The celebratory atmosphere of the naval commissioning at Port Arthur was shattered by the arrival of an urgent dispatch from the capital. A military courier, his horse lathered and near collapse, delivered a sealed yellow pouch directly to Prince Gong. The news within was grim and explosive, and it immediately demanded the convocation of an emergency session of the Grand Council upon their return to Beijing.
A fire had been lit in the Korean peninsula, the Qing's most important and most vulnerable tributary state. A major military mutiny had erupted in the capital city of Seoul. The historical event, known as the Imo Incident, had unfolded just as Ying Zheng knew it would. Korean soldiers from the old garrisons, their pay in arrears for over a year and their rations consisting of sand-filled rice, had finally rebelled. Their rage was directed at the corrupt officials of their own court, but also, significantly, at the growing influence of the Japanese, who had been training and equipping a new, elite Korean unit with Western rifles and tactics.
The mutiny had been violent. The royal palace had been stormed, government ministers had been assassinated, and the Japanese legation had been burned to the ground, several of its staff killed by the angry mob. It was a crisis of the highest order, a complete breakdown of authority in a nation that sat directly on the Qing's northeastern doorstep.
In the Grand Council chamber, the mood was one of alarm and confusion. The same conservative ministers who had been shamed into silence over the naval debates now saw an opportunity to reassert their cautious ideology.
Grand Councillor Ronglu, his confidence somewhat restored, rose to speak. "This is a tragic internal affair for the Korean court," he argued, his tone grave. "We must act with restraint. To send our armies would be to interfere in the matters of a vassal, an act of overbearance. We should send envoys, offer our diplomatic assistance, and urge for a peaceful resolution. A rash military action could provoke a wider conflict."
He was, of course, advocating for the traditional, slow, and ultimately passive approach. It was a strategy born of a deep-seated fear of foreign entanglement, a fear that had paralyzed the court for decades.
Ying Zheng, now a youth of eleven, sat on his throne beside Empress Dowager Ci'an. He listened to the arguments, his face a mask of youthful seriousness. He had been preparing for this moment for years. This was the flashpoint he had been waiting for, the crisis that would allow him to test his new military and decisively confront Japan's ambitions. He leaned over and whispered to his regent.
Ci'an, no longer the timid and hesitant woman of the past, listened intently to the boy's words. Her own confidence had grown immensely over the years, bolstered by the undeniable success of the reforms she now championed. She had come to trust the Emperor's strange, almost supernatural foresight as the dynasty's greatest asset. She nodded, then rose to her feet, her presence commanding an immediate silence in the hall.
"The Emperor has shared his wisdom with me," she announced, her voice clear and firm. "And his wisdom is this: Korea is not the Ryukyu Islands. It is not a distant, ceremonial vassal state separated from us by a wide sea. It shares a land border with our Manchu homeland. A fire in Seoul, if left unchecked, can easily spread to our own house."
She looked directly at Ronglu, her gentle eyes now holding a core of steel. "The Japanese have been aggressively increasing their political and military influence in Korea for years. They have trained their own faction within the Korean army. This mutiny gives them the perfect pretext to intervene on a massive scale. If we wait for diplomats to exchange pleasantries, we will find that a Japanese army has landed, placed its own puppet on the Korean throne, and turned our vassal state into a dagger pointed at the heart of Manchuria."
Ying Zheng, through her, had perfectly articulated the strategic reality of the situation.
Prince Gong stood in support. "The Empress Regent is correct. This is not a diplomatic incident; it is a direct threat to the security of the realm. We must restore order in our vassal state before the Japanese do it for us, and claim it as their own protectorate."
The argument was unassailable. To hesitate now would be an act of strategic suicide. Li Hongzhang, as the head of the new Office of Western Affairs, made the formal proposal.
"I propose an immediate military intervention," he declared. "We will dispatch the new Beiyang Fleet to the Korean coast. They will land an expeditionary force of our own modern-trained troops. Their mission will be threefold: first, to protect the Korean royal family. Second, to suppress the mutiny and punish its leaders. And third, to decisively and forcefully expel any and all Japanese military influence from the capital."
It was a bold, aggressive plan, a complete reversal of the Qing's traditionally passive foreign policy. It was the policy of a nation that was finally willing to act like a great power again.
The decision was made. The edict was sealed. The first-ever operational deployment of China's new, modern army and navy was authorized. They were not just going to restore order; they were going on a direct collision course with the ambitions of the Empire of Japan.
As the council meeting broke up, the ministers hurrying to implement the new orders, Ying Zheng remained seated on his throne for a moment. He looked at the map of East Asia that hung on the wall. His first major pieces were now in motion. His navy, built with stolen silver. His army, trained by a new generation of officers. All of it was now converging on the Korean peninsula. The long, slow chess game of his Second Reign was finally escalating. He had been preparing his forces, forging his weapons, and waiting for the inevitable conflict. The fire in Seoul was the signal flare. The war was coming.