The news of the annihilation at Isahaya reached Kyoto like a funeral bell. It was not delivered through official channels, which had been severed, but by a lone, half-mad scout who had escaped the final encirclement and made his way south, his story a frantic, incoherent tale of a sky that rained fire and an army that had vanished from the earth. When his report was finally pieced together and confirmed by other sources, the reality was even worse than the rumors. The Second Army was gone. General Nogi was dead. The entire island of Kyushu, the cradle of Japanese civilization, was effectively defenseless.
In the Imperial Palace, the emergency council convened once more. The atmosphere was no longer one of defiance or desperate hope. It was one of profound, suffocating grief.
Prime Minister Ito Hirobumi stood before the silk screen that concealed his sovereign, his body stooped as if under an immense physical weight. "It is over," he said, his voice a dead, emotionless monotone. "We have no more armies to send to Kyushu in time. The Chinese can march to Fukuoka, to Shimonoseki, at their leisure. They can cross the straits to the main island whenever they choose. Our nation… is finished."
Lord Konoe, the fiery hardliner who had called for a war of national martyrdom, sat slumped in his seat, his face a mask of grey despair. "The spirit of Yamato…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "It was not enough. Their machines… their demon Emperor… they are too strong. We sent our bravest sons to die, and they were ground to dust."
The dream of a glorious, holy war had died in the mud of Isahaya. All that was left was the stark, cold reality of utter defeat.
Within the inner sanctum, behind the screen, the Meiji Emperor listened as his Lord Chamberlain relayed the final, desperate reports. For a long time, he was silent. The men kneeling in the outer chamber held their breath, awaiting a judgment, an order, anything. When the Chamberlain finally spoke again, his voice was heavy with a sorrow that transcended politics.
"His Majesty has heard the reports," the Chamberlain announced. "He has made a decision."
A new voice then spoke from behind the screen, the Emperor's own, clear and resolute, yet filled with an infinite weariness. "The nation cannot be sacrificed for the life or the title of one man," Emperor Meiji said. "My ancestors did not forge this land only for it to be erased from the world because of my pride."
He paused, and his next words sent a shockwave of horror through the assembled ministers.
"The Chinese Emperor demanded my personal submission. He demanded I renounce my station and my divinity. If my humiliation can save the people of Japan from further slaughter, if it can halt his policy of terror against our villages, then it is a price I must pay."
"Your Majesty, you cannot!" Ito cried out, forgetting all protocol in his horror. "To do so would be the death of our nation's soul!"
"Our nation's soul already bleeds from a thousand wounds, Prime Minister," the Emperor replied, his voice firm. "I will not allow it to bleed to death." He issued his command. "I will write a letter directly to this Dragon Emperor. A personal letter, Emperor to Emperor. I will offer to abdicate my throne. I will offer to travel to Nagasaki and surrender myself into his custody. My only condition will be this: that he halts the slaughter of my people, ceases the collective punishments, and treats the citizens of Japan with mercy. It will not be a negotiation. It will be a plea."
The decision was absolute. It was an act of sacrifice so profound that it left his ministers speechless. The living god of Japan was choosing to humble himself, to destroy his own divine myth, in a final, desperate attempt to save his people.
The letter was written on the finest imperial parchment, sealed with the Chrysanthemum Seal itself. It was entrusted to a loyal courtier, a man from a samurai family that had served the throne for five hundred years. His mission was to smuggle himself south, cross the straits to Kyushu, and deliver the letter directly into the hands of a Qing commander, praying it would reach their Emperor.
But the eyes of Kuroda Makoto's Kemuri no Kiku were everywhere. His network was not just in the mountains of Kyushu; it was woven into the very fabric of the court. The messenger had not traveled more than fifty miles south of Kyoto before his carriage was stopped on a lonely road by a group of men dressed as simple ronin. The courtier, recognizing the cold, predatory look in their eyes, knew instantly that he had failed. He tried to swallow the letter, but it was too late. He was killed, and the Emperor's secret plea was taken.
In his mountain hideout in Kyushu, Kuroda Makoto broke the Imperial Seal and read the letter by the light of a flickering lamp. His face, usually an unreadable mask, shifted through a dozen emotions as he read: shock, anger, and finally, a dawning, terrifying clarity.
Lieutenant Tanaka, who had been summoned to the cave, watched him. "My lord, what is it? What news from the capital?"
Kuroda looked up from the parchment, his eyes burning with a fire Tanaka had never seen before. "It is the end of the war, Lieutenant," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "If we allow it to be. His Majesty, in his infinite compassion, offers to surrender himself to save the nation."
Tanaka was stunned. "He would sacrifice himself? His divinity? For us?"
"He would," Kuroda affirmed. "And in doing so, he would hand our enemy the ultimate victory." He stared at the letter, his mind racing. "The Chinese Emperor does not want land or money. He wants to break our spirit. What better way than to parade our living god before the world as a common prisoner? To force him to renounce his own divinity? It would be a spiritual death from which Japan would never recover. Our people would lose all will to resist. They would accept their fate as slaves."
He looked at Tanaka, a new, terrible idea taking shape in his mind. "His Majesty's surrender would be a slow, quiet death for our soul. But his martyrdom…" The word hung in the air. "A god who dies fighting a demon? A divine ruler who is treacherously struck down by a barbarian while trying to make peace? That is a story that can inspire a thousand years of resistance. That is a myth that can forge a nation of sixty million fanatics."
Before Tanaka could even react, Kuroda Makoto held the Emperor's letter, the last hope for a peaceful resolution, over the flame of the lamp. The parchment curled, blackened, and turned to ash, its message lost forever.
"My lord!" Tanaka cried out, taking a step forward. "What have you done?! That was the Emperor's will!"
"The Emperor's will is to save Japan," Kuroda said, his voice now like ice. "His heart has led him to one path. My mind, unburdened by his divine compassion, sees another. A harder path. A bloodier path. But a path that allows us to survive with our soul intact."
He stood up, his decision made. He was no longer just a spymaster. He was now shaping the destiny of his nation, a destiny his own Emperor was unaware of. "The Chinese Emperor thinks he is playing a game of chess. He does not realize we are now playing a different game entirely." He looked at Tanaka, his eyes filled with a terrifying, brilliant light. "We must ensure the Emperor never reaches the Chinese. And we must make it look like the Chinese are the ones who refused his plea for peace."
He began to formulate a new, far more dangerous and duplicitous plan, a plan that would involve not just fighting the enemy, but deceiving his own sovereign. The war had entered its darkest chapter yet.