The storm over Seoul passed as quickly and as unnaturally as it had arrived. The dark clouds dissipated, leaving behind a city that was rain-washed, unnaturally cold, and eerily quiet. The great mob of mutineers that had surrounded the Japanese legation had vanished, scattered by the violent downpour and their own superstitious terror. The Japanese diplomats and guards, peering out from their barricaded windows, found themselves in a state of stunned, bewildered silence. They had been saved.
It was into this quiet aftermath that the disciplined columns of the Qing army finally arrived. General Yuan Shikai, at the head of two battalions of his best troops, marched up to the legation, his men moving with the crisp efficiency of a modern army. They quickly secured the surrounding area, dispersing the last few stragglers and officially lifting the siege.
General Yuan dismounted and approached the main entrance of the beleaguered building. The Japanese Minister, Hanabusa Yoshimoto, a man who had been preparing for his own death just an hour earlier, ordered the barricades removed. He emerged, his formal Western suit disheveled, his face pale with exhaustion, but his life intact.
He looked at the ranks of disciplined Qing soldiers, at their modern rifles and their confident commander, and then at the empty, rain-slicked street where a murderous mob had once stood. He bowed deeply to Yuan Shikai.
"General," Hanabusa said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "On behalf of my government and His Majesty the Meiji Emperor, I offer you my most profound and humble gratitude. You and your brave soldiers have arrived in a most timely fashion. You have saved the lives of myself and my entire staff."
Yuan Shikai returned the bow with a cool, formal correctness. He was following the precise instructions that had been relayed to him from the new Office of Western Affairs in Beijing, instructions that had been crafted by Ying Zheng himself.
"It is the duty of the Great Qing to maintain order and protect all foreign envoys within the borders of its tributary states, Minister Hanabusa," Yuan said, his voice calm and authoritative. "The mutiny has been suppressed. The Korean king is secure in his palace. There is no further danger."
At that exact moment, a new sound was heard from the far end of the street—the rhythmic tramp of marching boots and the shouted commands of officers in Japanese. The Japanese relief force, having finally disembarked at Incheon and force-marched to the capital, was at last arriving on the scene.
A Japanese commander, Captain Ito, the same man who had faced down Deng Shichang in Naha harbor, strode forward at the head of his troops. He took in the scene with a glance: the secure legation, the disciplined Qing soldiers, his own shaken but living minister. A look of deep, bitter frustration crossed his face. He was too late. The crisis was already over.
He approached Yuan Shikai, his hand resting on the hilt of his Western-style cavalry saber. "General," he said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "I am pleased to see my countrymen are safe. My troops are here now to secure the capital and ensure that such an unfortunate incident never happens again. We will establish a permanent guard in Seoul to protect Japanese interests."
Yuan Shikai listened politely, then shook his head, a faint, almost pitying smile on his lips. "There is no need, Captain Ito," he said, his voice still perfectly calm. "As you can see, the Great Qing has already fulfilled its duty to its vassal state. Order has been completely restored. The mutiny is over. Your minister and his staff are perfectly safe, thanks to the timely and effective intervention of our forces."
The words were a diplomatic masterstroke. They were polite, correct, and utterly devastating. Yuan Shikai was not just taking credit for resolving the crisis; he was explicitly stating that the Japanese military presence was now unnecessary. He had framed the Qing not as a clumsy interloper, but as the competent, responsible great power restoring order to its own sphere of influence.
Captain Ito was left speechless and furious. He was diplomatically checkmated. His government's perfect pretext for establishing a permanent military garrison in Seoul had been stolen from them. They could not land their troops in force now—for what reason? To protect a minister who was already safe? To suppress a rebellion that had already been crushed? To do so would be a blatant, aggressive invasion with no justification, an act that would draw the condemnation of the Western powers.
They had been completely and utterly outmaneuvered.
More than that, they now owed the Qing Dynasty a profound and humiliating diplomatic debt. The Qing army had just saved the life of their minister. The story, which Yuan Shikai's staff was already drafting for the couriers back to Beijing, would be a tale of Chinese strength and benevolence. The Palace Gazette, now a formidable tool of international propaganda under Shen Ke's direction, would broadcast this narrative to the entire world. The image of the "Sick Man of Asia" had been replaced, for the moment, by the image of a responsible, powerful neighbor, tidying up its own backyard.
The Japanese commander, his face a mask of thunder, was forced to offer his own grudging thanks to General Yuan before withdrawing his troops to a temporary encampment outside the city. They were guests in a land they had come to conquer.
Back in Beijing, Ying Zheng looked at the map of Korea on his study wall. A small smile touched his lips. He had not only prevented a Japanese takeover of the peninsula, but he had done so in a way that had elevated the Qing's international prestige while publicly humiliating his primary rival. He had used his superhuman general to decapitate the rebellion's leadership, and he had used his own, god-like power to save the very diplomats whose government he planned to fight. It was all part of a larger, intricate strategy.
He had won the first battle of the coming war before a single official shot had been fired between the two nations. He had demonstrated to the world that China was no longer a passive victim. And he had shown his enemies that the dragon they thought was sleeping had awoken, and its mind was as sharp and as cold as the steel of its new ships.