The Viceroy's House in Delhi was the heart of a dead empire, a grand, sandstone monument to a power that had vanished like a morning mist. Now, it was the temporary throne of a new, and far more terrible, one. The Union Jack had been torn down, and the Imperial Yellow Dragon banner now hung limply in the hot, still air. Inside its echoing, cavernous halls, Qin Shi Huang was a changed man. The god of war had become a prisoner in a cage of failing flesh.
We see the world now through his own eyes, a perspective tinged with a cold, simmering fury. The profound, soul-deep exhaustion from his use of the weapon had receded, but it had left behind a permanent, debilitating mark. His body, the strong, vital vessel of the Guangxu Emperor, was now frail. A persistent, rattling cough wracked his chest in the mornings. He required a heavy, blackwood cane, its top carved into a snarling dragon's head, to walk the long palace corridors. He saw his own reflection in the polished marble floors and saw not a ruler in his prime, but a man aged beyond his years, his face gaunt, his hair threaded with an infuriating silver.
The court physicians, the finest scientific and traditional minds in the Empire, were helpless. They diagnosed his condition with a dozen different names—nervous exhaustion, accelerated cellular decay, a profound imbalance of qi—but they were all just elaborate ways of saying they had no idea. They prescribed tonics and elixirs, which he dismissed with contempt. He knew the source of his ailment. He was spending his life, his second chance, to fuel the engine of his conquest, and the bill was finally, irrevocably, coming due.
His physical weakness, however, did not diminish his will. It refined it, concentrated it, burned it down to a single, terrifyingly absolute point of focus. He knew, with the cold certainty of a man watching the last grains of sand fall in an hourglass, that he was running out of time. He looked at his own aged, trembling hands and felt a rage that was almost elemental. This frail, mortal shell, this collection of blood and bone, was the final enemy he had to conquer. He had defeated the armies of Russia, the empire of Great Britain, and the hubris of America. But his own mortality was now threatening to rob him of his final, ultimate victory: the creation of a perfect, orderly, and eternal global dynasty under his undisputed rule.
He had to accelerate his plans. The "pacification" of India would be the final, grand statement of his power. It would be an act of such overwhelming, divine terror that no one—not the cowering nations of the West, not the restive peoples of his new conquests, not his own ambitious generals—would dare to challenge his dynasty for a thousand years. He would burn his name and his authority into the soul of humanity itself. Then, and only then, would he have the time he needed to find a more permanent solution to the decay of his flesh.
An aide entered the throne room, bowing low, his face a mask of confusion. "Your Majesty," he began, "we have received a strange intelligence report. From our agents in Europe. I would not normally trouble you with such a matter, but the circumstances are… unusual."
The Emperor gestured impatiently with a thin, pale hand. "Speak."
"It concerns a man, Your Majesty. An American. A young industrialist of immense private wealth. His name is Alexander Sterling." The aide consulted his notes. "In the midst of the financial chaos caused by the collapse of the British government and the paralysis in Washington, this man has… has been buying their debt. He has used his personal fortune to purchase a controlling interest in the national debts of both Great Britain and France. For all practical purposes, their governments are now financially beholden to him."
Qin Shi Huang raised a skeptical eyebrow. A banker?
"That is not all, Your Majesty," the aide continued, his voice hesitant. "He has begun to act as a de facto head of state. He is using his influence to stabilize their economies, to prevent a total collapse. But he is also preaching a new philosophy. He is publicly calling for a new world order. Not one of conquest, but of global cooperation, of scientific and technological advancement. He speaks of a world governed not by emperors or presidents, but by a council of 'the best and brightest,' chosen on merit, from all nations. He is gaining… a following. He is becoming an ideological challenger, a symbol of a different path for the world."
The Emperor listened, a flicker of intellectual curiosity momentarily overriding his disdain. A philosopher-king. A merchant pretending to be a statesman. He had seen such men in his first life. They were full of pretty words and naive ideals, but they were ultimately toothless, their philosophies no match for the hard, sharp realities of steel and fire.
"He is a gnat," Qin Shi laconically said, dismissing the report. "An irrelevant distraction. When the world sees what I have planned for India, they will forget all about this banker and his foolish little speeches."
He was holding court later that day. The vast throne room, once the seat of the British Viceroy, had been stripped of its European trappings and refitted in the austere, powerful style of his own dynasty. Marshal Meng Tian, his face as impassive as ever, had just arrived from Calcutta, his formal report on the final subjugation of the British forces now complete. He stood before the throne, a silent, lethal statue of military perfection.
The Emperor was about to give the final order, the command that would set in motion the "pacification" and summon the weapon that would be its instrument. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, the chief eunuch scurried into the hall, his face pale with alarm.
"Your Majesty!" he cried, prostrating himself on the floor. "Forgive this intrusion! There is… an unscheduled visitor. An ambassador. He claims to represent a 'new power' and demands an immediate audience. He… he would not be stopped."
Before the Emperor could voice his fury at this breach of protocol, the great, teak doors to the throne room, each twenty feet high, swung open.
A single man walked in. He was flanked by no guards. He carried no weapons. He was young, perhaps not yet thirty, and dressed in an impeccably tailored Western suit of dark charcoal grey. He was handsome in a way that seemed almost classical, his features sharp and intelligent, his hair the color of burnished gold. He moved with an easy, confident, almost casual grace that was utterly alien to the rigid, hierarchical ceremony of the Qing court. He seemed to carry his own atmosphere with him, an aura of calm, unshakeable power.
He walked to the very center of the vast, silent room, his footsteps echoing on the marble. He ignored the stunned, furious glares of the assembled ministers and generals. He looked past the towering, intimidating figure of Marshal Meng Tian. His eyes, a startling, piercing shade of blue, rose to the throne and met the Emperor's.
The moment their gazes locked, an invisible, silent thunderclap seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. It was not a force that could be seen or heard, but it was felt by every man present as a sudden, prickling chill on the skin, a raising of the hairs on the back of the neck.
Qin Shi Huang felt it most of all. It was a shock of profound, instinctual recognition. The Dragon's Spark, the very essence of his soul and his power, which had never feared any mortal man or machine, recoiled. It was not the recoil of fear in the face of a greater threat. It was the recoil of a magnetic pole being brought against its identical twin. It was a fundamental, elemental opposition. He was staring at his own perfect, absolute opposite.
The young man smiled. It was not the deferential smile of a subject, nor the nervous smile of an envoy. It was a smile of unnerving familiarity, of comfortable, almost intimate, equality.
"Emperor Ying Zheng," he said. He did not use the formal imperial title, but the Emperor's ancient, personal name, a name that had not been spoken aloud by a stranger in over two thousand years. His voice was calm, clear, and carried a strange, resonant power that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
"My name is Alexander Sterling. I believe it is time we had a talk about the future of this world."