Prince Chun blinked, utterly bewildered by his sixth brother's sudden spike in rational thinking.
"Surely not, Sixth Brother! It's not like we're committing armed robbery," he said, waving his hands defensively. "We're just aggressively offering to become his mandatory retail distributors. Why would he say no to free help? Besides, look at the bribes—uh, cultural tokens—we're sending him! There is an ancient, highly legally binding saying: 'One's hand is short after taking from others.' He has to give us face. It's science."
Prince Gong didn't answer. Mostly because he didn't want to explain that a guy building a literal empire didn't care about facial maintenance. He stared at the mountain of dynastic junk overflowing in his hallway, then thought about the American's latest telegram, which basically read: Give me your tax money or I'll buy your continent. The geopolitical scales weren't just unbalanced; the American side had crashed through the floor.
"Enough, enough. Leave the shopping list and get out," Prince Gong muttered, not even bothering to look up from his desk. "Go home and pack. And for the love of the ancestors, do not post about this on the imperial group chat. If Hart or the British Minister comes sniffing around, you play dumb. Which, luckily for you lot, requires zero acting."
The nobles cheered, grabbed their fans, and backed out of the room like they'd just successfully scammed a tourist.
Midnight Math and a 20-Story Ego
Late that night, Prince Gong was still awake, squinting under the light of a Western windproof kerosene lamp—ironically imported—while auditing the "Please Don't Colonize Us" gift registry.
Zaize and the boys had really gone wild. On top of the Han Dynasty jade seal and the ancient bronze pots, they had added dozens of crates of premium raw jadeite and two Tang Dynasty silk scrolls that someone had apparently smuggled out of the Old Summer Palace before the British turned it into a bonfire. These guys were throwing heirlooms at Argyle like they were trying to win a carnival prize.
Knock, knock.
His top aide, Wu Dacheng, slipped into the study carrying a fresh stack of intercepted telegrams, looking like a man who had just seen a ghost.
"Your Highness," Wu whispered, checking the shadows for British spies. "We just got an update on Felix Argyle from New York. The man is currently building a twenty-story tower in the middle of Manhattan. Out of nothing but steel. The Americans are losing their minds and calling it 'God's Tower of Babel.'"
Prince Gong froze. "Twenty stories? Man, our pagodas don't even dare go that high without a divine permit, and this guy is doing it just to flex? Dacheng, be honest... does a guy building a steel skyscraper give a single solitary damn about our antique soup bowls?"
Wu Dacheng stared at the list, sweating through his robes. "Your Highness, look at it from a psychological perspective. The guy is a nouveau riche tech bro. Sure, he can control the weather with electricity, but what he really craves is clout. He wants 'heritage.' We aren't just sending him old pots; we're sending him a validation certificate from a five-thousand-year-old civilization. It's the ultimate ego stroke. We're making him feel like a real boy."
"Right. And what about the human trafficking aspect of the shipment?" Prince Gong asked, rubbing his temples. "The girls Zaize picked out?"
Wu Dacheng let out a helpless, slightly sleazy chuckle. "Your Highness, he's a twenty-something billionaire. American women are, let's face it, probably yelling at him about democracy. Our girls have advanced degrees in reading a room and sitting quietly. This level of Eastern aesthetic is basically a psychological bio-weapon. Once he's under the spell, the contract practically signs itself."
"It feels dirty," Gong sighed, pushing the paper away. "We're trading our ancestors' dignity for nuts and bolts."
"Dignity doesn't fire three hundred rounds a minute, Your Highness!" Dacheng hissed, suddenly filled with patriotic fervor. "Once we have those Tianjin steel furnaces running and machine guns that can turn a battlefield into a butcher shop, no one will care about the pots or the girls! Winners don't sweat the details!"
Gong sat in silence for three minutes before nodding grimly. "Fine. Tell Zaize and Old Seventh the gear has to be top-tier. No counterfeit jade. And have the Princess Consort personally quality-control the girls. They need to understand they aren't going to New York for a vacation; they are a human trade deficit."
His face hardened. "And tell those lazy nobles that if any of them skims money off the Liyuan Company and causes our future guns to jam on the front lines, I will personally revoke their royal allowances and make them get real jobs."
By dawn, a fleet of carriages covered in black tarps snaked out of the mansion's back gate toward Tianjin Port. The Great Qing Chong Empire's elite were officially launching Operation: Antique Honey Trap.
Meanwhile, in Manhattan...
Felix Argyle was standing in a hard hat, watching a massive red steel beam dangle over the New York skyline, completely oblivious to the fact that a group of 19th-century bureaucrats were trying to defeat his industrial empire with interior design and vibes.
The Atlantic wind ruffled his hair as he looked out over the smoky expanse of his city.
"Boss," Frost said, stepping over a pile of bricks with a clipboard. "O'Neill pinged us from San Francisco. The Qing Chong delegation is heading back, but Prince Gong sent a private courier with a personal letter and some 'special cargo' bound for New York."
Felix turned, his eyebrow twitching into an amused arch. "Special cargo? Did they send me a dragon?"
"Worse. Twenty wooden crates of rocks and a small army of women," Frost shrugged, reading the report. "Escorted by guards. O'Neill says the invoice value is absurd."
Felix burst out laughing. "Prince Gong? The 'Sixth Devil' himself? Wow. I mean, I respect the hustle. He ran the Self-Strengthening Movement, founded their foreign office, and basically kept that dying empire on life support. But this? What does he think this is, the 17th century? Does he think international trade deals are finalized via the buddy system?"
He shook his head, thoroughly entertained. "Whatever. Tell the boys to accept the delivery. I want to see what a dying dynasty thinks is a good bribe. Oh, and Frost? Tell Isabella to get her finest evening gown ready."
Felix grinned wickedly. "If there are actual Eastern princesses in those boxes, I want to see the look on our resident Bourbon Princess's face when they show up."
Frost blinked, realizing his boss was a menace, then smiled. "On it, Boss. I'll call the tailor."
Back in Beijing, the inner courtyard gate of Prince Gong's Mansion slammed shut with a definitive thud, cutting off the sounds of the city. The courtyard was dark, chilly, and looked like the setting of a corporate horror movie.
The Princess Consort sat regally on a luxury wooden daybed, lazily clicking her high-end prayer beads while surveying the five young women standing before her. They had been bought, traded, and intercepted from various tragedies across the empire by Zaize's aggressive scouting network, and now they were the Qing Chong Empire's last line of defense.
"Heads up, ladies," the Consort commanded.
The five women raised their eyes. Even the Consort, who lived in a palace full of supermodels, had to admit Zaize had an eye for talent. They were a perfectly engineered, diverse pop group of political leverage.
Su Ying (The Indie Darling): On the far left. Father was a government critic who got executed, landing her in the state entertainment system before Zaize bought out her contract. She had the "fragile, traumatized poet" look down to an art form. Men would want to build her a house just to keep her from crying.
Amur (The Alt-Rock Rebel): Tall, high nose bridge, imported from the Western Regions. Originally meant for the Emperor, but she was too violent and literally beat up her etiquette coach, getting herself blacklisted. Zaize loved the feral energy. She looked like she could murder a man with a hairpin.
Yunyan & Yunmeng (The Pop Duo): Identical twins from the southern water towns. They were supposed to be draft girls this year, but Zaize's men literally hijacked their boat on the Grand Canal and swapped them out. They were currently holding hands like two terrified cartoon chipmunks.
Wanqing (The Leader/Manager): On the right, looking entirely dead inside. Father was a bankrupt salt merchant, so she got sold to the opera. She could play four instruments, paint, and—more importantly—do corporate accounting. She didn't look scared; she just looked like she wanted to check the sights on this expedition.
"Your stats are impressive," the Consort said, taking a sip of tea. "The Prince and I know your files. You were all one foot in the grave before this mansion bought you. Do you know why you're here?"
The girls stayed silent.
"Did you all lose your vocal cords?!" barked Nanny Li, a retired palace drill sergeant known for using psychological warfare on teenagers.
Wanqing stepped forward, executing a flawless, robotic curtsy. "We don't know, Your Highness. But our contracts belong to the mansion. If you tell us to jump off a cliff, we will merely ask for the height."
The Consort snorted. "Jump off a cliff? Do you think we spent thousands of taels of silver on your clearance fees just to waste you? No. We are giving you a massive promotion. A level of wealth you couldn't get in ten lifetimes."
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "The Prince is sending you to the United States of America."
Su Ying gasped. The twins gripped each other so hard their circulation cut off. In their minds, "America" was a mythical wasteland populated by red-haired demons who ate raw meat and spoke in grunts.
"Oh, are we having a little panic attack?" the Consort mocked. "You're going, whether you like the itinerary or not. This is an official state deployment. And you aren't serving a savage; you're serving the secret king of America, a guy named Argyle. He owns the factories that make the guns we need to not die. Your job description is simple: maximize your charm metrics until he signs the shipping manifests. You are now weapons of the state."
Amur raised her chin, her wild tribal pride flaring up. "Your Highness, I don't speak 'American,' and I don't know their dinner etiquette. What if I show up and this foreigner decides to shoot me?"
"Insolent brat!"
Smack!
Nanny Li flew across the floor and slapped Amur so hard the echo rattled the windows. Amur wiped a streak of blood from her lip, glaring like a trapped wolf, but didn't say a word.
"Rules can be learned," the Consort said, completely unfazed by the casual violence. She turned to Nanny Li. "Lock the courtyard door. You have exactly two weeks to finish their training."
She looked back at the line of girls. "Music and painting are fine for the cultural prestige, but Westerners are weird. They don't have our boundaries. Nanny Li, I want you to teach them every single advanced favor-currying technique from the Imperial harem manual. Leave nothing out. Use the medicinal supplements if you have to; I want them fully optimized by day fourteen."
She paused, remembering logistics. "Also, teach them how to use a fork without stabbing themselves, and make sure they memorize a few romantic phrases in English. The foreign office will park a translator behind a curtain to yell vocab words at them every morning."
Nanny Li bowed until her nose hit the floor. "Understood, Your Highness. By the time I'm done with them, they'll be softer than melted butter. Even the angry one."
The Consort stood up to leave. "Su Ying's damsel routine, Amur's wild-card vibe, the twins' symmetry, and Wanqing's big-brain energy. You're a team now. If any of you lets jealousy ruin this corporate merger, the mansion will delete your entire extended family tree from the census. Have a great flight."
With that encouraging performance review, the Consort swept out of the room. The massive wooden doors slammed shut, locking out the sun.
Nanny Li turned around, a thin rattan whip suddenly materializing in her hand. She cracked it against a table with a sound like a pistol shot.
"You heard the boss," Nanny Li smiled, looking entirely demonic. "You aren't ladies anymore. You're corporate assets. Strip down, put on the training gear, and let's practice walking like your lives depend on it. Because they do."