The naval base at Port Arthur was a hive of nervous energy. The Second Army, twenty thousand strong, waited for orders, but the news that trickled back from the front was a poison that seeped into their ranks, breeding fear and confusion. First came the triumphant, official report of the navy's great victory. Then, a chilling silence from Pyongyang, followed by wild rumors carried by Korean fishermen and traders—stories of a second battle, a land battle, a catastrophic defeat. The soldiers, who had been preparing for their own glorious campaign, now stood around in anxious knots, their confidence eroding with each passing hour.
Into this atmosphere of uncertainty, the Emperor arrived.
There was no grand procession, no warning. A squadron of sleek, grey dispatch cruisers sliced into the harbor at high speed, their Imperial Dragon flags snapping in the wind. The ships docked with military precision, and a single gangplank was lowered. From it emerged Qin Shi Huang, dressed not in his formal court robes, but in a severe, high-collared black tunic of Western cut that seemed to amplify his cold authority. He was flanked by the immense, stone-faced General Meng Tian, and followed by two hundred of the Imperial Guard, their own black uniforms and modern rifles a stark, terrifying contrast to the more colorful Qing army regulars.
The soldiers on the docks stared, their conversations dying in their throats. "It's him! The Son of Heaven is here!" one whispered, his voice filled with awe.
"Look at his guards," another muttered to his comrade. "They don't look like soldiers. They look like executioners."
"Why is he here? Has something happened? Is the war lost?"
An hour later, a battered, stinking transport ship limped into the harbor. It carried the few hundred survivors of the Gongzi Army who had managed to escape the encirclement of Pyongyang before the final Japanese assault. They were led by Colonel Feng, the cautious officer who had questioned General Wei's reckless plan. They were the lucky ones, and they looked like ghosts—disheveled, defeated, their eyes hollow with shame and horror. As they stumbled onto the dock, they were not greeted as comrades. They were met by a contingent of Meng Tian's guards, who surrounded them, arrested them, and marched them under armed guard to the main military parade ground.
The Emperor's will was swift and absolute. Bugles blared across the base, and the entire Second Army was ordered to assemble on the vast parade ground, forming a massive, silent square. They watched as the disgraced survivors from Pyongyang were marched into the center and forced to their knees.
Then, the Emperor appeared. He walked to a raised platform erected in the center of the square, Meng Tian at his side. He stood there for a long time, his silence a palpable force, his cold gaze sweeping over the twenty thousand assembled soldiers, then settling on the kneeling, shamed men before him.
Colonel Feng was dragged from the group and thrown to the ground at the foot of the platform.
"Colonel Feng," QSH said. His voice was unnaturally calm, yet it carried with an unnatural clarity to every corner of the silent square. Every soldier heard every word as if it were whispered directly into his ear. "You were present at General Wei Rugui's war council. You heard your commander dismiss my direct orders. You watched him lead ten thousand men into a predictable trap. You witnessed the result. You survived." He paused. "Tell me why you deserve to live when thousands of your comrades are dead."
Colonel Feng, prostrate on the ground, began to weep, his body shaking with great, wracking sobs. "Your Majesty! Forgive us! We were fools! We were arrogant! We believed the lies of our own pride! We believed the Japanese were cowards! We were wrong!" He pressed his forehead into the dirt. "We deserve death! All of us! I only beg that you grant us an honorable death for our failure!"
"Honorable?" The word dripped with contempt. "There is no honor in catastrophic failure. There is no honor in cowardice. There is no honor in an army that breaks and routs before the enemy." QSH's voice rose, no longer calm, but ringing with a cold, terrifying fury that washed over the assembled army. He pointed a finger at the kneeling survivors. "Look at them! I want every one of you to look at them! You see before you the result of pride! You see the result of disobeying your Emperor's caution! You see the price of underestimating your enemy!"
The soldiers of the Second Army stared, their own nascent pride and excitement turning to cold dread. This was not a rally. This was a judgment.
"Your lives are forfeit," QSH declared, his voice dropping back to its chillingly calm tone. "However, your deaths will serve a final, vital purpose. They will be a lesson." He turned to Meng Tian. "The crime was not losing a battle. Even the greatest army can lose a battle. The crime was cowardice. The soldiers who threw down their weapons and fled are a disease in the heart of my army. A disease that must be purged with fire."
He looked back down at the survivors. "You will be decimated. One in every ten of you will be executed, here and now, as payment for the dishonor you have brought upon the Great Qing."
A collective gasp of horror went through the kneeling men. Decimation. The ancient, brutal punishment of the Roman legions.
QSH then fixed his gaze on Colonel Feng. "You, Colonel, and your fellow surviving officers, are a different matter. You did not flee. But you followed a foolish general into disaster. You failed in your duty to give wise counsel and to protest a suicidal order. For that, you are also culpable." He paused. "You will not be executed. You and every surviving officer of the Gongzi Army will be stripped of your rank and title. As of this moment, you are common soldiers. You will be assigned to the vanguard of the next assault. You will eat last, march first, and sleep in the mud. You will earn back your honor with your blood, or you will die trying. It is the only path left to you."
At a signal from Meng Tian, the Imperial Guards moved through the kneeling survivors with brutal efficiency. They counted off, grabbing every tenth man and dragging him, weeping and pleading, to the front.
"The punishment for cowardice is death," QSH stated, his voice like the cracking of ice. "Let the lesson begin."
The guards raised their rifles. The sound of the volley of gunshots echoed across the silent square, a flat, ugly noise that made thousands of soldiers flinch. And then another. And another. The summary executions were carried out with methodical, emotionless precision. The Second Army watched in stunned, horrified silence. The lesson was being burned into their minds with gunpowder and blood.
When it was over, QSH addressed the terrified, silent army once more, his voice now a resonant roar of absolute command.
"This is the new law of my army! Victory will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams! Incompetence will be punished! Cowardice will be erased from our ranks! There will be no more glorious defeats! There will be no more honorable retreats! There will be only victory, or there will be death! The war for Korea is not over. It has just begun."
He swept his gaze over the sea of faces, and not a single man among the twenty thousand dared to meet his eyes. They were his. Body and soul.
"And I," he finished, his voice dropping to a low, menacing promise, "am now its commander."