News travelled slowly, crookedly, like veins beneath dry earth. It passed from one worn-out garrison to the next until, at last, it reached Beijing. The Qing Empire's ancient administration, a lumbering giant long past its prime, moved with exhausted limbs—but even it could not ignore the truth: a foreign fleet was at its doorstep.
Beijing, Forbidden City — Hall of Imperial Councils
Reports were read aloud. With each trembling word, the Emperor Daoguang's composure cracked.
"An army of incompetents!" he thundered, hurling a cloisonné cup that shattered across the lacquered floor. "Our navy! Our forts! You have allowed a handful of foreign ships to approach Tianjin at their leisure?"
The ministers, kneeling in perfect rows, kept their faces lowered like carved idols.
The First Councillor, Muzhang'a, bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, the invaders possess ironclads and modern artillery. Our coastal batteries could not withstand their fire. It may be prudent to avoid direct engagement until—"
"Avoid? And where, pray, shall we flee? Beyond the Great Wall?" the Emperor snapped. "They are already at Tianjin!"
In desperation—always a poor counsellor—the order was given: the Mongolian cavalry of Prince Doru Senggelinqin, the most loyal of the northern tribes, would march to the defence of the Dagu Forts, bolstered by several thousand regular troops.
The Emperor clung to one final hope: that foreign steel might break against Chinese earth.
Tianjin, Dagu Forts — The Front Line
The waters of the Bohai Sea were black, quiet, deceitfully serene.
Along the shore, rows of cannons pointed toward the horizon like the teeth of some ancient beast.
Prince Senggelinqin stood with a brass telescope, his fur-lined cloak stirring in the wind.
"Your Highness," an officer reported, "three hundred cannons are mounted. Defensive barriers are in place. The troops await your command."
"Good. Fire the moment the foreign ships enter range. Let them learn humility."
But the British fleet did not attack.
The ironclad Revenge Queen, flagship of Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart, anchored at a prudent distance. A small steam launch, flying a white flag, moved toward the shore.
A British diplomat stepped onto the beach and offered a sealed letter.
"It is a formal communication from His Royal Highness, Prince Arthur Lionheart of Britannia."
Senggelinqin broke the seal.
The ultimatum was icy, stark, and impeccably composed:
"Send a plenipotentiary to my ship within the hour.
Should you decline, Beijing shall hear the voice of artillery."
— Arthur Lionheart, Prince Consort of Britannia
Senggelinqin tore the letter in half.
"Tell your master that if he wishes to treat, he may kneel on Chinese soil first!"
The diplomat, pale as bone, hurried back to the launch.
Aboard the Revenge Queen —
Arthur Lionheart listened to the report with an expression of quiet amusement, a faint smile touching only the corners of his mouth.
"The Mongol prince is a man of… colourful temperament," he said. "But rigidity is a virtue. It breaks cleanly."
General Yili, standing stiffly at attention, cleared his throat.
"Your Highness, if they refuse negotiation, are we to attack? The forts appear heavily armed."
Arthur turned to him with deliberate slowness, the lamplight catching in his steel-grey eyes.
"My dear General, brute force is costly. Fear, on the other hand, is rather economical—and pays most reliable interest."
He lifted a cup of black tea.
"An immediate assault would squander political capital. First, we must educate them."
"Educate…?" Yili echoed, bewildered.
"Precisely."
Arthur set his teacup down.
"Their armaments are primitive, but their pride is formidable. Let us strike there."
At Arthur's command, three small Daring-class frigates advanced slowly, almost innocently.
When they entered firing range, Senggelinqin gave the order.
The shore erupted in thunder.
But the frigates accelerated with impossible swiftness, paddle wheels churning violently. They veered away in elegant arcs. Every Qing cannon shot splashed uselessly into the sea.
The ships retreated, leaving only mocking trails of smoke.
On the Revenge Queen, Arthur clasped his hands behind his back.
"You see, General? A lesson. They now appreciate the limits of their reach."
The Revenge Queen advanced one kilometre closer.
Its massive turrets rose—black silhouettes against the morning sky.
"Blank rounds," Arthur instructed.
"A demonstration, not an assault."
"Fire."
It was not a sound but a tectonic rupture.
The earth shook.
Qing soldiers collapsed in terror.
Many fainted outright.
Prince Senggelinqin's horse nearly threw him.
Arthur listened to the echoing blast with polite satisfaction, like a critic judging a fine performance.
"Observe, General," he said softly. "Force destroys.
But spectacle governs."
A new message was sent to shore:
"That was a courtesy.
Tomorrow, should no envoy be forthcoming, I shall no longer employ courtesy."
— Arthur Lionheart
The fleet withdrew—not out of fear, but to allow panic time to ferment and ripen.
Night at the Dagu Forts
Morale shattered.
Soldiers deserted.
The psychological collapse spread like a cold fever.
Senggelinqin, sleepless in his command tent, faced a truth sharper than any blade.
With dawn, his pride finally gave way.
He wrote a letter—humble, deferential, painfully respectful—and sent it to the Revenge Queen.
And Arthur Lionheart?
On the flagship's deck, Arthur received the missive with no surprise whatsoever.
"Predictable," he murmured.
Then, with the faintest hint of a smile:
"An empire is never conquered by fire…
but by the mere awareness that fire exists."