The train journey from the Liaodong Peninsula to Beijing was a passage through a different world. It carried Meng Tian away from the raw, elemental hell of the Port Arthur siege—a landscape of blasted earth, shattered fortresses, and the ghosts of ten thousand dead Japanese soldiers—and back into the heart of a civilization that still believed in order, in ceremony, in a world that was not perpetually screaming.
He had expected a quiet, unceremonious return. A discreet report to the Ministry of War, a debriefing, and then, perhaps, a merciful period of leave to let the echoes of the battle fade from his mind. Instead, as he stepped onto the platform at the Beijing central station, he found a formal delegation of military officials waiting for him. They were a line of immaculate dark uniforms and stern, unsmiling faces.
But they were not there to celebrate. As he approached, a strange and palpable unease rippled through the assembled officers. They performed the correct salutes, they uttered the proper words of welcome, but they kept their distance. Their faces held a complex, unsettling mixture of awe, deep respect, and a raw, undisguised fear. They were not greeting a victorious general. They were not welcoming home a hero. They were receiving a ghost.
Whispers followed him as he walked down the platform, a low, sibilant rustle that was more unnerving than any shout. "That's him… the one from Port Arthur…"
"They say he did not sleep for four days…"
"The Japanese… they call him Shinigami…" God of Death.
His reputation had preceded him. It had traveled faster than the train, a dark legend whispered in telegraph messages and couriers' dispatches. He was no longer Admiral Meng Tian, the brilliant strategist, the honorable commander who valued the lives of his men. He was now the Shinigami, the architect of the bloodiest victory in modern military history, a man who had treated a national army as expendable ammunition. The men on the platform looked at him and they did not see a savior of the Empire. They saw an omen, a terrifying new kind of weapon that had been unleashed, a man who had perhaps stared too long into the abyss of total war.
He was escorted to the Ministry of War, the corridors of power feeling alien and strangely quiet after the constant thunder of the siege. As he rounded a corner, he came face to face with the one man he had hoped never to see again. Colonel Jiao stood there, his own return from the front apparently just as recent.
Jiao, the zealot, the fanatical jailer who had watched his every move, who had goaded him, who had pushed him toward the precipice of his damnation. Jiao's face was pale, his usual expression of righteous certainty replaced by a haunted, conflicted look. The man who had been so eager to see the Emperor's will made manifest now seemed terrified by the instrument he had helped to create.
He drew himself up and attempted a formal salute. "General Meng," Jiao began, his voice strained, a tremor in it that had not been there before. "I… I must congratulate you. Your execution of the Emperor's strategic objectives at Port Arthur was… flawless. A perfect execution of the divine will."
The words sounded hollow, rehearsed. He could not meet Meng Tian's eyes. He was like a priest who had successfully summoned a demon and was now terrified of the entity standing before him.
Meng Tian simply stopped and looked at him. He did not speak. He did not acknowledge the salute or the pathetic congratulations. He just looked, his eyes cold, empty, and utterly silent. In their flat, black depths, Jiao saw a reflection of the hell he had so eagerly pushed Meng Tian into. He saw the tens of thousands of dead. He saw the cold, brutal calculus of the slaughter. He saw the death of a good man's soul, a death he had personally midwifed.
Jiao flinched as if struck. A flush of shame, or perhaps fear, crept up his neck. He took an involuntary step backward. Meng Tian held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and continued walking down the corridor without a single word. His silence was a judgment more profound, more complete, and more damning than any accusation could ever have been.
He was not left in peace for long. A summons arrived. He was to present himself to the Emperor in the Grand Strategy Chamber immediately.
When he entered, the vast room was empty save for the imposing figure of his sovereign. Qin Shi Huang was not on the throne. He stood in the center of the room, contemplating the map of Siberia on the floor, his back to the door. The map was scarred with the red pins of the failed offensive, a stark symbol of Imperial frustration.
There were no pleasantries. There was no praise for his brilliant, bloody success on the Liaodong Peninsula. The Emperor had already processed that victory, filed it away as a completed objective, and moved on to the next, more pressing failure. The fate of the Japanese army was yesterday's news.
"The Northern Army Group has failed," Qin Shi Huang stated, his voice flat and hard, echoing in the cavernous chamber. He still had not turned around. "Their commander was a competent administrator, a fine logistician. But he lacked vision. He lacked the divine spark of brutality. Their spirit was broken by a single, predictable setback. They are a fine spear, but their tip has been shattered."
He finally turned, his ancient, dark eyes fixing on Meng Tian. "They need a new one."
He let the statement hang in the air, a formal declaration of a new reality. "You will be their new tip. As of this moment, I am giving you supreme command of the entire Siberian front."
It was a shocking, breathtaking appointment. He was being promoted to the highest and most important field command in the Empire. He was being placed in charge of the very army whose colossal failure had shaken the foundations of the throne.
The Emperor began to pace, outlining the strategic situation with ruthless clarity. "The Russians were prepared for our first assault. They knew our plans. Do not assume they will be ignorant of our next one. The serpent is still in my house. Therefore, your task is not to follow the old strategy. The old strategy is compromised. Your task is to win. I do not care how. I do not care about the cost. I do not care about the methods. You taught the stubborn, honor-bound Japanese the true meaning of a war of attrition. Now, you will teach the Russians."
Qin Shi Huang stopped and looked at Meng Tian, a strange, almost proprietary expression on his face. He saw the profound, chilling emptiness in his general's eyes. He saw the cold, calculating void where a vibrant, conflicted soul had once resided. He recognized it as his own handiwork, the result of the impossible test he had set. He saw not a man before him, but the perfect, unfeeling instrument for total war, a weapon he himself had forged in the fires of Port Arthur.
This was not just a promotion. It was the ultimate affirmation of Meng Tian's terrible, soul-destroying choice. The Emperor was not just forgiving his past insubordination; he was rewarding the ruthless efficiency that had replaced it with absolute, untrammeled power.
Meng Tian listened to it all, his face impassive. When the Emperor had finished, he simply stepped forward and performed a single, formal bow. He had no objections. He had no questions about logistics or troop numbers. He had no reservations. He was a weapon, and a weapon does not question the hand that wields it. It only awaits a target.
As he turned to leave, his new command accepted, his new destiny sealed, the Emperor spoke one last time. His voice was a low, chilling murmur, a whisper of dark intimacy between a creator and his creation. He used the Japanese nickname that had become Meng Tian's new title, a name that now belonged more to him than his own.
"Go, my Shinigami," Qin Shi Huang said. "Go to the north. Teach the Russians what true death looks like."
Meng Tian walked from the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind him. He left the Emperor to his maps and his global ambitions, his own mind already shifting, dissecting the new and complex puzzle of the Siberian front. The ghost of Port Arthur was gone. In his place walked a God of Death, ready to unleash a storm of calculated, methodical violence the likes of which the frozen plains of Siberia, and the world, had never seen.
To be the first to know about future sequels and new projects, google my official author blog: Waystar Novels.