The Grand Council convened in an atmosphere utterly transformed. The bitter, factional strife that had defined the court for over a year had been washed away by a powerful, unifying tide of national pride. The news from the Korean peninsula had spread through the capital like a wildfire, a tale of decisive action and diplomatic triumph that the Qing Dynasty had not experienced in living memory. The successful intervention was more than a military victory; it was a psychological one. It was the first, heady taste of renewed strength.
Prince Gong stood before the throne, his bearing confident and his voice ringing with an authority that was no longer challenged. He read the final, official report from General Yuan Shikai in Seoul. The details were even better than the initial dispatches had suggested. The mutiny had been crushed with stunning efficiency and minimal Qing casualties. The Korean king and his court were safe and overflowing with gratitude. And the Japanese, who had arrived with their warships expecting to dictate terms to a chaotic nation, had been forced into the humiliating position of thanking the Qing army for saving their own diplomats. They had been diplomatically outmaneuvered, their ambitions checked, and their military posturing revealed as premature.
As the Prince spoke, a current of genuine, patriotic fervor ran through the assembled ministers and nobles. For the first time in decades, they were not discussing a humiliating concession, a lost territory, or a crippling indemnity. They were discussing a victory.
The conservative faction, the old guard led by Prince Chun and Ronglu, sat in stony, defeated silence. Every word of Prince Gong's report was a nail in the coffin of their ideology. Their dire warnings against modernization, their arguments that the new fleet was a waste of silver, their insistence on relying on the empire's "moral virtue"—all of it now seemed foolish, weak, and dangerously out of touch with reality. The very army and navy they had opposed had just become the instruments of a great national triumph. To criticize the military now would be to criticize victory itself, an unpatriotic and untenable position. They were utterly silenced, their political capital evaporated overnight.
Prince Gong and Viceroy Li Hongzhang, masters of political timing, knew that this was their moment to press the advantage. This wave of nationalist pride was a powerful weapon, one they intended to use to push through the final, most ambitious pieces of their modernization agenda.
"The success in Korea is a testament to the wisdom of this new era," Prince Gong declared, his gaze sweeping over the cowed faces of his former opponents. "It proves that when we act with unity, with decisiveness, and with the proper modern tools, the Great Qing is a power to be reckoned with. But this is only a beginning. A single victory does not win a war. The Japanese have been momentarily checked, but their ambition has not been extinguished. We must use this momentum to forge a shield so strong that no one will ever dare to challenge our sovereignty again."
He then made his proposal, the one that had been secretly drafted by Ying Zheng's team and was waiting for this perfect political moment.
"I, along with Viceroy Li, formally propose the full and immediate implementation of the edicts establishing the Imperial Military Academy at Tianjin," he announced.
This was the project the conservatives had most feared, the one they had been plotting to resist with their campaign of cultural warfare.
Empress Dowager Ci'an, seated on the dais, her presence now a symbol of calm, unwavering authority, gave her formal support. "The events in Korea have proven the Emperor's wisdom beyond any doubt," she said, her voice clear and firm for all to hear. "He has long insisted that a strong, modern military is not a break from tradition, but the only way to preserve our sacred traditions in a dangerous new world. The academy will be the forge. It will create the next generation of loyal and competent guardians for this dynasty. It will proceed with the full backing of the throne."
With the regent's unequivocal support and the conservative opposition in disarray, the floor was open for Li Hongzhang to present the final, detailed edicts. They were even more sweeping than the initial proposals.
The first edict laid out the structure of the academy. It would be a comprehensive institution with two distinct branches: an Army War College and a Naval War College. It would have a rigorous, multi-year curriculum based on German and British models, covering everything from modern tactics and logistics to naval engineering and international law. A permanent corps of foreign instructors would be hired, to be paid handsome salaries to ensure they were the best in their fields.
The second edict was even more radical. It mandated that within five years, all officers in the new Beiyang Army and Navy holding a rank of captain or higher must either be a graduate of the new academy or pass a series of grueling new competency examinations. Failure would mean immediate dismissal or demotion. This was a direct declaration of war on the old system of cronyism and nepotism.
The third and final edict was the masterstroke. It established a new government body, the Zongli Yamen, or Office of Western Affairs. This powerful new ministry, to be headed by Li Hongzhang himself, would now centralize and control all foreign diplomacy, all international trade negotiations, and, most critically, all matters related to the acquisition of Western technology. It was a massive consolidation of power, taking these crucial functions out of the hands of the disparate, competing boards of the old bureaucracy and placing them under the direct control of the modernist faction.
There was no debate. There were no objections. The conservatives sat in their fine silk robes, their faces pale, and said nothing. They had been completely outmaneuvered, their arguments rendered irrelevant by real-world events. To stand against these proposals now would be to stand against the tide of history itself.
The edicts were passed by unanimous consent. The Imperial seals were affixed. In the space of a single morning, empowered by a single, decisive military victory, Ying Zheng's faction had achieved what should have taken years of bitter political fighting. They had secured the foundation for a completely new, professional military elite and centralized all the tools of modernization under their direct control. The path was now clear. The new order was not just a political reality; it was now the engine driving the entire state.