The journey from Mukden to Beijing was a rhythmic, hypnotic descent into the crucible of Yuan Shikai's own mind. He sat alone in his private carriage, a masterpiece of lacquered wood and green silk, the very air humming with the percussive clatter of the military express train's wheels on the steel tracks. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. It was the sound of a relentless clock, ticking down to a moment of either supreme triumph or absolute ruin. There would be no middle ground.
He stared out the window, but he did not see the vast, dun-colored plains of Manchuria speeding past. He saw only the shifting landscapes of his own calculations. One part of him, the part that had schemed and clawed his way to the second-most powerful position in the Empire, was suffused with a heady, arrogant confidence. The summons had been abrupt, but what great affair of state was not? The Emperor, for all his terrifying genius, was a strategist, an architect of impossible visions. The newly declared war for India was the grandest, most insane vision of them all. It was a logistical nightmare, a campaign that would make the Siberian front look like a provincial skirmish.
Such a campaign could not be managed by a reclusive god-emperor poring over maps in a palace. It required a man of immense practical talent, a master of industry, finance, and supply. It required him. Yuan Shikai. Perhaps this summons was not a judgment, but a promotion. Supreme command of the home front. Plenipotentiary powers to mobilize the entire nation's resources. The thought was intoxicating. It would place the beating industrial and agricultural heart of the Qing Empire directly into his hands. He would be more powerful than any shogun, a king in all but name, serving a distant, preoccupied Emperor. The prospect was so tantalizing that it felt like destiny.
But another part of him, an older, more primal instinct honed in the back-alley betrayals and battlefield purges of his early career, was screaming that this was a trap. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. The wheels on the track mocked his confidence. The timing was too neat, the summons too absolute. Why now? Why in person? The Emperor could have issued his commands by military telegraph. To demand his physical presence, to pull him from the center of his own power base in Manchuria… it felt like a hunter separating a tiger from its familiar territory before moving in for the kill.
He replayed every secret conversation, every clandestine deal, searching for a flaw in the intricate web of deceit he had so carefully woven. The British? Silent since the Shanghai incident, licking their wounds. The Germans? Delighted with the progress of his (stolen) chemical production, showering him with more advisors and equipment. His own network? Compartmentalized, a series of firewalls and cut-outs designed to protect the core. His stable master, Guo Liang, was the only direct link to the Shanghai operation, and Guo was a loyal, greedy dog. He was brutish and uncomplicated, aware of his own small part in the play but utterly ignorant of the playwright. He would hold his tongue. He had to.
And then there was Shen Ke. The Emperor's bloodhound. A silent, unsettling presence that moved in the shadows of the court. Had the dog found a scent in the ashes of Shanghai? Yuan suppressed a flicker of genuine fear. He had been meticulous. The evidence had been burned, sunk, or silenced. Shen Ke was brilliant, but he was not a sorcerer. He could not conjure proof from nothing.
Yuan poured himself a glass of French brandy from a crystal decanter, the amber liquid sloshing with the train's motion. He took a long, slow sip. The warmth of the alcohol spread through his chest, a comforting fire against the creeping chill of his paranoia. He was overthinking it. He was the indispensable man. The Emperor needed him. He would play his part, feign his undying loyalty, and accept the immense new powers he was about to be granted. He was safe. He drained the glass, the arrogant statesman winning the war against the cautious conspirator. For now.
The train hissed to a halt in the grand, vaulted expanse of the Beijing Central Station, a new monument of steel and glass that proclaimed the Qing's arrival in the modern age. As the carriage door was opened, Yuan Shikai's senses were on high alert. His hand rested casually on the small, pearl-handled pistol hidden in his sash. He scanned the platform, expecting to be met by the cold, emotionless eyes of the Imperial Guard's disciplinary unit, or worse, the shadowy, silk-robed figures of Shen Ke's Eastern Depot.
Instead, he was met with a display of honor so profound it took his breath away.
A high-ranking palace eunuch, a man he recognized as one of the Emperor's personal attendants, stood waiting, his back bowed in a posture of the utmost deference. An entire company of the Emperor's personal bodyguard, the elite Manchu Bannermen in their immaculate, dragon-emblazoned ceremonial armor, stood at perfect attention, forming a corridor of honor from the train to a waiting procession of palanquins and carriages. They were not here to arrest him. They were here to welcome him.
"Minister-President Yuan," the eunuch intoned, his voice soft and respectful. "The Son of Heaven sends his greetings and inquires after the comfort of your journey. He is most eager to benefit from your counsel."
Yuan was utterly, completely disarmed. The tension that had coiled in his gut for the entire journey evaporated, replaced by a warm, flooding sensation of relief and vindication. This was not a trap. It was a triumph. A public affirmation of his status and importance. The Emperor was not a fool; he knew who made the wheels of his empire turn.
As he was escorted through the city, the procession clearing a path through the crowded streets, his confidence swelled into a near-unassailable arrogance. He had misjudged the situation entirely. His paranoia had been an indulgence. The Emperor was not a subtle, patient spider. He was a creature of lightning and thunder. If he suspected treason, he would have struck with overwhelming force in Mukden. This pageantry, this gilded welcome, was the act of a ruler who desperately needed the services of his most capable minister. The India campaign was real, and Yuan Shikai was the man who would make it happen.
The procession passed through the Gate of Heavenly Peace and into the vast, silent courtyards of the Forbidden City. The scale of the ancient palace, which had once inspired a sense of awe in him, now felt merely appropriate. He was a man of this scale, a figure who belonged in these halls of power.
He was led through a labyrinth of silent, echoing corridors, past walls hung with priceless silk tapestries and guarded by silent sentinels. He noted, with a final flicker of his old cunning, that they were not taking him to a lesser audience hall or an antechamber. They were heading directly for the Hall of Mental Cultivation—the Emperor's private study, the very heart of the Empire's power. An honor reserved for only the most trusted advisors.
The great, lacquered double doors, painted with golden dragons writhing in celestial clouds, swung open before him. Yuan straightened his robes, took a deep breath to compose his features into a mask of humble loyalty, and stepped across the threshold.
The room was vast and quiet. The air was cool, scented with old paper and sandalwood. And the trap, far more subtle and terrifying than any dungeon, finally closed around him.
The Emperor, Qin Shi Huang, was not seated at his desk. He was standing across the room, before the enormous world map that dominated the far wall, his back to the door. He wore simple, dark robes, unadorned with any imperial insignia. He did not turn. He did not speak. He let the silence stretch, thick and heavy, forcing Yuan to stand alone in the center of the vast chamber. In that single, calculated moment of stillness, Yuan Shikai was transformed. He was no longer the triumphant viceroy, the indispensable minister. He was a subject, summoned and awaiting his master's pleasure, suddenly feeling very, very small.
After a silence that felt like an eternity, the Emperor finally turned. A thin, unreadable smile played on his lips, a smile that did not touch his ancient, fathomless eyes. His greeting was not the boom of a judge, nor the hiss of an accuser. It was a voice of deceptive, terrifying warmth.
"Minister-President Yuan," he said, as if greeting an old and trusted friend. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I have a new, vital task for you. The fate of the Empire, and perhaps the world, may well depend on it."