One month to the day after Cixi's political demise, the Grand Council convened. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable sense of a new beginning. The suffocating paranoia of the old regime had been replaced by a brisk, almost breathless, energy. Prince Gong, now standing in the undisputed position of First Minister, no longer had to fight for every inch of ground. He was here to build. Empress Dowager Ci'an presided from the dais, her quiet, steady presence lending an air of serene legitimacy to the proceedings. The old guard of conservative ministers sat uneasily in their places, nervously watching the new power brokers, unsure of their own footing in this rapidly changing world.
Prince Gong did not waste time with pleasantries or preamble. The period of mourning for the old order was over. It was time to lay the foundations for the new. He held not one, but three imperial edicts, each one written on heavy yellow silk and bearing the fresh, vermillion seals of both the Emperor and the sole Regent, Ci'an. These were the first major acts of the new government, a three-pronged assault on the stagnation that had crippled the dynasty for decades.
He read the first edict, his voice ringing with purpose. "By Imperial Decree, for the strengthening of the nation's shield and the unification of its armies, the Imperial Military Academy of Tianjin is hereby established!"
A stunned murmur rippled through the council. This was not a minor reform; this was a revolution.
"The Academy," Prince Gong continued, his voice overriding the whispers, "will be under the direct supervision of the Office of Modernization, headed by Viceroy Li Hongzhang. It will employ both Chinese and foreign instructors to teach the arts of modern warfare: naval strategy, artillery gunnery, logistics, and command. Henceforth, it is decreed that all future officers appointed to the new Beiyang Army and the Beiyang Fleet must be graduates of this academy. Promotion will be based on merit and examination, not birthright or connection!"
The implications were staggering. This was a direct assault on the traditional power base of the Manchu nobility, whose sons had long been guaranteed high military office regardless of their skill. It sought to create a new class of professional officers, loyal to the state and trained in modern methods.
Before the councillors could fully absorb the shock of the first edict, Prince Gong unrolled the second.
"By Imperial Decree," he announced, his voice even louder, "for the prosperity of the people and the replenishment of the state's treasury, a National Resource Survey is to be commissioned immediately. Furthermore, the state will reclaim and centralize control over all major salt and iron monopolies throughout the northern provinces!"
If the first edict was a shock, this one was an earthquake. The salt and iron monopolies were the traditional cash cows of the provincial gentry and corrupt officials. For centuries, they had been allowed to operate with little oversight, their immense profits enriching local clans while only a trickle of revenue made its way to the central treasury. Centralizing them was a direct attack on the wealth and power of the most entrenched families in the empire.
"The profits from these industries will no longer line the pockets of local magnates," Prince Gong declared, staring directly at several notoriously wealthy councillors. "They will be directed to the central treasury to fund our new fleet, our new armies, and the modernization of the empire!"
The conservative ministers looked aghast. This was an unprecedented seizure of power by the central government, a violation of centuries of tradition and unspoken agreements between the court and the provincial elites. They saw their family fortunes, their entire way of life, threatened.
But Prince Gong was not finished. He unrolled the third and final edict. This one seemed, on the surface, to be the most trivial, but in its own way, it was the most radical of all.
"By Imperial Decree," he read, "to facilitate commerce, improve the transport of vital grain supplies, and unify the infrastructure of the northern provinces, it is hereby mandated that the axle widths of all carts, wagons, and carriages be standardized to a uniform measure of six Chinese feet."
A wave of confused whispering spread through the hall. Axle widths? After decrees that reshaped the army and the economy, this seemed bizarrely specific, almost mad.
"Standard roads will be constructed along all major trade routes," he continued, "built to accommodate this uniform width. All new carts must be built to this standard. Existing carts must be retrofitted within two years. Local magistrates will be held responsible for the enforcement of this decree."
The conservatives were mystified. But Ying Zheng, were he present, would have recognized his own handiwork instantly. This was pure Qin Shi Huang. This was the ghost of the first legalist emperor made manifest in Qing law. The official reason—improving trade—was merely a convenient excuse. The real reason, as it had been two thousand years ago, was military. Standardized axle widths meant standardized roads. And standardized roads meant that his new, modern armies, with their heavy, horse-drawn artillery and their long supply trains, could move with unprecedented speed and efficiency across the vast northern plain. He was preparing the logistics for a future war.
The reading of the three great reforms in a single session sent a shockwave of terror and fury through the old guard. They saw their world being dismantled before their very eyes. The military, the economy, even the very roads they traveled—everything was to be remade, centralized, and controlled by this new, terrifyingly efficient regime.
Grand Councillor Ronglu, his face pale, rose unsteadily to his feet. "This… this is madness!" he stammered. "This is a radical abandonment of the ways of the ancestors! It is the work of legalists and tyrants, not Confucian rulers!"
Li Hongzhang rose to counter him, his voice a low growl. "The ways of the ancestors have left us with a broken army and an empty treasury, Councillor. The world is changing. If we do not change with it, we will be swept away. This is not abandonment. It is survival."
The debate was fierce, but ultimately, it was futile. Prince Gong and Li Hongzhang, backed by the unshakeable authority of Empress Dowager Ci'an and the Emperor's seal, held all the power. The decrees had already been ratified. This was not a debate; it was an announcement.
The new order had issued its first commands. The battle lines for the future of the Qing Empire were now clearly drawn, not between regents, but between two opposing visions of what it meant to be China: the ossified, comfortable traditions of the past versus a new, centralized, and brutally pragmatic vision of the future.