The Council of Rivals

The Hall of Preserving Harmony had been chosen as the seat of the new Supreme War Council. The name was a bitter, biting irony. The vast chamber, with its soaring, intricately painted ceiling and massive columns of polished nanmu wood, was designed to project an aura of serene, cosmic balance. But today, it was a cold, empty space, charged with the silent, hostile energy of two mortal enemies forced into a shared cage.

At one end of a long, impossibly polished table of black lacquer sat Viceroy Yuan Shikai. He sat ramrod straight, his stocky frame straining the seams of his perfectly tailored general's uniform. He projected an aura of coiled, impatient power, a bull penned in a space too small for its ambition. His thick fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the tabletop, the only sound in the cavernous hall.

At the far opposite end, a gulf of lacquered wood separating them like a vast, empty ocean, sat Admiral Meng Tian. He was the Viceroy's perfect antithesis. He did not occupy his chair so much as inhabit it, his posture relaxed but radiating a quiet, unshakeable dignity. His admiral's uniform, with its clean, ascetic lines, seemed a natural extension of his own scholarly temperament. He sat perfectly still, his hands resting in his lap, his gaze fixed on the intricate dragon carvings on the wall opposite, pointedly ignoring the man who was now his co-equal in power.

Between them, at the head of the table, sat the Emperor's throne. It was empty. But its presence was the most powerful in the room. It was a constant, looming reminder of the master they both served, the architect of this forced, hateful partnership. The Emperor had chained them together, and the empty throne was the lock on that chain.

Yuan Shikai broke the silence, his voice a low growl that seemed ill-suited to the hall's refined acoustics. "Since the Admiral seems content to spend the day admiring the woodwork, perhaps I shall begin." He unrolled a map of Sumatra, its edges weighted down with heavy inkstones. "The situation in the south requires our immediate attention."

He began his report, his voice filled with a self-aggrandizing confidence that grated on Meng Tian's nerves. He described the new strategy, "Operation Volcanic Fury," as a brilliant and decisive pivot. He spoke of the "necessary and efficient purge" of the incompetent rebel leadership, framing the mass assassination of their former allies as a prudent act of strategic hygiene. He detailed the initial strikes by the new Shadow Guard units, exaggerating their successes, painting a picture of a Dutch colonial administration on the verge of total collapse.

"The new strategy is working, Admiral," he concluded, his gaze finally locking with Meng Tian's across the vast expanse of the table. "The terror campaign is bleeding the Dutch dry. But it can be made more efficient. More swift." He leaned forward, his bulk straining his uniform. "I require more aggressive support from your Southern Fleet."

Meng Tian's expression remained a mask of cool contempt. He knew Yuan was lying. He knew from his own secret channels that the Dutch were not collapsing; they were fighting back with unexpected ferocity. He knew that Yuan's initial operation had been a catastrophic failure. And he knew, with a certainty that was a cold, hard stone in his gut, that the canister of inert cholera he had arranged to be delivered was a secret that gave him a unique and powerful leverage over this butcher.

"Specify your request, Viceroy," Meng Tian said, his voice as cool and calm as a winter morning.

"I need your ships to take a more… active role," Yuan said, a hint of a sneer in his voice. "I need dedicated naval transports to ferry Shadow Guard cells directly to their operational areas. The current method of using smugglers and fishing junks is too slow and unreliable. I also require a more provocative naval posture. I want your cruisers to 'show the flag' closer to the major Dutch ports, to conduct aggressive 'patrols' that will draw the Dutch Navy's attention to the coast, leaving the interior more vulnerable to my forces."

Meng Tian listened, his fingers steepled before him. When Yuan was finished, he allowed the silence to stretch for a long moment before he spoke.

"The request is denied," he said simply.

Yuan Shikai's face flushed a deep, dangerous shade of purple. "Denied?" he sputtered, his voice rising. "On what grounds? This is a direct initiative approved by the Emperor himself!"

"The Emperor approved a strategy, Viceroy," Meng Tian corrected him coolly. "He appointed this council to oversee its implementation with wisdom and balance. Your request is neither wise nor balanced. It is reckless."

He stood up and walked slowly toward the center of the table, his footsteps echoing in the hall. "Let me be clear. The Imperial Navy is the sword and shield of the Great Qing on the high seas. It is a fleet of honor, a symbol of our nation's strength and prestige. It is not," he said, his voice laced with ice, "a private ferry service for your gangs of assassins and terrorists."

Yuan slammed a meaty fist on the table, the sound cracking like a pistol shot in the silent hall. "Your 'honor' is a weakness that will cost us this war, Admiral! It is a luxury we cannot afford! The Emperor demands victory, not posturing!"

"And I am ensuring that victory is not compromised by your bloodlust," Meng Tian countered, his voice never rising, yet cutting deeper than Yuan's roar. "Using marked naval vessels for clandestine insertions is madness. It would be an open act of war, providing the Europeans with irrefutable proof of our direct involvement. It risks a direct confrontation not just with the Dutch, but with the British Royal Navy, who guarantee the security of these sea lanes. My primary duty, as commanded by the Emperor, is the strategic security of the fleet and the sea lanes. I will not risk our new battleships to indulge your desire to play at being a pirate."

They were at a complete and total stalemate. Yuan's fury was a raging inferno, but it was beating against the granite wall of Meng Tian's calm refusal. The core tenet of the council—unanimous consent from its co-chairs—meant that neither man could force the other's hand. Yuan could not get the active naval support he craved to accelerate his terror campaign. Meng Tian, in turn, could not stop Yuan's butchers from operating on the ground, but he could maintain a scrupulous distance, refusing to allow the Navy to be directly implicated in the war crimes being committed in the Emperor's name. He was keeping his own hands, and the honor of his service, clean.

"You are a coward, Meng Tian," Yuan snarled, his voice low and filled with venom. "Hiding behind your regulations and your precious 'honor' because you lack the stomach for what must be done."

"And you, Yuan Shikai," Meng Tian replied, his eyes like chips of ice, "are a blunt instrument. A butcher who would burn down the entire house just to roast a pig. My purpose on this council is to ensure your recklessness does not burn down the Empire along with it."

He turned his back on the Viceroy and walked calmly back to his seat. The meeting was over. Nothing had been decided. Nothing could be.

They sat in silence once more, at opposite ends of the long, polished table, their mutual hatred a palpable, living thing between them. The Emperor's brilliant, cynical plan had worked to perfection. He had taken the two most powerful and dangerous men in his empire, men whose rivalry threatened to tear the state apart, and had locked them in a room where their hatred for each other was the very mechanism that maintained the balance of power. The government of the Great Qing Empire was, for the foreseeable future, in a state of cautious, angry, and perfectly engineered paralysis. It was a deeply dysfunctional state of affairs, but for the Emperor's purposes, as he prepared for his great summit, it was perfectly, absolutely stable.