Inside the Hall of Mental Cultivation, the air was thick with the scent of a grand, unfolding deception. Qin Shi Huang was playing the final, cruel act of his long, intricate drama, and he was savoring every moment. He stood with Yuan Shikai before the great world map, a god condescending to explain his cosmos to a favored, mortal high priest. Yuan, buoyed by the Emperor's warm reception, had fully embraced the role, his initial paranoia melting away under the heat of his own rekindled ambition.
The Emperor's finger, long and pale, traced a path from the heart of China, down through the jungles of Burma, and into the sprawling, chaotic expanse of the Indian subcontinent. His voice was that of a master strategist, a visionary sharing the breathtaking scope of his plans with his most indispensable minister.
"The march of Marshal Meng Tian's Northern Army to the southern frontier will be the greatest feat of human logistics in modern history," Qin Shi Huang said, a faint, almost imperceptible note of amusement in his tone. "It will involve over half a million fighting men, and another million in support. They will need millions of tons of rice, tens of thousands of mules and horses, new railways that must be built through mountains, and river barges to choke the Yangtze. The British believe it is impossible. Their generals in Calcutta and London are right now laughing at their intelligence reports, convincing themselves that my ambition has finally outstripped my reason."
He turned from the map, his dark eyes fixing on Yuan Shikai. He was now fully in the Emperor's mind, watching this final, pathetic masquerade with a cold, predatory contempt. He could see the faint sheen of sweat on Yuan's brow, a dampness that had nothing to do with the cool temperature of the hall. He could see the flicker of genuine, greedy calculation in Yuan's eyes as the man processed the immense scale of the undertaking—and the immense opportunities for graft and power it would present.
"Minister-President," Qin Shi Huang said, his voice a silken trap. "You are a master of logistics. A genius of supply and finance. You made the northern campaign possible. Now, you must tell me: how do we make the impossible possible once more?"
It was the ultimate psychological torture. For the next hour, he forced Yuan Shikai to be a patriot. He made the arch-traitor stand before the map of his master's grand conquest and meticulously, brilliantly, lay out the very plans that would bring it to fruition. Yuan, eager to prove his worth, to cement his indispensable status, threw himself into the task with vigor. He spoke of leveraging his American financial contacts to secure loans for railway construction. He detailed a plan to requisition grain from the central provinces with ruthless efficiency. He suggested new taxation schemes to fund the war effort. He was magnificent. He was a fountain of cunning, practical advice on how to fuel the very war machine he had spent the last year trying to sabotage for his British masters. And with every insightful suggestion, with every clever solution, he was unknowingly tightening the noose around his own neck.
Qin Shi Huang listened, nodding occasionally, a faint, encouraging smile on his face. He watched the man who had betrayed him, the serpent he had allowed to nest in his court, and felt nothing but a profound, icy disdain. This was the creature that had dared to match wits with him? This sweating, ambitious fool, so blinded by his own cleverness that he could not see the abyss opening beneath his feet? It was pathetic.
As Yuan was passionately detailing a scheme to convert civilian textile factories into uniform-production lines, the great, lacquered doors at the far end of the hall swung open without a sound.
A single, high-ranking palace eunuch, the same who had greeted Yuan at the train station, entered. He moved with the slow, solemn, ritualistic purpose of a man participating in a state funeral. In his hands, he carried a heavy, black lacquer box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He walked to the Emperor's desk, placed the box upon its polished surface, and bowed so low his forehead touched the floor. Then, just as silently, he retreated from the room, the great doors closing behind him with a soft, final thud.
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The warm, collaborative energy of the war council evaporated, replaced by a sudden, glacial cold. The masquerade was over. Yuan Shikai fell silent mid-sentence, his hand still pointing at a city on the map. He stared at the black box on the Emperor's desk as if it were a venomous snake. His face, which had been animated with self-importance, went slack, the color draining from it until it was the color of old parchment.
Qin Shi Huang did not look at Yuan. He walked slowly, deliberately, from the map to his desk. He ran a single finger over the smooth, cool lacquer of the box, then, with an unhurried motion, he lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of imperial yellow silk, were two objects. The first was a sheaf of papers, covered in the frantic, desperate calligraphy of a confession, signed at the bottom with a bloody thumbprint. The second was a thick, leather-bound ledger.
The Emperor picked up the ledger. He did not open it to the first page. He flipped through it casually, as if it were a mildly interesting book of poetry. He paused on one page, then another, his eyes scanning the neat columns of figures and names. Yuan Shikai stood frozen by the map, his breath hitched in his throat, his carefully constructed world collapsing in on him in the horrifying, silent space between the turning of the pages.
Finally, Qin Shi Huang looked up. His eyes were no longer the eyes of a ruler consulting his minister. They were the eyes of a god—ancient, pitiless, and utterly devoid of mercy—staring at an insect that had briefly amused him.
His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost conversational, a terrifying counterpoint to the storm that was about to break.
"Minister-President," he began, "your advice on supplying our armies is, as always, insightful. This ledger, however… it seems to detail a different, and far more profitable, supply chain." He held the book up, its open pages facing Yuan. "Payments to Green Gang lieutenants in Shanghai. Large, undocumented transfers from British banks in Hong Kong. Shipments of secrets, not grain. Dates and times of troop movements sold for silver."
He let the book fall closed with a soft thud. He looked directly at Yuan, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips for the first time.
"Tell me," he said, his voice a silken razor, "your stable master, Guo Liang. Does he offer you equally insightful advice on your dealings with our enemies?"
It was the final, killing blow. The name. The specific title. The undeniable proof that the Emperor knew everything.
The elaborate construct of Yuan Shikai—the powerful statesman, the cunning manipulator, the indispensable man—shattered into a million pieces. The man who was left was a terrified, blubbering creature, his face a grotesque mask of disbelief and horror. A strangled, animal sound escaped his throat, and he collapsed to the floor, his knees hitting the polished wood with a loud crack.
"Your Majesty… a misunderstanding… I have been framed!" he babbled, crawling forward on his hands and knees, tears and snot streaming down his face. "My enemies… they conspire against me! I am loyal! I have always been loyal! Mercy, Son of Heaven, mercy!"
Qin Shi Huang watched the pathetic display with the detached contempt of a biologist observing a lower life form. He had seen kings and princes grovel in his first life. This was nothing new. He made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with his left hand.
As if summoned by an invisible force, the great doors of the hall swung open once more. This time, it was not a eunuch. Shen Ke, his spymaster, stood on the threshold, his face as impassive and calm as a frozen lake. Flanking him, in two perfect lines, were a dozen Imperial Guardsmen from the elite Tiger Division, their faces hidden behind snarling, gilded masks, their hands gripping seven-foot-long halberds, the razor-sharp blades gleaming in the lamplight. The gilded cage had sprung.
Two of the guards strode forward, their armored boots making no sound on the floor. They seized Yuan Shikai by the arms, hauling him roughly to his feet. He began to scream then, a high, thin, animal shriek of pure terror, struggling in their iron grip.
Qin Shi Huang rose slowly from behind his desk, his full height seeming to fill the room, his shadow stretching long and dark across the floor. His voice, no longer soft, boomed with the cold, absolute, and inhuman finality of the First Emperor passing judgment on a world he owned.
"For the crime of high treason against the Dragon Throne, for the selling of our secrets to foreign devils, for the blood of my soldiers spilled by your greed, and for the unforgivable sin of betraying my trust, I, the Son of Heaven, sentence you to the Lingchi."
He let the ancient, horrifying word hang in the air.
"Death by a thousand cuts. Your execution will be public. Let your end be a lesson to all who would dare to serve two masters in my Empire."
Yuan's screams were cut off as a guard slammed a gauntleted hand over his mouth. He was dragged, kicking and struggling, from the hall, his eyes wide with a madness born of absolute terror.
The great doors closed, and silence returned. Qin Shi Huang was left alone with his spymaster. He looked at the silent, efficient man who had so perfectly executed his will. Then he turned his back on the desk with its sordid relics of betrayal and looked once more at the map of India. The internal rot had been carved out. The cancer was gone.
"The serpent is dead," the Emperor said, his voice flat, devoid of triumph, holding only the cold promise of what was to come. "Now, we deal with the lions."