The naval base at Weihaiwei was a beast of iron and steam, humming with the nervous energy of a fleet preparing for a battle that would decide the fate of an empire. But in the admiral's quarters aboard the flagship Dingyuan, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic creak of the ship straining against its moorings and the rustle of paper under a trembling hand.
Admiral Ding Ruchang had not slept in two days. His spacious cabin was littered with nautical charts, schematics of Japanese cruisers, and tide tables for the Yellow Sea. Before him, spread out under the harsh glare of a gas lamp, was the copy of the Emperor's battle plan. It was written in a crisp, elegant hand, but the words themselves were a blueprint for a terrifyingly brutal and audacious gamble.
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and spoke to his loyal aide, a young lieutenant named Chen. "He speaks of formations… of the optimal turning radii of their Naniwa-class cruisers to exploit their rudder lag… of the exact tensile strength of their armor plate versus the muzzle velocity of our main guns." He shook his head, a gesture of profound disbelief. "He writes of these things as if he has commanded ironclad fleets for a hundred years. Where does a boy who has never left the Forbidden City gain such knowledge?"
"They say he reads every report, every book translated from the West, Your Excellency," Lieutenant Chen offered, pouring his superior another cup of strong, black tea. "His appetite for knowledge is said to be… inhuman."
"This is not knowledge from a book!" Admiral Ding snapped, his voice tight with a mixture of awe and terror. He jabbed a finger at the document. "This is the intuition of a born commander. The cold-blooded geometry of death. It's… it is terrifying, Chen. Utterly terrifying."
He was haunted not just by the plan's brilliance, but by its ruthlessness. The Emperor's words left no room for error, no allowance for the chaos of battle. He was not being asked to fight a battle; he was being ordered to execute a pre-written slaughter. The pressure to succeed was a physical weight, a crushing certainty that failure meant not just defeat, but disgrace and death at the hands of a master who did not tolerate imperfection.
A sharp knock on the cabin door startled him. A junior officer entered and saluted crisply. "Admiral, the Emperor summons you. His command center at the naval headquarters. Immediately."
Admiral Ding felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He stood, straightened his immaculate uniform, and composed his features into a mask of calm authority. He would not show his fear to his god-king.
The Emperor's temporary command center was a large, spartan room overlooking the harbor. The walls were covered in maps. QSH stood before the largest one, a detailed chart of the Yellow Sea, flanked by the ever-present Meng Tian. Li Hongzhang stood off to the side, looking grave. The air in the room was cold and still.
"Admiral," QSH said without turning around. His voice was calm, but it echoed with an absolute authority that made the senior admiral feel like a raw cadet. "Your fleet sails at dawn. Are your captains prepared? Do they understand the battle plan in its entirety?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Admiral Ding replied, bowing deeply. "We have drilled the formation repeatedly in the harbor. The 'anvil and hammer' tactic is understood. The men are ready. The ships are ready." He hesitated for a moment before voicing his final, critical concern. "But our greatest challenge remains, Majesty. Locating the enemy fleet in the vastness of the Yellow Sea. Our scouts can only cover so much water. Their cruisers are faster than ours; they can dictate where and when the battle is fought. If we cannot find them, the plan is meaningless."
A faint, chilling smile touched the Emperor's lips. He turned away from the map. "That will not be a problem, Admiral," he said softly. He gestured toward the center of the room, where a large, shallow basin of dark porcelain filled with seawater had been placed on a heavy table. It was an odd, almost decorative object in the spartan military room.
"Come closer," the Emperor commanded.
Admiral Ding, along with Li Hongzhang, approached the table with a sense of trepidation. QSH stood before the basin and placed his hands flat on the table, on either side of it. He closed his eyes. The room fell into an expectant, profound silence. He then lifted his hands and held them just inches above the surface of the still water.
At first, nothing happened. Then, the water began to shimmer, as if a faint, unseen heat were rising from it. Small, concentric ripples began to spread from the center of the basin, though nothing was touching it. The surface of the water, which had been a clear reflection of the ceiling lamps, began to cloud over, turning milky and opaque.
Li Hongzhang let out a small, involuntary gasp. "Sorcery…" he whispered, his scientific, Western-leaning mind rebelling at what his eyes were seeing.
The milky surface began to swirl. Colors bled into it—the grey of steel, the white of churning wakes, the deep blue of the open ocean. Like a heavily distorted reflection in a disturbed pond, a blurry, moving image began to resolve itself on the water's surface. It was a bird's-eye view, unsteady and wavering, of a fleet of ships steaming in a disciplined formation. The details were indistinct, the shapes of the individual ships were blurred and ghostly, but the number of vessels and their general heading were unmistakable.
"It is not sorcery," QSH said, his voice strained, a fine sheen of sweat beading on his brow. The effort was clearly costing him. "It is… a connection. Sound travels through water. The vibration of their engines, so many of them, creates an echo, a resonance that I can… feel." He took a ragged breath. "Their Combined Fleet. They have left Sasebo. They are not hiding. They are conducting aggressive search patterns off the southwest coast of Korea. They are hunting for you."
He lifted a trembling hand from the basin and pointed to a spot on the main chart hanging on the wall. "Their current position is approximately here," he said, his finger tapping a quadrant of the sea a hundred and fifty miles away. "Their search pattern is predictable. It will bring them into this area by tomorrow afternoon. Between the Shandong Peninsula and the Korean coast." His finger traced a line. "That is where you will find them. That is where you will set your ambush. That is where you will destroy them."
Admiral Ding stared from the impossible, ghostly vision in the water to the pale, sweating face of the boy Emperor. All his doubt, all his fear of the unknown, all his professional skepticism evaporated in a wave of profound, terrifying awe. This was not strategy. This was not intelligence. This was divine will made manifest. He was no longer just following the orders of a mortal monarch; he was wielding the ordained weapon of a god.
He dropped to one knee, his body acting before his mind could process the command. "Your Majesty…" he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "I… I will not fail you."
QSH lowered his hands to the table, visibly exhausted. The image in the water dissolved, returning to a simple, clear reflection of the room. "See that you do not, Admiral," he said, his voice a weary whisper. "The fate of the Empire, and the lives of ten thousand of my sailors, sail with you."
Admiral Ding rose, bowed deeply one more time, and walked from the room. His face was no longer filled with the anxious doubt of a commander facing a terrible risk. It was set in the grim, absolute conviction of a man on a holy mission, an executioner sent to carry out a divine judgment.