Qiying's fingers trembled as he lifted the document from the polished table. The parchment was thick, foreign, and carried a faint scent of ink and sea salt. His eyes swept over the rows of impeccably neat English, and his breath instantly caught in his throat.
These were not "terms."
They were edicts.
"Your—Your Highness…" Qiying stammered, though the man before him hardly resembled any prince he had ever met. "These… these conditions are… are exceedingly severe."
Across the table, Arthur Lionheart regarded him with the calm detachment of a man who had already anticipated every objection. He folded his hands over one another with that effortless grace particular to men born into absolute confidence.
"Severe?" Arthur Lionheart repeated softly, almost with amusement. "My dear Commissioner Qiying, I have been unfailingly generous. Had I wished severity, Beijing would already be ash beneath the tide."
His tone was mild—pleasant, even—but the words struck like iron.
Qiying felt the back of his robes growing damp with sweat.
"Your… Your Highness must understand," he tried, his voice tight and desperate, "the Celestial Court has never before signed such a—such an unequal arrangement. If His Majesty were to accept such conditions, the officials of the Empire would—"
"—do precisely what His Majesty commands them to do," Arthur Lionheart interjected with unhurried precision. "As is customary in absolute monarchies. China is no stranger to obedience."
Qiying's mouth snapped shut.
Arthur Lionheart leaned back slightly, the faintest glint of calculation in his deep-set eyes.
"Let us not pretend, Commissioner. Your Emperor does not fear the officials. He fears the consequences of denying me."
Qiying swallowed hard. He felt as though he were speaking with a polished blade disguised as a gentleman.
"Your Highness… His Majesty wishes only for peace."
"Peace," Arthur murmured, lifting the coffee cup once more, "is not granted. It is purchased. And I am offering you the price."
He tapped the document lightly.
"Trade rights. Reparations. A permanent diplomatic mission. And the opening of selected ports to British supervision. All perfectly reasonable."
Qiying felt faint. Reasonable?
This man demanded to uproot the very foundation of Qing sovereignty—and yet he spoke with the cool patience of a tutor explaining arithmetic.
"Your Highness… the indemnity alone—"
"Is modest," Arthur interrupted gently. "Compared to the cost of war. Compared to the cost of losing your capital. Compared," he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "to the cost of appearing weak before your own bannermen."
Qiying froze.
How did this man—this foreigner—understand the inner fears of the Qing throne so precisely?
Almost as if he had lived among them.
Almost as if he could read the rhythm of their court better than they themselves could.
Arthur Lionheart set his cup aside and clasped his hands over the polished table, leaning forward just enough to make the distance between them shrink into suffocating intimacy.
"Commissioner Qiying," he said softly, "tell your Emperor that I have no desire to topple his dynasty. Stability is, after all, profitable. However…"
The single word hung like a guillotine.
"…should he refuse, I will be obliged to demonstrate to the world that the Great Qing can neither protect its ports, nor its people, nor its capital."
He spoke the sentence in the same tone one might use to remark upon the weather.
Qiying felt the blood drain from his face.
Arthur smiled—mild, polite, and utterly chilling.
"Bring him my terms. He may accept them with dignity today… or without dignity tomorrow. The choice, Commissioner, rests entirely in his hands."
Qiying bowed until his forehead nearly brushed the floorboards.
"Y–Yes… yes, Your Highness Arthur Lionheart. This humble servant understands."
"Excellent."
Arthur rose, offering a courteous nod—an oddly refined gesture, as if the entire affair were but a polite business matter.
"Your escort awaits outside. Do travel safely. The world has grown… unpredictable of late."
Qiying staggered out of the cabin, clutching the treaty as though it burned. Behind him, the door closed with a soft click.
Inside, Arthur Lionheart turned toward the large strategic map pinned against the cabin wall. His expression shifted—no longer the polite mask he had offered the envoy, but something colder, sharper, infinitely more deliberate.
"China," he murmured to himself, "is a chessboard begging for a new player."
He touched the coastline of the Bohai Gulf with a gloved fingertip, as though claiming it.
"And I," he whispered, "intend to rewrite the rules."