The Serpent's New Fangs

The admiral's cabin aboard the flagship Tianlong was Meng Tian's sanctuary, a space of stark, martial order that reflected the man himself. But today, it felt like a cage. The great warship sat at anchor in its secret Hainan base, and the heavy, humid air that drifted through the open porthole did nothing to lift the oppressive weight in the room. He sat at his chart table, a brush in his hand, composing his formal report to the throne. The rice paper before him was a field of pristine white, a stark contrast to the black stain of his failure.

He wrote with unflinching honesty, detailing the compromised rendezvous, the unforeseen American vessel, the possibility of photographic evidence. He did not blame the currents, or bad luck, or the incompetence of a subordinate. He took full, unconditional responsibility. It was a letter of apology, a confession of failure, and an unspoken offer of resignation. He was a flawed sword, and he was ready to be returned to the imperial armory. He was a man preparing to face his disgrace with the only thing he had left: his honor.

The sharp, authoritative rap on his cabin door startled him. Before he could grant entry, the door was opened without permission. Viceroy Yuan Shikai strode into the cabin as if he owned it, his massive frame seeming to suck the very air from the room. He was dressed in a pristine, Western-style military uniform, his chest puffed out, his lips curled in a smug, predatory smirk that he did not bother to conceal.

"Admiral," Yuan began, his voice a low, condescending purr. He did not salute. He simply stood before the desk, looking down at Meng Tian with an expression of triumphant pity. "I trust you are well. I have just arrived from the mainland via a fast destroyer. I bring tidings from the Son of Heaven himself. It seems he has… reassessed the command structure for our little southern venture."

Meng Tian slowly placed his brush down. He rose to his feet, his face a stoic, unreadable mask, betraying none of the cold dread that was flooding his veins. "I see," he said, his voice level. "I am to be relieved of my command. I will tender my official resignation to you at once."

Yuan let out a short, barking laugh. "Oh, nothing so dramatic, my dear Admiral! Nothing so final. The Emperor is far too clever for that." He paced around the cabin, running a hand over the polished brass of a sextant, his every movement a calculated display of dominance. "No, you will retain your title. You are to remain Admiral of the Southern Fleet. Your name is still a useful banner, after all. A symbol of Qing honor and naval might."

He stopped and turned, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "But the operational command of Operation Golden Chrysanthemum—the clandestine support, the logistics, the arming of the rebels… the dirty work," he savored the phrase, "has been transferred. To me."

The words struck Meng Tian with the force of a physical blow. It was an insult of breathtaking cruelty. He was not to be punished with a clean execution or an honorable dismissal. He was to be hollowed out, left as an empty shell, a figurehead admiral commanding a fleet that would now take its real orders from his greatest rival. He was to be a prisoner on his own bridge, forced to watch as Yuan Shikai waged a war in his name.

"The Emperor," Yuan continued, clearly enjoying every second of Meng Tian's silent humiliation, "has concluded that your… delicate sensibilities… and your unfortunate attachment to outdated concepts like 'honor' make you unsuitable for this new kind of war. This is not a war for soldiers, Admiral. It is a war for pragmatists. It requires a man who is not afraid to be practical."

He strode to the chart table, unceremoniously pushing Meng Tian's unfinished report aside, and unrolled a new map of Sumatra. "The previous plan was too slow. Too uncertain. Arming rebels and hoping they are competent enough to win a conventional war is a fool's gamble. We will no longer be merely arming them. We will be guiding their hand to strike at the enemy's heart."

His finger, thick as a sausage, jabbed at the map, pointing to the locations of the main Dutch garrisons: Medan, Palembang, Batavia. "Shen Ke's agents have provided us with a wealth of new intelligence. The exact locations of the Dutch command centers, their primary barracks, and most importantly, their water supplies."

From a leather satchel, Yuan produced a small, sealed lead canister, no bigger than a tea caddy. He placed it on the table with a heavy, final-sounding thud. The object seemed to radiate a palpable malevolence.

"This," Yuan announced, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is a gift from the Emperor's new X-Laboratory. A more… persuasive weapon than simple rifles."

Meng Tian stared at the lead canister, a cold, sickening premonition rising within him.

"Inside this canister," Yuan explained with the relish of a butcher describing a prime cut of meat, "is a highly concentrated, weaponized culture of Vibrio cholerae. Cholera. Enough to poison the water supply of every major Dutch military and administrative center on the island. It will sweep through their garrisons like a wildfire. It will incapacitate their command structure, shatter their logistical chains, and sow unimaginable terror among the colonial population. Prince Diponegoro's rebellion will not be a fight; it will be a slaughter. They will face a crippled, plague-ridden, demoralized enemy. Victory will be swift, total, and absolute."

Meng Tian recoiled from the table as if the canister were white-hot. The full, monstrous scope of the plan crashed down on him. This was not war. This was extermination. A biological attack that would make no distinction between soldier and civilian, man and woman, adult and child. It was an act of such profound, indiscriminate evil that his mind could barely comprehend it.

"This is… monstrous," he whispered, his voice hoarse with horror. "This is an abomination. It is the weapon of a demon, not an Emperor."

Yuan's lips curled into a sneer of contempt. "It is the weapon of a victor, Admiral. A weapon you would not have the stomach to use. The Emperor knows this. That is why he sent me. He needs his finest sword to command his fleet and look honorable for the world. But he needs his butcher's axe to do the actual killing."

He leaned closer, his voice a low growl. "Your job is to sail your big, beautiful ships, look intimidating, and keep the British away. My job is to win the war. Do you understand the difference?"

Yuan straightened up, his chest puffed with victory. He left the lead canister sitting on the chart table, a squat grey idol in a temple of honor. He turned to go, pausing at the door for one final, parting shot.

"Don't look so grim, Admiral," he sneered over his shoulder. "History is written by the winners. It rarely wastes ink asking them how they won."

The cabin door closed, leaving Meng Tian alone in the suffocating silence. He was trapped. He was not the Emperor's disgraced servant; he was his damned one. He was forced to stand by, to lend his name and the might of his fleet to an act of pure evil, while the man he despised most carried it out. His absolute loyalty was to the Dragon Throne, but his soul, everything he was and believed himself to be, recoiled in horror from the Emperor's methods.

He stared at the lead canister. It was so small. So deceptively simple. And inside it was a plague that would kill thousands. He was the Admiral of the Southern Fleet, the honorable Meng Tian, the sword of the Empire. And he was now an accomplice to mass murder. The conflict, the impossible choice between his duty and his soul, was tearing him apart.