter the cost. It is the lynchpin of the entire siege."
And then he delivered his final, decisive point. "And they cannot take it with the field guns they have. They are trying to break a fortress wall with hammers. They need sledgehammers. They need heavy siege artillery. 280-millimeter mortars, brought from their own coastal defenses in Japan. Huge, cumbersome weapons that can fire a shell so heavy it will plunge through the roof of a bunker and detonate inside. They must bring these guns to bear on 203 Meter Hill. That is how you take Port Arthur."
He finished, and the room was silent. He had just, in the space of five minutes, laid out the exact, precise, and historically accurate strategy that would eventually, after months of horrific bloodshed, lead to the fall of the Russian fortress.
The Emperor listened, his face a perfect, unreadable mask. He had not just tested Meng Tian's strategic mind and found it flawless. He had also, in his own, silent way, tested his power. He had watched Meng Tian, felt the energy around him. The General's "gift," his Battle Sense, was still intact. It had not been broken by the "tremor" event that had so devastated his own power. This confirmed for the Emperor a crucial, terrifying fact: their powers, while similar, were not identical. Meng Tian's gift was different. And perhaps, not vulnerable in the same way.
He turned from the map and looked at his general, his decision made. He would not execute this man. He would not imprison him. A tool this sharp, this unique, could not be left to rust. It had to be used. It had to be placed in the hottest part of the fire.
"Your analysis is sound, General Meng," the Emperor said. "But your loyalty, as reported to me by Colonel Jiao, is not."
He delivered his judgment. "You are hereby relieved of your command of the Northern Army Group."
Colonel Jiao allowed himself a single, almost imperceptible flicker of triumph.
"Instead," the Emperor continued, his voice like chipping stone, "you will take command of a new, special force: the Imperial Army Observer Corps. You will choose your fifty best officers, the survivors of your 'White Foxes.' And you will go to Port Arthur. You will embed yourselves with the Japanese Third Army."
A wave of shock went through the room. The Emperor was sending his best general, the hero of the Empire, to be a mere "observer" in a foreign army's war. But the true, cruel genius of the Emperor's mandate then became clear.
"You will not be a passive observer, General," he said, his eyes boring into Meng Tian's. "You will be a student, and you will be a teacher. You will learn every lesson you can from this new, brutal form of modern siege warfare, so that you may one day apply it for our own ends. And you will ensure that the Japanese take Port Arthur, as quickly and as bloodily as possible."
He pointed back at the map. "You will go to their foolish, sentimental General Nogi. You will offer him your 'unofficial advice.' You will use your… intuition… to guide his hand. You will show him the path to victory, the very path you have just described to me. I want the Japanese army bled white on the slopes of 203 Meter Hill. I want their spirit broken by the cost of their victory. And I want you to be the man who hands them the knife to do it, all while learning precisely how to wield that knife for our own future wars."
It was an impossible, dishonorable, and psychologically brutal mission. He was being ordered to help an army he despised, a nation that was his rival, win a battle. He was being tasked with ensuring that victory was as costly and as horrific as possible.
"And to assist you in your duties," the Emperor concluded with a final, chilling twist, "Colonel Jiao will be assigned as your Chief of Staff. He will report on your progress directly to me."
Meng Tian stood there, trapped. He had been given a new command, but it was the most dangerous and morally compromising one of his life. He was being sent into a crucible, a human meat grinder, with a fanatical jailer at his side, tasked with orchestrating a victory that was, in truth, a defeat for everyone involved.
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