The Choice of a Sword

The dead of night was a tangible presence in Admiral Meng Tian's cabin. It pressed in through the open portholes, a heavy, humid darkness that offered no relief. He had not slept. He had not even tried. For hours, he had paced the confines of the room, a caged tiger tormented by an impossible choice. His sanctuary had become his crucible. On his desk, the squat lead canister sat like a malevolent idol, a monument to the damnation of his honor.

Inside that small container was a plague. It was also a direct order from his Emperor, delivered by the sneering mouth of his most hated rival. The two facts were irreconcilable. They tore at the very foundations of his being. He was Meng Tian, a soldier of the Empire, a descendant of the First Emperor's most loyal general. His duty was absolute. His loyalty was his core identity. But he was also a man who believed in honor, in a warrior's code that forbade the slaughter of the helpless, that saw no glory in a victory won with poison.

He felt as though he were being ripped in two. To obey was to become a monster, a butcher of innocents, a man whose name would be forever stained by an act of unimaginable cruelty. To disobey was to commit treason, to betray his Emperor, his nation, and the entire lineage of service that defined him.

He sat at his desk, the polished wood cool beneath his trembling hands. He picked up his brush, dipped it in the ink stone, and held it poised over a fresh sheet of rice paper. He would write his resignation. He would refuse the monstrous order. He would choose disgrace over dishonor. He would fall on his own sword rather than use it to murder children.

But his hand would not move. A cold, brutal logic, as sharp and unwelcome as a shard of glass in his gut, stopped him. What would his honorable sacrifice accomplish? He would be arrested, stripped of his command, and likely executed. Yuan Shikai, the butcher, would gloat over his downfall and then gleefully carry out the attack anyway. The plague would still be unleashed. The only thing his noble gesture would change was his own fate. It was a beautiful, pointless suicide. Honor, he realized with a sickening lurch, was a luxury the desperate could not afford.

He put the brush down. The path of righteous refusal was a dead end. Was there another way? A third path, hidden in the shadows between the stark cliffs of loyalty and morality?

A new thought entered his mind. It was a cold, terrifying, and deeply pragmatic thought, so alien to his nature that it felt as if it had been whispered by some other, darker man. What if he did not refuse the order? What if he… subverted it?

His decision made, a new energy surged through him, burning away the paralysis of his moral agony. He was no longer a man trapped by a dilemma; he was a commander contemplating a high-risk operation. He strode to his cabin door and summoned the officer of the watch.

"Find Captain Dai. Bring him to my cabin immediately. Tell him it is a matter of the highest urgency."

Minutes later, his longtime friend and subordinate arrived, his face etched with concern. He found his Admiral not broken and defeated, but filled with a new, cold, and dangerous resolve that was almost frightening to behold. Meng Tian closed and locked the cabin door, a gesture of finality that made Dai's heart pound.

"Dai," Meng Tian began, his voice low and steady, stripped of all emotion. "I have received new operational orders from the Emperor, delivered personally by Viceroy Yuan." He gestured to the lead canister on the desk. "We are to facilitate the delivery of a new weapon to Prince Diponegoro's rebels. This container holds a weaponized, concentrated strain of cholera."

Captain Dai's face went pale. He took an involuntary step back, as if the canister itself could poison him from across the room. "Sir… that is… unspeakable. It is madness."

"It is the Emperor's will," Meng Tian said, his face an unreadable mask of stone. "And we, as soldiers of the Empire, will obey." He met Dai's horrified gaze. "You will prepare the fastest, most discreet vessel we have—a steam launch, perhaps, stripped of all markings. You will select a crew of two men. Not just any men, Dai. Men whose loyalty is absolute. Not to the state, not to the Emperor, but to me."

Dai's confusion was plain. "To you, Admiral?"

"To me," Meng Tian confirmed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "These men will deliver this canister to one of Yuan Shikai's agents at a pre-arranged drop point off the Sumatran coast. They will follow the Viceroy's instructions to the letter. However…" He paused, letting the silence hang in the air, thick and heavy. "Before they make the delivery, they will perform a simple, unauthorized task. Aboard the launch, in secret, they will break the canister's wax seal. They will then expose the container to the intense heat of the engine's boiler exhaust for a full hour. The cholera bacteria, for all its lethality, cannot survive prolonged, extreme heat. The culture will be rendered inert. Sterile. Harmless."

He picked up the lead canister, holding it as if weighing its moral import. "They will then carefully reseal the container. To any inspection, it will appear untouched. We will deliver a dead plague. A serpent with no fangs."

Dai stared at him, dumbfounded, his mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of the plan. This was not mere disobedience. This was not a quiet protest. This was active, deliberate sabotage of a direct imperial order. This was high treason, punishable by the most agonizing death imaginable.

"Admiral…" Dai stammered, his voice barely a croak. "If this is ever discovered… Viceroy Yuan will not just demand our heads. He will tear us apart piece by piece. The Emperor…"

"The Emperor will never know," Meng Tian cut him off, his eyes burning with a cold, hard light. "And neither will Yuan Shikai. Think, Dai. When his great biological attack fails to materialize, what will he report? That the Dutch water purification efforts were simply more effective than he anticipated? That the strain was faulty? He will not dare admit to the Emperor that his much-vaunted secret weapon was a complete failure. His pride, his ambition, it will not allow it. He will be forced to cover it up, to minimize the failure, to save his own face. And in doing so, he will protect us."

He placed a firm hand on his old friend's shoulder, his grip like iron. "I have made my choice, Dai. I have stood at the edge of the abyss, and I will not take that final step. I will not be the man who unleashes a plague upon the world. But I will not abandon my post to a butcher like Yuan, either. I will remain the Emperor's sword." He leaned closer, his voice filled with a new, grim finality. "But even a sword has a soul. It can choose how it strikes. I will serve the Empire. I will protect the throne. But I will do it my way. I will uphold my own honor, even if I must do so in secret, in defiance of the very man I am sworn to serve."

He had crossed his Rubicon. He was no longer just a soldier following orders. He had become a secret arbiter of his Emperor's morality, a clandestine filter between imperial decree and immoral action. He had found a way to reconcile his duty and his honor, but it was a path that led through a minefield of unimaginable danger, a secret war he would have to wage within the larger secret war.

Captain Dai looked into the eyes of his commander, his friend. He saw not a traitor, but a man of profound integrity making an impossible choice. He saw a leader willing to risk everything to hold onto his soul. After a long, tense moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Dai's expression hardened with resolve. He gave a single, slow, firm nod.

"I will make the arrangements, Admiral. I will find you your men."