In the quiet sanctuary of the Emperor's study, the daily lessons had settled into a new, carefully managed rhythm. The air was one of placid scholarly pursuit, a stark contrast to the volatile political currents swirling just outside its walls. Weng Tonghe, now a man living in a state of perpetual, low-grade terror, dutifully guided his imperial charge through the bland, moralistic passages of the Book of Rites. He had found that sticking to the most orthodox and least controversial texts was the safest path, a way to fulfill his duty without provoking another of the boy's unnerving flashes of insight.
Ying Zheng sat at his table, playing the part of the recovering, docile student with masterful skill. He seemed to be only half-listening to his tutor's droning voice, his small hand idly tracing the outlines of characters on a spare piece of paper. To any observer, he was a child drifting in and out of focus, his mind wandering. But beneath the placid surface, his thoughts were racing.
The night before, the charcoal messenger had delivered again. The hollowed-out piece of fuel had contained a tiny, tightly-rolled scroll, and on it was the most valuable piece of intelligence his fledgling network had yet produced. Liang Wen, his treasury clerk, had proven to be more resourceful than he could have hoped. The young man's quiet diligence and network of disgruntled junior scribes had allowed him to cultivate a contact within the Grand Council's courier station—a man who handled the empire's most sensitive incoming dispatches.
The message on the scroll was a summary of an urgent, top-secret memorial from the Governor-General of Xinjiang, the vast, remote territory in the empire's far west. It was a crisp, chilling report: a detachment of Russian troops, numbering in the hundreds, had crossed the border and occupied the strategically vital Muzart Pass in the Tian Shan mountains. The official pretext given by the local Russian commander was the need to combat "bandit activity" spilling over the border. But the reality was an act of military aggression, a blatant land grab.
The most critical part of the intelligence, however, was not the incursion itself, but its handling. The memorial, marked as 'Urgent and Imperial,' had arrived in the capital three days ago. Yet it had not been presented to the Grand Council. It was being deliberately slow-walked, held up by court factions loyal to Cixi. They were terrified of bringing another foreign crisis to the Empress Dowager's attention so soon after her public humiliation over the pearl shawl. They would rather let the situation fester, hoping it would resolve itself, than risk another political storm. They would trade territory for tranquility.
Ying Zheng knew he had a weapon of immense power. Foreknowledge. He had a short, critical window to act before the news inevitably broke and the court was forced to react. He had to get this information into the hands of Prince Gong, the one man who would understand its military significance and have the courage to force the issue. But he had to deliver it in a way that was utterly untraceable, a way that would enhance his own mystique rather than expose his network.
He waited for Weng Tonghe to finish a passage about the proper conduct for ancestral rites. Then, he set his brush down and looked up, his expression one of childish puzzlement.
"Grand Tutor," he said, interrupting the lesson, his voice clear and untroubled. "I had a dream last night."
Weng Tonghe paused mid-sentence. He let out a quiet, internal sigh, bracing himself. The Emperor's 'dreams' and 'questions' had become the bane of his existence, cryptic messages he was now obligated to ferry to Prince Gong.
"Oh?" the tutor replied, his voice carefully neutral. "And what did Your Majesty dream of?"
Ying Zheng's gaze became distant, as if he were trying to recall a fading memory. "I dreamed I was flying over a great map of the empire, one that covered the whole world. It was very beautiful. But the edge in the far, far west, where the highest mountains are, was… torn." He frowned, a perfect imitation of a child's confusion. "And a great bear with white fur was chewing on the torn part. It was trying to eat the map." He then looked directly at his tutor, his eyes wide and innocent. "Is the western border safe, Grand Tutor?"
The imagery was simple, almost crude, yet its components were lethally precise. A torn map. The far west. The high mountains. And a white bear—a common allegorical symbol for the vast, snow-covered Russian Empire.
Weng Tonghe felt a chill crawl up his spine that had nothing to do with the winter air. He did not understand the specifics of the metaphor, but he knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that this was not a child's random nightmare. The question was too specific, too geographically pointed. An inquiry about the safety of the western border, coming at this exact time, could not be a coincidence.
He felt the sweat prickle on his forehead. This was another message. A message of far greater weight than the previous ones about pearls or historical anecdotes. This felt like a matter of state security. He was no longer just a messenger in a game of courtly intrigue; he was now carrying what felt like a state secret.
"The borders of the Great Qing are protected by the Mandate of Heaven and the strength of the Emperor's virtue," he stammered, falling back on hollow platitudes. "Your Majesty should not be troubled by such dreams."
"But the bear looked very hungry," Ying Zheng insisted, his voice taking on a slight, worried tremor.
Weng Tonghe knew he could not deflect any longer. The message had been delivered. He understood his role. He quickly ended the lesson, citing the Emperor's need for rest after such a "disturbing dream." He left the study feeling sick with fear, the boy's words burning in his mind. He had to get to Prince Gong's mansion immediately.
Ying Zheng watched him go, his face impassive. He had successfully passed on critical military intelligence. More than that, he had framed it as a prophetic, heaven-sent vision from the Son of Heaven. He was not merely feeding his allies information anymore. He was cultivating an aura of divine insight, an untouchable mystique that would make his pronouncements, no matter how strangely delivered, seem like the very will of Heaven.