The morning after the destruction of Edo Castle's Tenshukaku, the entire city awoke beneath a pall of dread. A single British move had erased the symbolic heart of two centuries of Tokugawa authority, shattering not only stone and timber but the psychological foundations of an entire era.
What had once been dismissed as "southern barbarian ships" were no longer mocked.
To the common people, a vessel capable of obliterating the sacred Tenshukaku from ten miles away could not have been wrought by human hands. The men upon those iron ships were no longer red-haired demons—they were terrible gods, masters of thunder and annihilation.
And at the centre of this catastrophe, the Tokugawa Shogunate found itself facing the gravest legitimacy crisis since its founding.
The Tenshukaku had not merely been an architectural marvel.
It was a visible manifestation of Shogunal authority—an unbroken line of pride and power. Its ruin implied that the Shogunate's Mandate of Heaven had evaporated overnight.
Inside the residence of Senior Councillor Mizuno Tadakuni
The principal ministers of the Shogunate knelt in forbidding silence, as though seated beside their own funerary tablets. No one dared speak. Mizuno himself appeared to have aged decades in a single night; the confident gleam in his eyes had been extinguished, replaced by a haunted red weariness.
"Speak," he rasped. "What are we to do now?"
The question hung over them like gallows.
Fight?
With what—rusted cannon and samurai steel—against an enemy capable of toppling a fortress with a single distant shot?
Not fight?
Allow the Black Ships to sit at their gates, flaunting their power, and watch the Daimyo of Japan ignore the Shogunate entirely?
The ministers trembled. Several seemed ready to commit mass seppuku simply to appease their ancestors.
Then, timidly, a minor official raised his hand.
"Senior Councillor… this humble servant has… an idea. Somewhat unorthodox."
"Speak," Mizuno commanded, grasping at even the illusion of hope.
The official swallowed hard. "If the foreigners possess the power of gods, then… submitting to gods—or even forging kinship with them—cannot be considered shameful for mere mortals… can it?"
"Kinship?" The ministers froze.
"Yes!" the official burst out, emboldened by panic. "Japan has always spoken of an unbroken imperial lineage, yet throughout history, real power has often lain in the hands of regents or shoguns. To bow to strength, to recognise a guardian as a father, to exchange gifts and land for protection—this is not new to us. It is a longstanding method of survival!"
Recognition dawned across the assembly.
If you cannot defeat a god—
you adopt him.
This was Yamato pragmatism in its purest form.
The British prince—this Arthur Lionheart—had commanded thunder itself. Why not treat him as a new, superior Shogun? Or even an honorary retired Emperor? Surely he would not exterminate a people who crawled before him with sufficient humility. Perhaps he might even bestow his favour—power they could redirect against unruly Daimyo such as Chōshū and Satsuma.
Mizuno Tadakuni's dead eyes flickered back to life.
He slapped his thigh.
"Excellent!"
He rose with sudden vigour.
"Prepare the Shogunate's most ceremonious vessel! Bring my finest tea sets and antiquities! And—" he jabbed a finger at the finance magistrate— "collect every gold koban we can spare. Start with ten chests!"
"Today, I, Mizuno Tadakuni, shall personally board the Black Ship to greet our newly appointed… Father."
Aboard the HMS Revenge of the Queen
Captain's Dining Salon
Arthur Lionheart dined with composed elegance, cutting into a perfectly prepared Beef Wellington accompanied by a peppercorn sauce of refined British taste. Nearby, the interpreter Karl Gützlaff relayed the latest developments.
"Your Royal Highness," Gützlaff said, sounding perplexed, "another vessel is approaching from shore. This time, it carries the Shogun's senior councillor. He claims to represent Tokugawa authority and insists he bears a 'family matter' of urgent importance… to be reported directly to you, 'Lord of the Heavenly Empire.'"
Arthur Lionheart paused mid-bite, eyebrow arched.
"A family matter? How charmingly absurd. Very well—send him in. I am curious what desperate theatricals they intend next."
Moments later, Mizuno Tadakuni—one of the most powerful men in all of Japan—was escorted aboard by Royal Marines in immaculate naval dress.
The instant he laid eyes upon Arthur Lionheart, he did not bow.
He did not speak.
He simply collapsed to his knees.
With a heavy thud, he pressed his forehead to the polished teak deck in a full dogeza, the gesture reserved only for emperors—or gods.
"Th-this humble servant… Mizuno Tadakuni… Senior Councillor of the Tokugawa clan…" he stammered, his voice trembling with terror and reverence, "lays humble greetings before the… the Father of the Celestial Realm!"
A choking sound erupted.
The sip of wine in Arthur Lionheart's mouth sprayed across the table.
He coughed violently, struggling to maintain composure.
Behind him, British officers stood frozen, utterly dumbstruck.
This was diplomacy unlike any found in European textbooks.
A nation had simply decided to… adopt the Empire.
Arthur wiped the wine from his lips, staring at the prostrate minister who looked ready to pound a hole in the deck with his forehead.
"Well," Arthur murmured, voice strained between disbelief and dark amusement, "that is one strategy I had not anticipated."
He gestured faintly. "Rise. At least enough to speak without damaging my floorboards."
Mizuno rose only to a kneeling crouch, shoulders hunched like a chastened schoolboy. At his signal, attendants brought forward chest after chest of gold, lacquerware, scrolls, and priceless heirlooms.
"Father," Mizuno said, adopting a grotesquely servile smile,
"these humble offerings represent the devotion of the Tokugawa household. May Your Excellency look upon our sincerity with benevolence."
He then lifted a heavily sealed document—written on the finest washi paper and marked with the Shogun's great crest—high above his head.
"As for the matter of 'amicable trade' proposed by Your Highness, the entire Shogunate—after deep reflection and spirited discussion—has reached perfect accord. To serve you, our honoured Father, is a blessing Japan must have accumulated across eight lifetimes!"
"Not only shall all our ports be opened, but we beg you to accept the port of Yokosuka, and its surrounding lands, as your personal fief in the Far East. We ask only… only that you occasionally shield your unworthy sons from harm."
Arthur Lionheart stared at the grovelling minister—an adversary turned eager supplicant offering land and loyalty with near-maniacal zeal.
He exhaled.
Britain had won Japan
without a negotiation,
without a war,
without a threat—
but through an act of pure, unrestrained desperation.
"Very well," Arthur said at last, lifting a hand in cool acceptance. "Since you are all so… impatient, I shall not refuse."
And thus, in the most improbable, politically absurd fashion imaginable,
the British Empire acquired a devoted client nation at the edge of Asia—
surrendered not through force,
but through fear, worship,
and a single impeccably placed shell.