While the political masters of the Forbidden City were busy redrawing the maps of power, a lone figure moved through a landscape far more ancient and unforgiving. The snowy, treacherous mountain ranges of western Sichuan were a world of sharp peaks, deep valleys, and a silence so profound it seemed to press in on the soul. The air was thin and bitingly cold, tasting of pine and ice.
Meng Tian, now disguised as a rugged, taciturn fur trapper from the north, moved through this harsh terrain with an ease that was utterly inhuman. His official papers, signed by the Empress Dowager Ci'an, declared his business to be a survey of potential military outposts along the Tibetan border. It was the perfect cover, granting him the authority to travel through these remote regions without raising suspicion.
He was in his element. The stifling, perfumed air of the palace had always felt alien to him, a gilded cage. Here, in the vast, untamed wilderness, the ancient general within him felt at home. His superhuman stamina allowed him to travel for days without rest, his heightened senses reading the landscape like a map, noting the tracks of animals, the direction of the wind, the subtle signs of a coming storm.
Weeks ago, he had arrived in Chengdu, the bustling capital of Sichuan province. He had located the Serpent's Head Trading Company and its corpulent, corrupt manager, Qian. The "persuasion," as his Emperor had called it, had been brief and brutally effective. A quiet, late-night visit, a few pointed questions referencing the man's financial crimes detailed in Li Lianying's stolen ledger, and a single, terrifying demonstration of strength—Meng Tian had splintered the man's heavy rosewood desk with a single, casual blow from his fist—had been enough to ensure Mr. Qian's complete and utter cooperation.
Now, Meng Tian was putting the fruits of that cooperation to use. He was shadowing the winter herb shipment, the secret supply caravan on its way to the Hidden Valley. He kept a safe distance, a ghost moving along the high ridges, tracking the slow-moving mule train in the valley below. He was a hunter, and this was a reconnaissance mission, a chance to scout the enemy's territory before the true battle.
He memorized the secret trails they used, paths that were not on any official map. He noted the routines of the handlers—hard-faced men who moved with the discipline of soldiers, not common traders. He saw how they posted guards at night, how they navigated the treacherous, ice-covered passes. And he identified the natural choke points, the narrow ravines and steep switchbacks where a small force could easily ambush a much larger one.
After a week of relentless travel, he watched from a high, snow-dusted ridge as the mule train finally reached its destination. The trail ended at what appeared to be a sheer cliff face. But as the lead handler sounded a specific, three-toned whistle, a section of the rock seemed to shimmer and slide away, revealing a dark, narrow opening. It was a cleverly disguised gate, a perfect natural defense.
The caravan entered, and the stone gate slid shut behind them, leaving no trace.
Meng Tian did not approach. He had found the serpent's nest. From his vantage point, he could see parts of the valley beyond the gate. It was just as Ying had described: a collection of austere wooden buildings, a large, flat training ground, and the faint, wispy smoke from its kitchens and forges. He had confirmed its existence and its approximate location. His reconnaissance was complete.
His primary mission, however, was not to attack the school, but to learn its most vulnerable supply route. He waited patiently for two days until the empty caravan re-emerged from the hidden gate, then shadowed them on their long journey back to Chengdu.
He confronted the terrified manager, Qian, once more, this time in the dusty storeroom behind the man's own shop. The scent of dried herbs and spices filled the air.
"You have shown me the path for the herbs," Meng Tian said, his voice a low rumble that made the fat man tremble. "Now you will tell me about the path for the children."
Qian, his face slick with sweat, nodded frantically. He knew better than to refuse this terrifying man anything. "Yes, yes, of course, my lord," he stammered.
He revealed everything. The spring caravan, the one that carried the school's most precious cargo—new recruits—was their most carefully planned operation. The children, usually between the ages of five and eight, were gathered from the poorest orphanages and the most desperate slums in the river city of Chongqing. They were told they were being taken to a special school in the countryside where they would be fed and educated, a promise that no one in authority ever questioned.
The caravan was scheduled to depart in two months, at the beginning of the spring planting season, a time of activity and movement that would help to mask their journey. They would be transported up the Yangtze River by a series of nondescript cargo barges to a remote river town. From there, they would be taken overland, on a different, more southern route than the one used for the herb shipment, a path that was considered safer during the spring thaws.
Qian provided the full details: the name of the river transport company they used, the location of the rendezvous point, the number of guards—usually a dozen of the school's elite "Shadow" agents—and the approximate date of departure.
Meng Tian had his final, critical piece of intelligence. He now had the timeline, the route, and the composition of his true target. He knew when and where to strike.
"You have been very helpful, Manager Qian," Meng Tian said, his voice devoid of warmth. "For your cooperation, my master has authorized me to allow you to keep your life. You will continue your business as usual. You will say nothing of this to anyone. If you do, if even a whisper of this meeting reaches the wrong ears…" He let the threat hang, unfinished but perfectly understood.
He left the terrified merchant trembling among his sacks of star anise and cinnamon. That night, Meng Tian dispatched a coded message to the capital via a trusted military channel, detailing all he had learned and outlining his proposed plan for the ambush of the spring caravan.
His work here was done for now. He was no longer just following a trail. He was now setting a trap. High in the remote, unforgiving mountains of Sichuan, the Emperor's blade was being sharpened, ready for its first lethal strike against the heart of Cixi's secret power.