The mood in the Grand Council chamber was one of stunned disbelief. Prince Gong stood before the assembled ministers and nobles, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. He had just finished reading the dispatches from Naha, his powerful voice giving weight to every insulting word and veiled threat. He read Captain Deng Shichang's factual account of the tense standoff, the arrival of Japanese warships, and the arrogant ultimatum delivered by their commander. Then, he read a secret, desperate plea for aid from the Ryukyuan king, a message smuggled aboard the Chaoyong, begging his rightful sovereign not to abandon him to the "dwarf pirates."
The news landed like a physical blow. The assembled court, a body of men steeped in centuries of Sino-centric pride, was forced to confront a humiliating and unthinkable reality: the Empire of Japan, a nation they had long dismissed as a "little brother," a student of their own culture, had dared to openly and militarily challenge the authority of the Dragon Throne. They had laid claim to a centuries-old vassal state and threatened a Qing warship in the process.
It was an insult of the highest order, a slap in the face delivered in full view of the world.
The conservative faction, the men who had so vehemently opposed the creation of the Northern Fleet, were caught completely flat-footed. Their arguments from weeks past—that the navy was a waste of precious silver, that the dynasty should rely on its superior moral virtue for defense—now sounded utterly foolish, a dangerous and naive fantasy. They were shamed into a state of horrified silence.
Prince Chun, the leader of the Imperial Clan's conservative wing, was the first to find his voice, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "This is an outrage!" he sputtered, his voice trembling with indignation. "A profound insult from an upstart nation of jumped-up fishermen! They must be taught a lesson in propriety!"
Prince Gong turned his cold gaze upon him. "Indeed, it is an outrage, Your Highness," he said, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm. "An outrage that we were nearly powerless to respond to. An outrage that we only learned of because the Emperor, in his divine foresight, insisted on sending the Chaoyong on its 'goodwill visit.'"
He let his eyes sweep across the faces of Grand Councillor Ronglu and the other conservatives who had fought him so bitterly. "If not for the presence of that single, modern ship, we would not be debating this insult today. We would be reading a report that the Japanese had already annexed the kingdom and deposed its king. We would have lost our vassal without a single shot being fired, and our shame would be absolute."
He held up the dispatch from Captain Deng. "Does the Grand Councillor still believe that our 'moral superiority' is a sufficient defense against foreign ambition? The Japanese have learned their lessons well from the Western barbarians. They no longer speak the language of tribute and propriety. They speak the language of steam engines and steel cannons. It is long past time we learned to answer them in the same tongue."
The entire political atmosphere in the chamber had undergone a seismic shift. The argument was over. The crisis in Ryukyu had done what weeks of debate could not: it had unified the court, for a brief, shining moment, in a shared sense of national humiliation and righteous anger. The debate was no longer if the military should be modernized, but how quickly it could be done. The conservatives were silenced, unable to object lest they be branded as unpatriotic fools.
Viceroy Li Hongzhang, who had been listening with a grim, knowing patience, seized the moment. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for his entire career. He stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate respect.
"Prince Gong speaks the hard truth," the Viceroy declared, his voice a low growl. "For too long, we have been a sleeping dragon, dreaming of past glories while jackals chew at our tail. The incident in Ryukyu is a wake-up call. We must act, and we must act now, with a unity of purpose this court has not seen in a generation."
He unrolled a series of scrolls, proposals he had prepared with Shen Ke and Prince Gong in anticipation of this very moment—proposals secretly designed by Ying Zheng to be the next logical steps in his grand strategy.
"Therefore, with the approval of the Regent, we propose a series of emergency edicts to address this clear and present danger to the empire's sovereignty," Li Hongzhang announced.
He read the first. "It is decreed that the budget for the Northern Fleet shall be tripled, effective immediately. The contracts with the German shipyards for the two ironclads are to be supplemented with new orders for four additional armored cruisers and a squadron of torpedo boats. The funds will be allocated without delay by the Joint Regency Audit Office."
He read the second. "It is decreed that the Imperial Naval Academy shall be formally established at Tianjin within the next six months. A commission, led by Deputy Commissioner Li Fengbao, will be dispatched to Great Britain to hire experienced naval instructors and procure the most modern training equipment."
He read the third and final edict, the one that would truly consolidate the power of the new regime. "It is decreed that a new government body, the Zongli Yamen or Office of Western Affairs, shall be created. This office will henceforth centralize and oversee all diplomatic relations with foreign powers and all matters related to the acquisition of Western technology. This servant," he added with a slight bow, "has been recommended to serve as its first director."
This was a masterstroke. It was a complete overhaul of the Qing's military and foreign policy apparatus. The navy would be expanded at a breathtaking pace. A new generation of modern officers would be trained. And most importantly, all foreign affairs and technology projects would now be streamlined under a single, powerful office led by Li Hongzhang himself—a man firmly in Ying Zheng's camp.
This time, there was no debate. There were no dissenting voices. The conservative faction sat in stunned, resentful silence. To object now, in the face of Japanese aggression, would be political suicide. It would be tantamount to treason.
Empress Dowager Ci'an, presiding from the dais, her face a mask of solemn resolve, gave her formal assent. The new edicts were ratified unanimously, passed with a speed that was utterly unprecedented in the history of the Qing court.
Ying Zheng, though not physically present, had achieved a victory more complete than he could have imagined. He had used his foreknowledge of a minor historical incident to create a major international crisis. And he had then used that crisis to ram through a series of radical reforms that would accelerate his plans by years. The dragon's ire had been awakened, and it was now, finally, beginning to forge new scales of steel.