The grand hall of the Ministry of Revenue was buzzing, not with the usual drone of bureaucratic industry, but with the high-strung hum of nervous energy. The news, passed in hushed whispers and frantic missives from the Forbidden City, had settled over the ministry like a gathering storm cloud. The Emperor, who was said to be on his deathbed from a virulent chill, had made a miraculous recovery. And his first act had been to seal the gates and mobilize the Imperial Guard. No one knew what it meant, and in the vacuum of knowledge, fear and speculation thrived.
At the center of one particularly loud knot of officials stood Treasurer Ma Jinlong, a portly Manchu bannerman whose girth was matched only by his arrogance. His position, his wealth, and his influence were all gifts from the Old Buddha, Cixi, and he had long considered the reformist faction of Prince Gong to be little more than a temporary annoyance.
"A chill?" he scoffed, his voice carrying easily across the polished floorboards. He took a delicate sip of tea from a porcelain cup, his pinky finger extended. "Nonsense. The boy has always been weak, prone to fainting spells and melancholy. This is just another gambit by Gong to seize power while the Emperor is… indisposed. He's using the boy's delicate health as a pretext to lock down the city and consolidate his own authority."
A junior official, a Han scholar with a perpetually worried expression, edged closer. "But my lord Treasurer, they say the Imperial Guard has been mobilized. Not the old palace sentries, but the new units. General Meng's men."
Treasurer Ma waved a dismissive hand, spilling a few drops of tea. "Posturing! It is all posturing to frighten old women and timid scholars! Meng is a brutish upstart, Gong's pet dog. They bark loudly, but they have no teeth without the Emperor's personal seal. And the boy is in no condition to grant it. Mark my words, this will all blow over in a day or two. The Old Buddha has deep roots. They cannot be pulled up so easily." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, about that shipment of grain for the northern garrisons. The payment from the treasury has been secured, of course, but the grain itself… it can be delayed. My associates in Tianjin offer a far better price for such high-quality surplus. A delay of a few weeks will be a boon for our own coffers and will go entirely unnoticed."
Before the junior official could stammer a reply, the great, lacquered doors of the ministry hall burst inward with a deafening crash.
Every head in the hall snapped toward the entrance. The buzzing conversations died instantly. In the doorway stood not a panicked messenger, but the formidable figure of Prince Gong. His face was like a mask of cold fury, his eyes promising retribution. He was flanked not by his usual retinue of scholarly aides, but by a dozen of Meng Tian's Imperial Guards.
They were a terrifying sight. Clad in functional, black silk uniforms devoid of all ornamentation, they moved with a silent, predatory grace. They carried not the ceremonial sabers of palace guards, but gleaming, newly forged polearms—ji halberds whose design harkened back to the ancient Qin dynasty. They fanned out, securing the exits, their silence more menacing than any war cry. The air in the hall grew thick and cold.
Prince Gong strode into the center of the room, his boots echoing with an awful finality. He held a scroll in one hand. His gaze swept over the terrified faces, but he did not acknowledge them. His voice, when he spoke, was as cold and sharp as winter ice.
"By Imperial Decree, issued this morning by the Son of Heaven, the Guangxu Emperor. In light of a heinous and cowardly plot against the life of the throne, a full and immediate review of all ministerial appointments has been ordered."
He let the words hang in the air, a death sentence for the guilty. Then, his eyes, like chips of obsidian, found his target.
"Treasurer Ma."
Ma Jinlong, who had been frozen in place, forced a greasy smile to his lips. He shuffled forward, bowing low, the picture of obsequious loyalty. "Prince Gong! Your Highness! To what do we owe this unexpected honor? Is the Emperor truly well? This is wonderful news for the Empire!"
Prince Gong did not return the pleasantry. He simply unrolled the scroll. "Ma Jinlong. For the crimes of conspiracy against the throne, embezzlement of military funds intended for the northern garrisons, illicit correspondence with known traitors at the Summer Palace, and gross dereliction of duty… you are hereby stripped of your rank and title. Your assets, your properties, and your accounts are seized for the state. You are to be handed over to the Department of Punishments for immediate interrogation."
The color drained from Treasurer Ma's face, replaced by a blotchy, mottled purple. "This is… this is an outrage! Slander! On what grounds do you make these accusations?! You have no proof! This is a political purge, Gong! A coup! I will appeal to the Empress Dowager! She will not stand for this!"
"The only Empress Dowager with authority is Her Majesty Ci'an," Prince Gong stated flatly. "And her seal is right here, next to the Emperor's." He gestured to an aide, who stepped forward and unrolled a second, much longer scroll. It was a page from Cixi's stolen ledger, its neat columns detailing dates, amounts, and recipients. "As for proof, we have this. A ledger detailing every bribe you have taken for the last five years. We have the confessions of the couriers who carried your messages to the Summer Palace. We have everything." He looked past the sputtering treasurer, his voice like the fall of a headsman's axe. "Guards. Take him."
Two of the black-clad soldiers moved with brutal efficiency. They seized Ma Jinlong by the arms, his cries of outrage turning into shrieks of panic. "You cannot do this! I am a Manchu Bannerman! My family has served the Qing for two hundred years! I demand to see the Emperor!"
His pleas were ignored. He was half-dragged, half-carried from the hall, his flailing leaving one of his silk slippers behind on the polished floor.
Prince Gong calmly rolled his scroll back up and continued down the list, his voice a relentless monotone of judgment. "Vice-Minister Chen Guang. For redirecting funds meant for naval cannons to private construction projects…" He paused and looked at the trembling man. "Arrest him."
"Scribe Liu Wei. For passing ministry schedules to unsanctioned parties…"
"Auditor Feng Jie. For falsifying supply reports for the past three years…"
With each name, another official was seized. The atmosphere in the hall transformed, moving through stages of disbelief, to fear, and finally to a stark, silent terror. This was not posturing. This was not a political maneuver. This was a cleansing. An iron broom sweeping the halls clean with absolute, merciless force. The old order was not just falling; it was being systematically dismantled and thrown into the fire.
At that very moment, as the sun's first rays broke over the hills west of Beijing, that same iron broom was sweeping through the Summer Palace. The pre-dawn mist swirled around the ornate pavilions and tranquil lakes, muffling all sound. Meng Tian and his hundred guards were not storming the palace; they were infiltrating it, flowing through the gates and over the walls like wisps of smoke.
There were no shouts. Meng Tian communicated with crisp, silent hand signals he had drilled into his men for months. Disperse. Encircle. Subdue.
"Team Alpha," he whispered to his lieutenant, a hard-faced veteran named Bao. "You secure the outer residences. The lesser concubines, the retired officials. Detain them all. Team Beta, you take the kitchens and the main servant halls. I want every cook, every launderer, every gardener. No one is clean. Gamma Team, you are with me. We are going for the central pavilion. The serpent's nest." His eyes were cold. "No alarms. Anyone who offers resistance is to be neutralized. Our primary target is the poisoner, Wu. He is to be taken alive. The rest… are merely cattle for the pen."
What followed was a masterpiece of silent, coordinated violence. Guards in black silk slid through moon gates, their soft-soled boots making no sound on the stone paths. They picked intricate locks with swift, practiced movements. They appeared like ghosts in the eunuchs' lavish sleeping quarters, subduing the inhabitants before they could even cry out. A hand over the mouth, a sharp rap to the base of the skull with a weighted pommel. Muffled grunts, the thud of bodies being bound and gagged, but no alarm bells rang. The entire operation was conducted in a ghostly quiet, a terrifying testament to their new training.
Meng Tian himself led the charge on the personal residence of Old Wu. He didn't bother with the lock. A single, perfectly placed kick shattered the ornate door and its frame. He burst into the room.
The ancient eunuch was awake, seated on a meditation cushion, a pot of steaming tea before him. He was dressed in fine, embroidered silk. He showed no surprise, no fear, only a kind of weary, arrogant annoyance at the interruption.
"General Meng," Old Wu said, his voice thin and reedy. "I was wondering when the boy's dogs would finally arrive."
Meng Tian strode forward, his sword still sheathed. "The Emperor sends his regards. He requests an audience to discuss your… horticultural pursuits."
A cruel, thin-lipped smile touched Old Wu's withered face. He truly believed he had succeeded. "Does he now? An audience with a ghost? He should be a bloated, stinking corpse by now. My Children of the Rot are never wrong. Tell me, General, does his skin peel from his bones yet? Does he choke on the black fluid that was once his lungs?"
Meng Tian didn't answer. He simply gestured with his chin. Two of his guards, massive men from the northern plains, stepped forward and seized the old man by his spindly arms. Old Wu, possessed of a surprising wiry strength, struggled for a moment, but it was useless. As they hauled him from his chambers out into the courtyard, he saw it. The entire inner circle of the Summer Palace—dozens of senior eunuchs, spies, and assassins—all kneeling in neat rows, their hands bound, bags over their heads. The swift, silent, and total collapse of his world finally registered on his face. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock, and then, the first glimmer of fear.