While Yuan Shikai was navigating the gaudy, chaotic spectacle of the St. Louis World's Fair, Meng Tian arrived in a different America entirely. There were no crowds, no banners, no palaces of plaster. The naval cutter carrying him had sailed up the Hudson River, and he was brought ashore at a place that was the very antithesis of the fairgrounds. He was brought to West Point.
The United States Military Academy was a fortress of granite, order, and iron discipline, its stone buildings clinging to a strategic bluff overlooking the river. It was a place that radiated a profound and serious sense of purpose. As Meng Tian, pale and leaning heavily on a newly acquired, polished ebony cane, stepped onto the pier, he was greeted not by politicians, but by the academy's superintendent and a full honor guard of cadets, their uniforms immaculate, their movements as precise and synchronized as the gears of a fine watch.
He was introduced to his personal aide-de-camp for the duration of his stay, a young captain whose posture was as ramrod straight as his gaze was intensely sharp.
"General Meng Tian," the superintendent said, "may I present Captain Douglas MacArthur. He is one of our finest young officers and will be your personal liaison during your visit."
MacArthur stepped forward and rendered a perfect salute. "General," he said, his voice crisp and respectful. "It is a profound honor. Your campaign in Sumatra is already being studied by our instructors here as a model of tactical brilliance and logistical efficiency."
Meng Tian met the young captain's gaze. There was an immediate, unspoken flash of professional recognition between the two men. It was the silent acknowledgment of two master swordsmen, each recognizing the quality of the other's steel. But beneath the professional courtesy, there was an intense, mutual assessment taking place.
Meng Tian's new quarters were not those of a prisoner, but of a visiting dignitary. He was given a spacious suite of rooms in the academy's guest lodgings, with a commanding view of the river and the rolling hills. He was informed by MacArthur that he was to consider himself an honored guest. He was granted full access to the academy's vast library, one of the finest military collections in the world. He was invited to observe any training exercise he wished, from artillery drills on the Plain to engineering classes in the academic halls. He was even, MacArthur added, invited to deliver a series of lectures on strategy to the senior cadets, should he feel so inclined.
It was a comfortable, honorable, and completely inescapable prison.
He was surrounded by hundreds of the most disciplined and physically fit young men in America. He was miles from any major city, his every need catered to, his every movement observed. His two constant companions were the keenly intelligent Captain MacArthur, and the silent, watchful presence of Colonel Jiao, who had taken up residence in an adjoining suite, his role now transformed from spy to a full-time jailer with a deceptively sympathetic face.
On the first afternoon, Colonel Jiao began his own subtle campaign of psychological warfare. He found an opportunity to speak with MacArthur alone, while Meng Tian was resting.
"It is a great relief to have the General here, in your capable hands, Captain," Jiao began, his voice filled with a convincing warmth. "His bravery is immense, but it sometimes… borders on recklessness." He sighed, as if burdened by a great loyalty. "His genius is like a bolt of lightning—brilliant, illuminating, but sometimes uncontrollable. It is my humble duty to the Emperor to ensure that his… enthusiasm… is properly channeled for the good of the state."
He was planting the seeds of doubt with an artist's skill, painting a picture of Meng Tian not as a stable commander, but as a brilliant but volatile asset, a man who needed to be managed. He was providing the Americans with the very narrative he intended to later use against Meng Tian himself.
The first direct test of Meng Tian's character came during a tour of the academy grounds. MacArthur led him and Jiao to the edge of the Plain, the vast central parade ground where generations of cadets had drilled. The American captain paused and pointed with his swagger stick to the large, granite monument at the edge of the field, upon which was carved the academy's famous, foundational motto.
"DUTY, HONOR, COUNTRY," MacArthur read aloud, his voice resonating with pride. He then turned to Meng Tian, his gaze direct and questioning. "It is the creed every cadet here lives by, General. It defines our service. I am curious, what are the words that guide your soldiers? What is the creed of the men you lead?"
It was a simple question, but a deeply probing one. It was a test of his core philosophy, his fundamental beliefs as a commander and a man. Meng Tian knew that MacArthur was asking to understand him, and he knew that Jiao was listening to judge him.
He looked at the three English words, carved with such certainty into the stone. Duty. Honor. Country. They were fine words. Noble words. Words he himself had once believed in without question. But his experiences—the Emperor's ruthless pragmatism, his own necessary deceptions, the brutal realities of the new world he found himself in—had complicated them, tarnished them.
He looked at MacArthur's earnest, expectant face. He glanced at Colonel Jiao, who was watching him with a hawk's intensity, waiting to see if the heretic would reveal his flawed, individualistic soul.
After a long, contemplative pause, Meng Tian gave his answer. His voice was quiet, but firm, each word chosen with deliberate, calculated precision.
"Obedience," he said, his gaze locked with MacArthur's. This was a word a professional soldier would understand and respect. It was the foundation of any army.
"Victory," he said next. This was the language of pragmatism, the ultimate goal that superseded all else. It spoke of his effectiveness, not his morality.
He paused for a final beat, then delivered the last word, turning his head slightly so his gaze fell upon Colonel Jiao. "Empire."
It was a brilliant, stark, and deliberately ambiguous answer. It gave MacArthur the impression of a ruthless, pragmatic professional, a man dedicated to the tools and outcomes of war. It revealed nothing of his own inner conflicts, nothing of his personal code of honor. For Jiao, it was a perfectly loyalist statement, affirming his ultimate dedication to the state and the throne. It was the answer of a perfect servant of power.
He had passed their first test, not by revealing his true heart, but by showing them only what they each expected and wanted to see. He had answered their questions by creating only more profound ones. The quiet, psychological chess match at West Point, a battle for the soul of the Dragon's general, had officially begun.