The emergency session of the Grand Council was held in an atmosphere of electric tension. Prince Gong, armed with his foreknowledge and a righteous fury, had forced the issue. He had bypassed the dithering ministers and presented the Xinjiang memorial directly to the council, making it impossible for them to hide the crisis any longer.
Cixi sat on her raised throne, her face a mask of icy displeasure. She had been caught completely off guard, her loyal faction exposed as incompetent and indecisive. She was now forced to publicly address a foreign policy failure she had tried to ignore. She remained silent for now, a coiled dragon, allowing her chief councillors to fight the battle for her.
Grand Councillor Ronglu, a portly Manchu noble and one of Cixi's most powerful sycophants, tried to downplay the severity of the situation. "It is merely a border dispute," he argued, his tone placating. "The Russians have made similar incursions before. They are testing our resolve. A strongly worded diplomatic protest is the best course of action. We must not be rash and escalate this into a larger conflict."
"A diplomatic solution?" Prince Gong's voice boomed through the council chamber, laced with contempt. He slammed his flattened palm on the massive mahogany table, the sharp sound making several councillors jump. "You call this a 'dispute'? Russian soldiers are building fortifications on the soil of the Great Qing! While our commander on site, General Chang Geng, does nothing but send panicked letters! Do you propose we write them a stern poem while they build a fortress?"
"General Chang Geng is a loyal and experienced servant of the throne," another councillor from Cixi's faction countered weakly.
"He is a courtier, not a soldier!" Prince Gong shot back. "He has not seen a real battle in thirty years! He must be replaced, and he must be replaced now!"
The debate raged. Cixi's faction argued against any change in command, fearing it would be an admission of their own poor judgment in appointing Chang Geng in the first place. They proposed sending other loyal but equally incompetent generals to "assist" him, a transparent attempt to maintain their grip on the military post.
Prince Gong listened to their prevarications, his expression growing darker with every word. He let them expose their own weakness, their own preference for political loyalty over national security. Then, when they had exhausted their arguments, he played his trump card.
He stood, his tall frame commanding the room. "This Prince does not propose one of his own men for this command," he announced, his voice ringing with authority. The councillors fell silent, surprised. "To do so would be to invite accusations of political ambition. Instead, I propose a true servant of the Qing. A man whose loyalty is only to the dynasty itself, and whose skill is beyond question."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the faces of Cixi's faction. "The Son of Heaven himself, in his celestial wisdom, has recently taken an interest in the great military campaigns of the past. He specifically asked his tutor about the man who finally crushed the decade-long Nian Rebellion. The Emperor himself asked if General Zuo Zongtang was still a loyal servant of the Great Qing."
He let the name hang in the air. Zuo Zongtang. The name was a legend. A brilliant, ferocious, and incorruptible strategist. A hero to the people. And a political nightmare for everyone in the room.
"Let us appoint General Zuo as Imperial Commissioner for the Western Territories," Prince Gong declared, pressing his advantage. "Give him full authority, a free hand to raise troops, and the resources he needs to expel the invaders from our sacred soil."
The move was a stroke of political genius. By invoking the Emperor's name, he had wrapped his proposal in the unimpeachable authority of the Dragon Throne itself. The "imperial query" that Weng Tonghe had delivered now served as a divine mandate. To deny the appointment of the famously heroic Zuo Zongtang—especially when his name had supposedly come from the Emperor—would be a public declaration that they valued their own political power over the security of the empire. It was a choice between protecting their faction or protecting the nation.
Cixi knew she was beaten. She looked at the determined face of Prince Gong, then at the shocked and wavering faces of her own councillors. She was trapped. If she refused, Prince Gong would leak the story to the wider court, painting her as a regent who ignored the wisdom of both the Emperor and a national hero in favor of her incompetent cronies. The political damage would be immense.
With a look of pure venom in her eyes, a look she reserved for her most hated enemies, she gave a slow, deliberate nod. Her voice, when she spoke, was dangerously soft. "The Prince's counsel is wise. The heroism of General Zuo is known to all. This Empress Dowager approves the appointment."
She had been forced to consent to placing a powerful, independent, and brilliant general—a man she did not trust and could not control—in command of a critical military theater.
The episode ends with a lone courier on a lathered horse, galloping out of the capital's western gate, carrying the imperial edict that would change the fate of the Xinjiang province. The wax seal on the scroll bore the mark of the Empress Dowager, but the will behind it was that of an ancient emperor, ruling from the shadows of a child's chamber.
Ying Zheng, miles away in his palace, felt the shift in the political currents as surely as if he had been in the room. He had not only survived the fallout from his previous gambit; he had used it as a stepping stone to achieve a far greater victory. He had successfully leaked intelligence, chosen a commander, and forced his appointment upon a recalcitrant court. He had taken his first concrete step in wresting control of the Qing military from Cixi's incompetent loyalists. He was no longer just planting seeds of discord. He was now forging weapons and placing them in the hands of men who knew how to use them. The game was escalating, and he was finally beginning to feel the familiar, exhilarating thrill of command.