The Emperor's private chambers had been transformed into a tailor's workshop. Bolts of brilliant, imperial yellow silk—the color reserved exclusively for the Emperor himself—were draped over every available surface, turning the room into a dazzling cavern of gold. The air was filled with the clean, sharp scent of uncut fabric and the faint, dusty smell of chalk. Ying Zheng stood on a small, sturdy stool in the center of the room, enduring the indignity of being measured for new ceremonial robes.
An elderly man, the Master Tailor of the Imperial Household, knelt before him, his brow furrowed in concentration as he measured the length of the boy's legs. He was a craftsman of immense skill, his hands gnarled but steady. He and his two young assistants moved with a hushed, reverential nervousness, their every action imbued with the terror of making a mistake on the sacred person of the Son of Heaven. They treated him less like a boy and more like a priceless, fragile vase.
This entire affair was the perfect camouflage. No one, not even the ever-watchful Cixi, would find it suspicious for a growing boy-emperor to be fitted for new clothes. The attendants, from his personal eunuchs to the tailors themselves, were entirely focused on the mundane task at hand. It was within this bubble of normalcy that Ying Zheng planned to conduct his first, tentative act of recruitment.
He had spent the previous day making discreet inquiries through a junior eunuch he had identified as being both ambitious and overlooked—a combination that made him pliable. With a few carefully chosen words of imperial favor and the promise of future notice, the eunuch had procured the name of the dissatisfied clerk from the treasury office: Liang Wen. And now, under the false pretense of delivering a ledger to one of the eunuchs supposedly overseeing the fitting, Liang Wen himself had been summoned.
The young clerk stood nervously by the chamber door, his head bowed low, his hands clutching a thin, thread-bound book. He was out of his element, a low-ranking scribe thrust into the rarified air of the Emperor's private quarters. He was trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible. He was exactly where Ying Zheng wanted him.
While the Master Tailor moved behind him to measure the width of his shoulders, Ying Zheng spoke, his voice clear and carrying, pitched to sound like a child making conversation to alleviate his boredom. He addressed one of his attending eunuchs, but his words were intended for the man by the door.
"The Grand Tutor once told me a story about the great Kangxi Emperor," he began, his tone one of innocent recitation. "He said that during a great famine in the northern provinces, the Emperor refused to wear new robes. He wore old robes that had been patched, to show his solidarity with his starving people. The tutor said it was a lesson in frugality and a ruler's compassion. Is that story true?"
It was a carefully crafted test. It was not a direct question to Liang Wen, which would have been impossibly suspicious. It was a story, a moral fable, dropped into the air of a room filled with extravagant luxury. He was testing the clerk's character. Would the man, who had shown such disgust at the treasury's financial shell games, react to a story about imperial virtue and fiscal responsibility?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ying Zheng watched the clerk. Liang Wen's head, which had been bowed in deep subservience, lifted by a fraction of an inch. In the polished surface of a large bronze mirror hanging on the opposite wall, their eyes met for a single, fleeting second. And in that second, Ying Zheng saw it. A flicker of something unexpected in the young man's gaze. It wasn't just surprise. It was a flash of respect, a glimmer of shock, and perhaps, buried deep beneath layers of fear and cynicism, a tiny spark of hope.
The connection, however brief, was made. The hook was set.
The fitting droned on. Ying Zheng endured the prodding and measuring with the stoicism of his terracotta soldiers. He was measured for sleeping robes, for court robes, for ceremonial dragon robes whose sleeves were so long they would trail on the floor. It was a tedious but necessary part of the charade. He needed a moment, just a single unobserved moment, to speak to Liang Wen directly.
He created his own diversion. As one of the tailor's assistants draped a heavy piece of embroidered silk over his shoulders, Ying Zheng pretended to stumble on the stool. His arm flailed out, "accidentally" sweeping across a nearby tea table. A delicate porcelain tea set—a teapot, two cups, and a plate of pastries—crashed to the floor with a loud, shocking shatter.
Chaos erupted. The eunuchs gasped. The tailors froze in terror.
"Aiyah! Your Majesty! Are you alright?" one of his eunuchs cried, rushing forward.
"My apologies! The Emperor is tired!" another announced, shooing the frantic tailors back.
In the ensuing flurry of activity, as eunuchs scrambled to pick up the sharp porcelain shards and fuss over the "clumsy" Emperor, Ying Zheng found his moment. He stepped down from the stool, feigning a slight limp. The attention of everyone in the room was focused on the mess on the floor. No one was looking at the silent clerk still standing by the door.
Ying Zheng walked past Liang Wen as if heading towards his bed to rest. He did not look at him. He did not slow his pace. His voice was a low, childish whisper, so quiet it was barely more than a breath, easily lost in the commotion.
"The ink on the treasury ledgers is bleeding," he murmured. "The numbers are lies."
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't look back to gauge the man's reaction. He continued walking towards the inner part of his chambers, leaving the words to hang in the air between them. It was a statement, not a command. But it was also a question. I know. He had revealed to Liang Wen that he was not just a child repeating lessons about long-dead emperors. He was an observer. He understood what he saw. He had demonstrated knowledge that a child should not possess, and in doing so, he had implicitly asked the clerk a fundamental question: Are you loyal to the liars who write the ledgers, or are you loyal to the truth?
He had planted the seed. Now he had to wait and see if it would grow in the dark.
Later that night, the palace was still. The silence in his chambers was absolute. Ying Zheng lay in his massive bed, but he was not thinking about Liang Wen or Cixi. He was focused inward. His recent experiments with his power had all been external—creating fire, moving water, sharpening his hearing. But the feeling of the power, the way it felt intrinsically linked to his own vital energy, had planted a new idea in his mind. If the elixir had bound this elemental force to his soul, and his soul now inhabited this body, did his dominion extend to the vessel itself?
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to concentrate. He focused on the steady, rhythmic beat of his own heart. He imagined it, a small, strong muscle pumping blood through this frail, childish body. Using the same calm, immense concentration he had used to move the water, he issued a silent command. Slow down.
He felt a strange, tingling sensation spread through his chest. He focused on the beat, pushing his will against its natural rhythm. Thump-thump… thump… thump… He could feel it decelerating, the space between each beat growing longer. It was an unnerving sensation, a violation of the body's most basic autonomic function, but it was not painful. He held it there for a full minute, the slow, deliberate rhythm of a hibernating bear, before allowing it to return to normal. The effort left him feeling light-headed, but triumphant.
Next, he focused on his body temperature. He imagined a block of ice in the center of his chest, pushing coldness outwards through his veins. He felt a faint coolness spread through his limbs, a subtle drop in his skin temperature. It was a far more difficult and draining task, but the sensation, however slight, was undeniably real.
He lay there in the darkness, his heart returned to its normal rhythm, a profound realization settling over him. This was the true nature of his power. It was not just the dragon's fire or the dragon's breath. It was the dragon's will. The power of absolute control. Over the elements, yes. But more importantly, over the physical vessel he inhabited.
This discovery was more significant than the discovery of flame. This was the ultimate tool for espionage, for survival. He could feign a fever. He could induce a coma-like state. If the situation ever became truly desperate, he might even be able to feign his own death.
Cixi and her spies could watch his every move, listen to his every word, but they could never know what was happening inside his own skin. His gilded cage had a secret door, a hidden escape hatch that no one else could ever find. And he, the First Emperor, was finally learning where to find the key.