The dead of night was the only time Nagasaki felt remotely like its old self. The occupying army was mostly confined to its barracks, the streets were empty, and the silence was broken only by the lapping of water against the stone quays of the harbor. It was in this silence that the Emperor's quiet war continued.
In a vast, cavernous warehouse at the edge of the docks, the air thick with the smell of dried fish and damp rope, a ghost-like operation was underway. Under the dim, flickering light of a few heavily shielded lanterns, a hundred of Meng Tian's Imperial Guard moved with silent, brutal efficiency. They surrounded a collection of heavy wooden crates stamped with the markings of the Kajiwara Rice Trading Company.
General Meng Tian stood with the spymaster, Shen Ke, watching the proceedings. The general's massive arms were crossed over his chest, his expression one of bored disapproval.
"This feels like dishonorable work, Master Shen," Meng Tian rumbled, his voice a low growl. "Skulking in the dark like thieves, stealing a man's shipment. My men are warriors, not dockhands."
Shen Ke, who was observing the work with the keen, detached interest of a scholar examining a new specimen, smiled faintly. "The most effective victories are often won without a single sword being drawn, General," he replied, his voice a soft, silken counterpoint to Meng Tian's gruffness. "An army can win a battle. But only intelligence can win a war. The Emperor understands this distinction better than any man alive."
The guards, using specialized tools, pried open the crates without damaging them. Inside, nestled beneath a thin layer of rice, were not more sacks of grain, but dozens of modern Japanese Murata rifles and smaller boxes filled with ammunition and medical supplies.
"The governor's information was accurate," Shen Ke murmured, nodding in satisfaction. He turned to one of his own agents, a man with the nimble fingers of a watchmaker. "Begin the replacement. Be quick."
The work was carried out with astonishing speed. The new rifles were removed. In their place, the guards loaded crates of old, worthless matchlock muskets taken from a captured city armory. Shen Ke's agents had already worked on them, filing down the firing pins, plugging the touch-holes with wax. They were useless pieces of decorative metal. The boxes of modern ammunition were replaced with identical boxes filled with carefully weighted stones. The precious medicine—opium for pain, carbolic acid for disinfectant—was replaced with vials of colored water and bandages that had been soaked in harmless brown ink to look like iodine.
"The weight will be the same," Shen Ke explained to Meng Tian. "The caravan master will suspect nothing. The rebels in the mountains will suspect nothing. Not until they are in the heat of their next battle and they pull the trigger on a useless rifle, or try to tend to a wounded comrade with a bottle of dirty water. The psychological blow will be more devastating than any bullet."
"It is a cruel trick," Meng Tian grunted.
"It is a necessary one," Shen Ke countered softly. "Now, seal the crates. Make it look as though they were never touched."
By the time the first rays of dawn touched the harbor, the Imperial Guard had vanished, leaving the warehouse exactly as they had found it, but with its heart secretly torn out.
Later that morning, a long caravan of wagons, led by Kajiwara's most trusted caravan master, a tough, weather-beaten man named Jiro, rumbled through the gates of Nagasaki. Jiro felt a thrill of patriotic pride. He was aware of the true nature of his cargo, and he considered it a great honor to be playing a small part in the great resistance against the foreign invaders. He glanced nervously at the Qing soldiers who manned the city gates, but they barely gave his wagons a second look. They were a rice shipment, with official papers signed by Governor Tanaka himself. They were invisible.
As the caravan moved into the countryside, Jiro was unaware of the other ghosts now following him. High on the ridges above the road, teams of Qing scouts, dressed in camouflage that blended with the landscape, shadowed the caravan's every move, their progress reported back to Meng Tian via a system of signal mirrors.
The journey was long and arduous. For two days, they wound their way deep into the mountains of Kyushu. Finally, they reached the designated rendezvous point: a secluded, rocky pass hidden within a dense forest. Jiro gave the signal, a specific bird call.
A few moments later, a group of men emerged silently from the woods. They were clad in the rough clothes of peasants and woodcutters, but they carried themselves with the coiled readiness of soldiers. Their leader, a subordinate of Lieutenant Tanaka named Saito, approached Jiro.
"You are late, Jiro-san," Saito said, his eyes scanning the road behind the caravan. "Did you have any trouble?"
"None at all," Jiro replied with a proud grin. "The Chinese dogs are lazy and stupid. They suspect nothing. Here are your supplies, a gift from the patriots of Nagasaki to the brave sons of Japan!"
Saito nodded and gestured to his men, who began to eagerly unload the heavy crates from the wagons. They were desperate for the new rifles and the medicine. Their last few skirmishes had left them with many wounded and very little to treat them with.
It was as the first crate was being pried open that the world ended.
A voice, as deep and powerful as a landslide, boomed from the rocks above them. "Lay down your arms. You are surrounded."
The caravan master and the guerillas froze, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief. They looked up. On the ridges on both sides of the pass, figures had risen from the rocks and trees. Hundreds of them. Qing soldiers, their rifles all aimed down at the small group in the pass. They had walked into a perfectly prepared trap.
Saito, reacting on pure instinct, drew his pistol and fired a wild shot up at the ridge. It was a signal for his men to fight. A brief, chaotic, and utterly one-sided firefight erupted. But it lasted less than a minute. The guerillas, caught in a devastating crossfire from superior numbers, had no chance. Most were cut down where they stood.
Meng Tian, who had been watching from above, gave the order to cease fire. His soldiers swarmed down into the pass, securing the survivors. The caravan master Jiro, who had been hiding under a wagon, was dragged out, weeping. The guerilla leader, Saito, was captured, a bullet wound in his leg, his face a mask of furious disbelief.
It was then that one of Saito's men, his face pale with a new kind of horror, pointed at the crate he had managed to open during the firefight. "Saito-sama… look…"
Saito crawled over to the crate. He expected to see gleaming new rifles. Instead, he saw the dull, rusted barrels of ancient, worthless matchlocks. He reached into another box, expecting ammunition, and his hand came away with a handful of useless, common stones.
The realization hit him like a physical blow, even more painful than the bullet in his leg. "We've been betrayed," he whispered, his voice filled with despair. "Someone in Nagasaki… is a traitor."
Meng Tian strode over to the captured guerilla leader. He did not order his execution. He turned him over to Shen Ke's agents, who had now descended into the pass, their work just beginning.
Shen Ke knelt beside the wounded, defeated Saito. "Your network has a leak, it would seem," the spymaster said, his voice soft and almost sympathetic. "Your benefactor, the merchant Kajiwara, is a dead man walking. His usefulness is at an end." He looked into Saito's eyes. "But you… you can still be useful. This shipment was headed for a larger storehouse, was it not? Tell me where it is. Tell me about the other cells in these mountains. Perhaps the Emperor will show mercy to a man who helps him clean the rats from his new province."
The Qing had not only captured a vital enemy supply line. They had captured a mid-level resistance leader, confirmed the identity of a traitor in their midst, and captured proof of his treason. The intricate web of the Japanese resistance was beginning to unravel, thread by thread.