Ying Zheng was in a state of deep, focused satisfaction. The grand strategy he had set in motion was proceeding with the precision of a well-oiled machine. From his quiet study, he directed the affairs of the empire like a master puppeteer. The reports that flowed to him daily painted a picture of stunning success on all fronts.
In Tianjin, the first steel had been poured, a tangible symbol of the industrial revolution he was igniting. His handpicked expert, Li Fengbao, was now a figure of immense authority, guiding the development of the new fleet with an engineer's logic rather than a courtier's vanity. In the capital, Prince Gong and Empress Dowager Ci'an, his willing and unwitting proxies, now controlled the government's finances and military planning. Their new audit office was systematically strangling the resources of the old conservative faction.
And far to the southwest, in the remote mountains of Sichuan, the most critical phase of his covert war was about to begin. He had just received a final, coded message from Meng Tian. His general was in position, the trap was set, and the caravan carrying the next generation of Cixi's assassins was drawing near.
He had grown comfortable, perhaps for the first time since his rude awakening in this era. He had neutralized his primary political rival, Cixi, and believed her to be a caged animal, politically declawed and no longer a primary threat. His focus had shifted from the petty intrigues of the palace to the larger, more important goals of forging a nation of steel and preparing for the wars of the next century. He had won the game of thrones. Now he was playing the game of empires.
It was this very sense of security, this focus on the grand strategy, that made him vulnerable. He had overlooked the simplest, most ancient form of courtly warfare.
His two personal attendants, the former assassins Lotus and Ying, did not share his comfort. Their lives had been spent in the shadows of the School of the Silent Orchid, and their instincts, honed by a lifetime of paranoia and survival, screamed at them that their former mistress was not a creature who would ever accept defeat. They had become the last line of defense for his physical body, a silent, hyper-aware counter-intelligence unit operating within his own chambers.
They monitored everything. Every new eunuch who entered the room, every delivery of fruit, every change in the laundry. Their vigilance was absolute.
One evening, a new dish was presented for the Emperor's dinner. It was sent from the kitchens of the Summer Palace, a "gesture of goodwill" from the exiled Cixi. It was a delicate, fragrant soup, a famous Cantonese recipe known for its health-giving properties, made with rare herbs and slow-simmered for hours.
The food-tasting eunuch, a man whose job it was to risk death at every meal, performed his duty. He took a silver needle and dipped it into the soup. The needle remained bright and untarnished, a sign that there were no common inorganic poisons present. He then took a small sip from a separate bowl and waited for the prescribed period. He showed no ill effects.
"The soup is safe, Your Majesty," he declared.
But Ying, who had been watching the process with an unnerving stillness, stepped forward. According to the strict palace protocol she now enforced, she too had to taste every dish before it reached the Emperor's lips. She took a small, clean porcelain spoon and sampled the broth.
She held the liquid in her mouth for a moment, her senses, trained to detect the subtlest of deviations, analyzing the flavor profile. Her expression did not change, but Lotus, who knew her better than anyone, saw a flicker of something in her eyes.
Later that night, after Ying Zheng had retired, the two of them met in the antechamber.
"Did you taste it?" Ying asked, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "In the broth."
Lotus nodded. "I did. It was faint. Hidden beneath the flavors of ginger and star anise. A bitter aftertaste. Almost like… almond, but not quite. Softer."
"Exactly," Ying confirmed. Her training had included the memorization of hundreds of poisons, both mineral and botanical. "It was not a known, fast-acting poison. The silver needle would never have detected it. But it was there. Something was wrong."
Lotus, whose training had focused more on herbs and medicines, added his own observation. "And the herbs they used. They were all 'calming' herbs, it is true. But that specific combination… our instructor at the school taught us about it. When brewed together over a long period, they have a cumulative depressive effect on a developing body. They can slow the thoughts, create lethargy, and weaken the spirit. It is a medicine that, over time, becomes a subtle poison."
They brought their suspicions to Ying Zheng immediately. He was in his sleeping robes, reviewing a map of the Sichuan mountain passes. He listened to their report, but his initial reaction was one of dismissal.
"She would not dare," he said, his focus still on the larger strategic picture. "She knows she is being watched. She knows every morsel of my food is tasted. A clumsy attempt at poisoning would be discovered instantly, and it would be the final pretext Prince Gong needs to have her executed."
Ying stepped forward, her usual deference replaced by a fierce urgency. She knelt before him. "Your Majesty, forgive my impertinence, but you are thinking like an emperor. You must think like an assassin. She is not trying to kill you. Not quickly. That would be foolish."
Her eyes burned with the intensity of her conviction. "This is different. This is the work of a master like Old Wu, her poison expert. This is a slow attack. A war against your body itself. They will introduce things into your food, your tea, the incense that burns in your room, the oils in your lamps—substances that are harmless in a single dose, but that will accumulate over months, over years. They will weaken you, cloud your mind, make you genuinely, chronically ill. They will turn the 'frail' emperor of their reports into a reality."
She looked up at him, her face pale. "You have caged the tiger, Your Majesty. But a tiger's claws can still reach through the bars, and she is trying to poison the very air you breathe."
Ying Zheng looked from the fierce, loyal face of his assassin-guard to the map on his desk. A cold dread, an emotion he had not felt in a very long time, settled in his gut. He had made a critical error. He had been so focused on his grand, strategic victories, on the movements of armies and the flow of silver, that he had overlooked the most ancient and intimate of threats. He had forgotten that the easiest way to topple a king is not to attack his castle, but to poison his cup.
He had won the political war, but a new, secret war of biology and poison had just been declared against his most vulnerable asset: his own four-year-old body. He now had to fight not just for the future of his empire, but for his own life, against an enemy he thought he had already defeated.