T/N : I'm rewriting every Qing chapter from now on into comedy
Inside the Forbidden City, the "ice basins" were working overtime, but they were no match for the vibe in the room, which was best described as "Total Dynastic Collapse, but make it gloomy." Empress Dowager Ci'an was sitting on her throne, clutching her prayer beads so hard her knuckles were whiter than the powder on her face
. She had just finished listening to Prince Gong—affectionately known as "Old Sixth"—explain how the national budget was basically being handed over to a guy in San Francisco. Her chest was heaving like she'd just finished a marathon in a corset.
"Old Sixth," she trembled, looking up with the eyes of a woman who had just seen the bill for a ten-year subscription she couldn't cancel. "Customs silver is our lifeblood. Before, we hired foreigners to do the math, sure. But now you're saying we give the ledger, the keys, and the password to this 'Imperial Bank' for ten years? My heart isn't just uneasy; it's practically filed for divorce."
Cixin (Cixi), meanwhile, was busy sharpening her nails on the throne's armrest. She looked like a woman who had lost her last penny at a high-stakes poker game and was about to bet her shoes.
"Sister, relax," Cixin snapped, her gaze colder than the aforementioned ice basins. "If we don't swipe 'Yes' on this, those American machines won't even leave the dock." She turned to Yixin with a look that could melt a Beiyang battleship. "Old Sixth, spill it. Is this Argyle guy actually legit, or is he just another British guy with a better accent?"
Yixin bowed so low he was practically doing a plank. Sweat was pouring off him. He knew these two were traumatized—since the Opium War, the Great Qing had been the global punching bag for anyone with a boat and a grudge.
"Your Majesties," Yixin squeaked, trying to sound like a man who wasn't about to faint. "I've run the numbers. The British want our land and our rivers so they can park their boats in our living rooms. But this Argyle guy from America? He's different. In his country, he's basically the CEO of Everything. Even their President has to check with him before buying a sandwich."
He leaned in, whispering like he was sharing a juicy palace scandal. "He just wants the silver. He wants to sell us 'electric lights' and 'telephones' and other magic tricks. He only wants the customs control to 'protect his principal.' Basically, he's afraid we're broke. Compared to the British wanting to chop off pieces of our map, Argyle just wants to empty our wallet. It's a bargain!"
Ci'an sighed, dropping her beads. "Two million taels and ten years of taxes? Old Sixth, if these machines turn out to be overpriced paperweights like the last batch, we are literally going to be living in tents."
"Trust me, Ma'am!" Yixin looked up, his eyes gleaming with the desperate hope of a salesman. "Argyle's steel is harder than British tea biscuits! His machine guns can turn a thousand cavalrymen into a statistic in seconds. We're dying, ladies! We need the strong medicine, not the herbal tea! Once we have his cannons, the French won't even dare to look at us funny."
Cixin narrowed her eyes. "And this bank wants to print its own 'banknotes' in Shanghai? Like, fake money?"
"It's for 'internal use,' Your Majesty," Yixin nodded frantically. "The Westerners can play with their own paper. When the ten years are up, we get the keys back. Plus, Argyle's interest rates are way more 'merciful' than those bloodsuckers at HSBC. He's practically a philanthropist!"
Cixin waved a weary hand. "Fine. Do it. But Old Sixth, if they embezzle one cent—one single cent—I'm holding you personally responsible. And by 'holding you responsible,' I mean your head."
__________________________
Yixin escaped the palace feeling like a wet rag. He climbed into his carriage and told his driver to go home and lock the gates. He wanted a nap. He wanted a drink. He wanted to forget that "Argyle" existed.
But when he arrived at the Prince Gong Mansion, the driveway was packed with luxury carriages. It looked like a VIP parking lot for the world's most useless aristocrats. Inside, the imperial clan was waiting.
"Sixth Brother! You're back!" yelled Prince Chun, his eyes bulging with the frantic energy of a guy who just heard about a crypto moon-shot. Behind him, a swarm of Beilehs and Dukes were vibrating with excitement.
"If you're here to complain about the customs deal, get out," Yixin snapped, sitting down and reaching for his tea. "The Empress Dowagers already signed off on it."
"Oh, Sixth Brother, you hurt us!" Zaize cooed, wearing a smile that was 10% charm and 90% predatory lending. "We love national policy! We just heard that this Argyle guy is richer than God. And we were thinking... America is far away. He needs 'local partners.' Guys with 'vision.' Guys like us."
Yixin stared at them. "What are you saying?"
"We want a piece of the action!" Zaize laughed. "The 'Liyuan Company'! We handle the distribution. We sell the matches, the kerosene, and the machine guns to the interior. We have the connections, the permits, and the fancy hats. It's only logical! Why let some commoner businessman make the money when the Imperial Family is struggling to pay for their birdseed?"
"It's about looking after public and private interests!" someone shouted.
"You mean you want to be foreign-firm middlemen without taking off your official robes," Yixin scoffed.
"Sixth Brother, don't be like that," Zaize leaned in. "We've done our homework. This Alan Alastor Felix Argyle the III is the 'Invisible Emperor.' He likes rules. And in this country, we are the rules. If you tell him the 'Liyuan Company' has to handle the sales, what's he going to do? Say no to the Imperial Family? He just wants to move product."
Yixin fell silent. He knew these guys were a disaster, but he also knew that if he didn't give them a cut, they'd spend the next ten years sabotaging his every move.
"Fine," Yixin groaned. "I'll mention it. But if you water down the kerosene or sell duds, you're on your own."
"Excellent!" Zaize whipped out a gift list that was roughly the size of a CVS receipt. "And to make sure Mr. Argyle likes us, we've prepared a few 'trinkets.' Ancient bronze tripods, world-class paintings, a mutton-fat jade seal from the Han Dynasty... you know, stuff he can't buy at a San Francisco flea market."
Yixin flipped through the list. They were literally giving away the national museum. "You guys are really emptying the attic, aren't you?"
"And the best part," Prince Chun added, winking like a creep, "is the 'Bright Pearls.' A group of the most beautiful maidens, trained in the arts, music, and—get this—they speak a bit of 'Foreign.' We send them over to 'take care of his daily life.' We call it 'cultural exchange.' But really, we know that 'soft fragrance' is better at winning contracts than steel rails."
Yixin looked at the list. It was a bizarre mix of priceless antiquities and high-end human trafficking.
"You're willing to pay a high price," Yixin said, closing the list. "The vases are fine. But if Argyle thinks the girls are an insult, he might just blow us up."
"Please," Zaize laughed, patting his chest. "Once he sees these girls, he won't be able to find his office on a map. It's the ultimate Qing strategy: using 'softness' to overcome 'strength.'"
Yixin walked to the window, looking out at his fancy mansion. "And you really think a guy who owns half of America is going to change a multi-million dollar contract because of some old bronze and a few pretty faces?"
The room went silent for exactly one second before everyone started arguing about who got the most shares. Yixin sighed. The Great Qing Chong Dynasty was a sinking ship, but at least the crew was fighting over who got to sell the lifejackets.