The main square of Nagasaki was a stage set for the Emperor's new order. The midday sun beat down on the shuffling line of peasants, their hope for a better life a tangible thing that softened the edges of their fear. On the platform, Governor Tanaka Kenji read out the names of families, his voice a strained monotone, as he handed out the deeds of title that made them landowners for the first time in their history. It was a scene of calculated benevolence, a demonstration of the Dragon Emperor's magnanimity.
Then, from the heart of the crowd, came the cry.
"BANZAI!"
The word was a thunderclap, a violent tear in the fabric of the carefully managed peace. The crowd of peasants, which had been a single, shuffling entity, dissolved into a screaming, stampeding mob. Twenty men, their faces contorted into masks of fanatical rage, threw off their ragged peasant cloaks to reveal the short swords and explosives strapped to their bodies. They were a sudden, shocking eruption of the old Japan, a final, suicidal roar of defiance against the new reality.
Led by Lieutenant Tanaka Isoroku, they charged the platform, their objective clear: kill the traitor governor and as many of the foreign officers as possible.
The regular Qing soldiers stationed on the platform were caught completely by surprise. They were guards for a peaceful ceremony, not soldiers braced for a charge. Before they could even level their rifles, the first wave of assassins was upon them. A swift, upward slash from a razor-sharp wakizashi gutted one soldier. Another screamed as a blade hacked through his arm. Governor Tanaka shrieked, a high, thin sound of pure terror, and scrambled backwards, falling over his own ceremonial chair.
For a brief, chaotic moment, it seemed the assassins might succeed. But they had not accounted for the Imperial Guard.
Positioned discreetly around the perimeter of the square, the guards reacted not with panic, but with the instantaneous, cold precision of a well-oiled machine.
"Perimeter!" a sergeant roared, his voice cutting through the screams of the crowd. "Form a wall! Box them in! Do not fire into the civilians! Bayonets! Second squad, protect the Governor! Third squad, to the mansion steps! Contain them!"
Like a closing fist, the Imperial Guard moved. They did not charge into the melee. They formed a disciplined, outward-facing perimeter to control the stampeding crowd, while another ring of steel formed around the platform, their long rifles with bayonets fixed creating an impenetrable hedge of glittering points. They were a wall of death, and the assassins had just thrown themselves against it.
Lieutenant Tanaka was a whirlwind of motion. His swordsmanship was brilliant, a testament to a lifetime of training. He cut down another Qing soldier who tried to block his path and leaped onto the platform itself. His wild eyes scanned the chaos, seeking a high-value target. He saw the weeping, terrified form of Governor Tanaka scrambling away on his hands and knees.
"Traitor!" Tanaka screamed, his voice raw with hatred. "Die for your shame!"
He raised his katana high, the polished steel catching the sun, ready to bring it down and execute the man who had betrayed them all.
Before his blade could fall, a shadow moved with impossible speed. His charge was intercepted, not by a soldier with a rifle, but by a single, immense figure who had descended from the mansion steps like an avenging god. It was Meng Tian.
Tanaka, his bloodlust at its peak, swung his sword, aiming a powerful cut at the general's arm. The blade, a masterpiece of folded steel, struck its target with a sharp, resonant CLANG—a sound not of steel cutting flesh, but of steel striking solid iron. The katana, unable to withstand the impact against Meng Tian's supernaturally dense body, vibrated violently, a visible crack appearing in the blade.
Tanaka stared in utter disbelief. He had put all his strength, all his spirit, into that blow. It should have severed an arm. Instead, his ancestral blade was notched and ruined.
Meng Tian looked down at the small mark on his forearm, then at the stunned Japanese officer, his expression one of complete and utter contempt. "Your spirit is strong," he rumbled, his voice a low growl. "Your steel is weak."
Before Tanaka could recover, Meng Tian moved. He did not even bother to draw his own greatsword. With a single, contemptuous flick of his wrist, he slapped the katana from Tanaka's grip, the force of the blow shattering the man's wrist. As Tanaka cried out in pain and shock, Meng Tian slammed the heavy, iron pommel of his own sheathed blade into the side of Tanaka's temple. The lieutenant's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the wooden planks of the platform, unconscious. The orders had been to take one alive if possible.
With their leader down, the fate of the other assassins was sealed. Pinned between the guards on the platform and the closing ring of steel from the square, they were systematically and efficiently exterminated. It was not a battle; it was a clinical procedure. The Imperial Guard moved as a single organism, their bayonets thrusting with disciplined precision, their rifles firing in short, controlled bursts only when a clear shot was available.
The assassins, brave and fanatical to the last, were cut down one by one. One managed to light the fuse on his grenade, but before he could throw it, three bayonets were driven through his chest. He fell, the grenade rolling under his body, its muffled explosion doing little more than punctuating his own death.
The entire, bloody affair was over in less than two minutes. The screams of the crowd faded, replaced by whimpers and the low moans of the wounded. The square was a horrific sight, a canvas of blood and steel splashed across the scattered land deeds and overturned tables of the Emperor's benevolent ceremony. The bodies of the twenty assassins lay twisted on the ground, their final, desperate act of defiance having achieved nothing but their own deaths.
Governor Tanaka, covered in dust and weeping hysterically, was helped to his feet by a grim-faced guard. His life had been saved by the very men he served and despised.
Meng Tian stood over the unconscious form of Lieutenant Tanaka, the last assassin, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He nudged the man with his boot, then gestured for two of his guards to haul the body away. The trap had been sprung, and though the beast had thrashed, it was now caught. He looked up toward the mansion window, where he knew his Emperor was watching, and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The situation was under control.