The room did not have a name. It was an intentional void, a space carved from the labyrinthine depths of the Forbidden City that existed on no blueprint. It was soundproofed with thick felt and cedar panels, its air still and heavy. There were no windows, no decorations, no hint of the imperial grandeur that lay just beyond its walls. There was only a single, heavy teak table, two severe, high-backed chairs, and, sitting in the center of the table like a dark idol upon an altar, a state-of-the-art telegraph machine. A single electric lamp, its filament glowing with a sterile, unwavering light, cast sharp, elongated shadows that seemed to drink the very color from the air.
This was the terminus of the Ghost Line.
Qin Shi Huang sat in one of the chairs, his posture as immaculate and unyielding as if he were on the Dragon Throne. His hands rested on his knees, his silk robes making no sound. He was a statue of imperial patience, but behind his dark, fathomless eyes, his mind moved with the speed of a striking cobra.
He was analyzing. Roosevelt had requested this channel, a direct, encrypted line, routed through a series of neutral-port cutouts, designed for communication between two men and two men only. The American had initiated this exchange. Therefore, the American was the one who sought something. A concession? A negotiation? A surrender? Unlikely. Roosevelt was a wolf, not a lamb. No, this was something else. A probe. A display. This was the opening move on a new and far more dangerous board.
Across from him, the telegraph operator, a young man named Fang, sat as if pinned to his chair by the force of the Emperor's silence. Sweat beaded on his forehead and traced clean lines through the light dusting of dust on his temples. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of his seat. He knew he was a temporary necessity, a living component in a machine of unimaginable importance. He was a man tasked with transcribing the whispers of gods, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled his bone marrow, that a single misplaced dot or dash, a moment of lapsed concentration, would be the last mistake he ever made.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It was broken by a sound that made Fang jolt as if struck.
Click-click-clack. Click. Clack-clack-click.
The telegraph key began to move, its sharp, oiled clicking the only sound in the universe. Fang's hands, suddenly clumsy, flew to his notepad. He scribbled furiously, his mind a frantic scramble of dots and dashes, translating the staccato rhythm into the familiar shapes of the Roman alphabet. He finished, ripped the page from his pad with a trembling hand, and presented it to the Emperor, bowing his head to avoid meeting that terrifying gaze.
Qin Shi Huang took the slip of paper. His eyes scanned the message, and a flicker of something—contempt, perhaps amusement—passed through them before being extinguished. The words were a deliberate provocation, an assertion of informal power.
MR EMPEROR. ROOSEVELT. TRUST THIS FINDS YOU WELL. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS. NEW RULES OF ENGAGEMENT ARE REQUIRED. STOP.
Mr. Emperor. Not 'Your Imperial Majesty.' A title stripped of its divinity, rendered as a mere political designation. Roosevelt. Not 'President Theodore Roosevelt.' A name, man to man. It was a calculated attempt to drag him down from the Mandate of Heaven and place them on the same level, two brawlers squaring up in a global arena.
The First Emperor would not permit it.
He did not speak. He simply tapped a long, manicured nail on the tabletop. Fang, understanding the signal, placed his hands back on the telegraph key, ready to transmit.
"Mr. President," QSH dictated, his voice a low, cold monotone that seemed to absorb the light in the room. "Your concern for my health is noted. The only rules of engagement are victory and defeat. You have experienced the latter. State your purpose. Stop."
Fang's fingers danced across the key, sending the icy rebuttal across the ocean. The wait that followed was shorter this time. Roosevelt was prepared. The clicks came back faster, more insistent. Fang transcribed, his hand moving with a desperate, practiced speed. He handed the new message to the Emperor.
VICTORY AND DEFEAT ARE TEMPORARY. KNOWLEDGE IS PERMANENT. STOP. LET US BE FRANK. YOUR EMPIRE POSSESSES UNIQUE STRATEGIC ASSETS. STOP. ASSETS THAT SEEM TO BEND THE VERY LAWS OF NATURE. STOP. SUCH AS THE SUDDEN CALMING OF TYPHOONS OR UNEXPECTED GEOLOGICAL EVENTS IN THE SUNDA STRAIT. STOP.
There it was.
The words lay bare on the page, a formal accusation cloaked in the language of observation. QSH's mind flashed with a cold, white-hot fury. He saw the face of Dr. Wu, the terrified scholar, the traitor. The man had done more than simply escape with his life; he had stolen a piece of the Emperor's soul and delivered it into the hands of his enemies for dissection. They knew. They did not understand, not truly, but they knew. The miracle of the typhoon, the raw power that had shattered Krakatoa—they had connected the events. They had seen the hand of an unseen god moving the pieces on the map.
The voice of Li Si, the ancient, pragmatic construct in his mind, whispered a simple, brutal solution: find the source of the leak and cauterize it with fire and blood. But that was a solution for a lesser problem. The secret was already out. The challenge had been laid.
His face remained a mask of placid indifference. He would never acknowledge it. To admit to his power was to define it, to give it limits, to make it a thing that could be studied and, eventually, countered. His power was a weapon, and its greatest strength was the enemy's inability to comprehend it. He would reinforce their assumption that it was mere fantasy.
He tapped the table again.
"Mr. President," he dictated, his voice unchanged. "Your imagination is as vast as your Pacific Ocean. Stop. My assets are superior steel, superior discipline, and a superior will to power—concepts your republic seems to find alien. Stop. I suggest you focus on the failures of your own military rather than indulging in superstitious fantasies. Stop."
It was a sharp, direct insult, designed to dismiss and belittle. To turn their suspicion back on them as a weakness, a descent into paranoia born of humiliating defeat.
The reply came almost instantly. It was the American's true counterattack.
FANTASY OR NOT, ONE MUST BE PREPARED FOR ALL CONTINGENCIES. STOP. FOR THE GOOD OF MANKIND, MY NATION HAS BEGUN A SCIENTIFIC INITIATIVE. PROJECT PROMETHEUS. STOP. ITS GOAL IS TO STUDY AND POTENTIALLY NEUTRALIZE UNCONVENTIONAL ATMOSPHERIC AND ELECTROMAGNETIC PHENOMENA. STOP. WE BELIEVE IN SCIENCE, MR EMPEROR. AND WE ARE LEARNING TO BUILD A NEW KIND OF LIGHTNING ROD. STOP.
The words on the slip of paper seemed to burn with a cold fire. Qin Shi Huang felt the impact not as an emotion, but as a sudden, chilling clarity. Project Prometheus. The name was a challenge in itself—a reference to the Titan who stole fire from the gods. Neutralize. Not defend against. Neutralize. A new kind of lightning rod. The metaphor was brutally clear. A device not just to protect from the storm, but to draw the lightning, to ground it, to render it harmless.
They were not building a shield. They were forging a spear. A weapon designed not to sink his ships or kill his soldiers, but to attack the very essence of his power. To attack him.
The new war had been declared. It would not be fought with fleets and armies, but in laboratories and secret installations. It was a race to see if he could conquer the world before they could build a weapon to kill a god.
The game had changed. The stakes were no longer his empire, but his existence.
Qin Shi Huang rose slowly from his chair. The movement was fluid, final. He gave a curt nod to the telegraph operator, who was staring at the last message as if it were a venomous snake.
"Send one final message," the Emperor commanded, his back now turned as he faced the blank wall.
Fang looked up, his face pale. "Your Majesty?"
"Mr. President. Your pursuit of science is admirable. Stop. Do not let it lead you to hubris. Stop. End transmission."
He did not wait for a reply. He walked to the heavy door, his silk robes whispering against the silence. He paused, his hand on the latch. Outside was his palace, his city, his empire. But here, in this sterile room, a line had been drawn. His greatest secret was known, and his enemy, half a world away, was learning to shout back in the language of the lightning. He opened the door and stepped out, leaving the terrified operator alone with the silent machine and the ghost of a conversation that had forever altered the course of the world.