Prince Gong stood in the center of the silent hall, the echoes of his final, damning charge still hanging in the air. He let the weight of the evidence settle upon the assembled court, letting them absorb the full, horrifying scope of Cixi's betrayals. He then raised the imperial yellow edict once more, its silk shimmering in the light from the high windows. It was time for the sentence.
His voice, now devoid of anger and filled with a solemn, almost funereal gravity, read out the final decree.
"For these grave offenses against the throne and the dynasty," he proclaimed, "it is hereby decreed by the authority of the Regency that the Empress Dowager Cixi is to be stripped of all her titles, duties, and authority as Regent of the Great Qing. She will be permitted to retire with full honors to the Summer Palace she so cherishes, where she will live out her days in quiet reflection and religious devotion. She is never again to interfere in matters of state, upon penalty of being declared a traitor to the ancestors."
The words were a political death sentence. A permanent exile to a gilded cage.
Cixi, who had been standing in stunned, trembling silence, finally broke. A primal, guttural cry of pure rage tore from her throat. Her carefully constructed world, her entire life's work of ambition and control, was being dismantled before her very eyes.
"NEVER!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, all pretense of imperial grace gone. "This is treason! You are all traitors! I am the Regent! I was appointed by my husband, the late Xianfeng Emperor himself! This edict is nothing but a piece of paper written by traitors! It has no power! Guards! Arrest this man! Arrest them all!"
At her cry, the handful of guards from her personal contingent, men whose loyalty was to her purse and not the state, moved forward, their hands going to the hilts of their swords. On the other side of the chamber, Prince Gong's Bannermen tensed, their own hands gripping their halberds, their faces grim and determined. For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, the Grand Council chamber was on the verge of erupting into open, bloody violence. The court was about to devour itself.
It was at that precise, critical moment that the great central doors to the hall swung open.
A collective gasp went through the room. The Emperor himself entered.
Ying Zheng walked into the chamber with a slow, deliberate pace that was unnerving in a child so small. He was not alone. Flanking him, a step behind, was the towering, silent figure of his bodyguard, Meng Tian. The general's presence was an aura of absolute, lethal competence. He was a tiger walking at a child's heel, and his cold, deadly gaze swept over Cixi's guards, promising a swift and terrible retribution if they dared to move another inch.
The Emperor had not been present for the ugly reading of the crimes; it would have been unseemly for a child to hear such things. But he was here now, for the verdict. For the final act.
He did not look at Prince Gong. He did not look at the stunned faces of the councillors. His gaze was fixed on the dais, on the two women who had ruled in his name. He walked to the foot of the steps, his small, silk-shod feet making no sound on the polished floor.
He looked first at Cixi, at her face contorted with rage and desperation. He held her gaze for a long moment, his own expression completely unreadable, ancient and cold. Then, he turned his back on her.
Slowly, deliberately, he walked towards the other side of the dais. He walked to where the Empress Dowager Ci'an sat, her face pale but her expression firm. He stopped before her, looked up, and held out his small hand.
Ci'an, her heart swelling with a fierce, protective resolve, took his hand in her own.
Ying Zheng did not say a single word. He did not need to.
The action was more powerful than any speech, more absolute than any edict. In front of the entire assembled court, the Son of Heaven, the living embodiment of the Mandate of Heaven, had made his choice. He had physically, symbolically, and unequivocally aligned himself with Ci'an. He had turned his back on Cixi.
This single, silent gesture broke the spine of Cixi's remaining authority. The guards, the officials, the princes who had been wavering—they all saw it. It was a divine judgment. The Mandate of Heaven had chosen its regent. The standoff, which had threatened to erupt into bloodshed, dissolved in an instant. Cixi's personal guards, their faces a mixture of fear and confusion, lowered their hands from their swords. Their will to fight for her was gone.
Ci'an, her hand holding the Emperor's, rose to her feet. She looked across the dais at the woman who had been her sister-in-law. Her voice, when she spoke, was not triumphant, but filled with a deep, sorrowful finality.
"Sister," she said softly. "It is over. For the good of the dynasty, for the memory of the late Emperor, you must accept this. Do not force us to shed blood in this sacred hall. Retire with your dignity intact. It is the only path left to you."
Cixi looked at the sea of faces before her. She saw no support. She saw fear in the eyes of her allies, and cold, hard triumph in the eyes of her enemies. She saw the quiet pity on Ci'an's face. And then she looked at the small boy holding her rival's hand, at his old, unreadable eyes that seemed to see right through her, and she finally understood. She had been completely, utterly, and masterfully defeated. She had not been beaten by Prince Gong's political maneuvering. She had been beaten by this child, this strange, impossible creature she had so foolishly underestimated.
A great, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, the sound of a lifetime of ambition deflating like a pierced lung. All the fight, all the rage, drained out of her, leaving behind only a hollow, bitter emptiness. Her body sagged.
In a choked, barely audible whisper, she gave her assent. "I… accept."
The abdication was complete. The reign of the Empress Dowager Cixi was over.