Chapter 72
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 072
Chapter Title: Arthur Lee, the Sinophile (3)
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What do I need to accomplish in the Qing Dynasty?
First.
Boosting the profits of Leigh & Gladstone Company.
Second.
When Britain dips its spoon into Qing interests, ensuring that the Far East Colonization Corporation scoops them up instead of our rivals.
- It's all packed with your selfish desires.
Of course it is. Why else would I even come here?
But there's a problem.
What's wrong with me sticking close to Joseon and working hard to advance the national interests of both the British Empire and Joseon? I'm practically an industrial soldier boosting the world's welfare.
Yet these ignorant Qing fools, who can't even grasp basic capitalism, are busy slapping labels like "anti-Qing agitator" on me.
- That's spot on.
Spot on?
Where?
- You came here in the first place with the vicious plot to kingmake the Western Empress Dowager. And you say you're not anti-Qing?
Sigh. This is why beasts can't handle higher reasoning.
Listen up.
If Joseon grows prosperous, the Qing will naturally benefit too. Didn't Adam Smith say it? Leave it to the "invisible hand," and the world becomes happier.
Sure, right now they might resent Joseon for daring to stand on its own two feet, but once Joseon strengthens, it'll have no choice but to support the Qing. Imagine a Han nationalist state forged from tight-knit Han ethnicism. The Qing would lose its mind.
- So you're saying you'll slap an oxygen mask on the Qing's mouth by the time the Republic of China emerges and turn it into a puppet state? Prince Gong's right here! Kill this bastard quick!
No, this is unfair.
Why did I end up floundering in this barbaric 19th century? Because the Chinese threw me in jail, that's why.
If they hadn't turned my life into a death sentence there, I wouldn't have liquidated all my assets and wandered the British Museum. Even if I had gone sightseeing, I never would've holed up for days staring at that vase ghost in the corner.
And yet, here I am, running myself ragged for the Qing's happiness.
How many Chinese texts have I translated into English? I pioneered Chinese studies in Britain when it was a barren field, and while I was at it, I even compiled a proper dictionary.
Anyone wanting to study China—diplomats, merchants learning the language—they all start with my primers. Most English translations of Chinese works are based on mine. And they call me anti-Qing? Isn't that too much?
Didn't Jesus say it? If they strike your right cheek, offer the left. I'm a fine Christian practicing his teachings, treating people with virtue—Confucius and Mencius would approve.
In any case, the Qing's one-sided jealousy and slander have made Goals 1 and 2 of my visit a real hassle.
Thankfully, British citizenship acts as a golden shield, a mirror breastplate, a bloomer privilege pass, and a Republic of China passport all in one. They can't directly harass me or my business.
- There's something weird mixed in with those examples?
What are you talking about? Showing "that passport" makes even thugs and terrorists bow. It's common knowledge.
Even so, the issue is they won't touch us directly. In a corrupt hellhole like this, how much can a company hated by the state really rake in?
So we should be grateful just to keep our heads down and do normal trade... Now it's time to move on to the next objective.
Third goal.
I wasn't counting on friendly political factions anyway, but still, support forces opposing Prince Gong to scatter Qing power.
Fourth.
Soften the frozen diplomatic ties between Joseon and the Qing as much as possible. Politics and diplomacy might be out of reach, but at least open trade channels.
Until now, Joseon exports to the Qing have been tough, so we've routed them through Leigh & Gladstone as a middleman. But now, using Joseon as my bridge will be more advantageous.
Time to play my trump card.
Beijing.
City of depravity.
A land of vice that would make Sodom and Gomorrah weep.
The Qing rulers, the Manchus, sucked dry the vast resources of the Central Plains, amassing unimaginable wealth and power.
The original intent was surely to preserve the strength of the minority conquerors, but the result? They bred nothing but Dong Zhuo-level fat pigs who forgot how to ride horses or shoot arrows.
Breathe and make money. Try doing something for the country? Your head rolls under the sharp-eyed autocracy. Keep ancestral traditions? Even minimal luxuries everyone else does for face bankrupt the family.
The outcome was simple.
Mass production of useless humans.
At this time, the vast majority of Manchus were either buried under debt mountains in ruin, or dopamine-fried beasts endlessly chasing luxury and pleasure.
Into that mess, someone wise, intellectual, brimming with love for China introduced a new pastime.
"Stick... Stick, please just stick..."
"Stop floating your leg. You're killing my luck."
"If it sticks... then no more shaking...! It stuck! Tsumo!"
The official Mahjong rules set by the 21st-century Chinese Communist Party—Guobiao Mahjong—might not have spread nationwide, but it exploded in Beijing at least.
From the flashiest high-rises to the slums where wastrels, beggars, and opium addicts wallowed in filth, Mahjong parlors boomed everywhere in the city.
I picked a high-end parlor—not the most lavish, but classy enough not to pale anywhere—and showed up daily like clocking in for work, playing for hours.
Like all games, stake money and the thrill multiplies; the brain goes numb with pleasure. Even rock-paper-scissors gets intense with bets. Try it—your pulse skyrockets.
You think you're fine? Liar. It's just small stakes. Bet amounts that make your neck tingle, and it's a whole different story.
This upscale joint naturally had big pots.
Silver and gold taels spun like mad, smashing pleasure centers.
Tilt with a bad run or need a break? A smoking nook waited right beside.
Post-Second Opium War, opium was fully legal, so most here smoked tobacco at the table, then puffed opium on breaks. Prince Gong threatened no office for opium smokers, but did anyone here care?
I stuck to a few cigarettes to blend in—never touched opium. One hit and I wouldn't make it home.
- Scared Elizabeth will kick you out?
No.
She'd see me staggering and go "Righteous Blade appears!" stabbing my gut. This is Dragon's Pool and Tiger's Den—slack off and you're done.
After my Mahjong opponents cycled several times...
"Mind if I join a round?"
"Ugh, my shoulders are killing me. I'll step aside—take my spot."
"Thanks."
One more vanished into the opium den, and a new player sat down.
Amid thick tobacco smoke and whiffs of opium from afar, we silently shuffled tiles.
Tablemates swapped every half-hour or so; neighbors trickled away.
Hours later, as dusk fell and lanterns lit...
The top floor held only our table. No staff came up anymore.
Showtime.
"Heard you're quite the Mahjong player, Mr. Leigh."
My opposite neatly sorted tiles with deft hands and spoke first.
"Good enough not to embarrass myself anywhere."
"Seems so. The two flanking us are pros who strut anywhere."
"And Your Highness speaks like one of Beijing's top fingers too."
"You see right through my holding back."
"If I want to leave alive, I have to."
The man slowly raised his head from tiles to me.
Frankly, no trace of ferocity—just a bland, doughy face, oily skin, delicate hands.
This youth—no, boy—was Prince Chun Yixuan, half-brother to the Xianfeng Emperor and Prince Gong.
Prince Chun himself was a nobody, but in original history, his son became the Guangxu Emperor, grandson Puyi, the last Qing emperor.
Qing's final emperors all traced to Prince Chun's bloodline.
Who knows if my altered world follows suit.
"His Highness Prince Gong watches you warily. You know that?"
"Unfair. Among Westerners, who else masters the Four Books and Three Classics, spreading Confucius, Mencius, and Zhu Xi worldwide?"
"Where in Confucius does it say vassals should insolently mock their suzerain?"
I pursed my lips, then lifted my teacup.
- Hold it. Watch your words.
I'm holding it, aren't I? Wanted to say the sages allowed smiting petty villains.
"I fully explained that to Master Genfeng (the Japanese exile's pen name). That's why Your Highness came personally, no?"
"Never bows an inch. Arrogant cur."
Should I kowtow to a fifteen-year-old punk? Freedom-loving Brits would sooner war than bow to Qing scum.
Bowing or licking shoes impresses no one born at society's pinnacle.
Better to keep chin up—raises dialogue odds.
- What if they kill you?
Fuck, if they kill me, they kill me. When British citizenship fails as shield, death's the only out, right?
"You didn't come just to call me arrogant."
"Hmph."
"If that's all, excuse me—I'll stand. Played too long; body aches..."
As I bowed and rose, Prince Chun and his two lackeys startled.
"Sit."
"I'll visit next time. Then—"
"Please sit, sir."
I pretended to waver, swapped the ashtray for a fresh one, and sat.
"For Great Qing's future, I seek your wisdom. You already propped up Joseon, that candle in the wind."
"Sorry, nothing to offer."
"You hate Great Qing that much? Want to destroy us?"
"No. It's just not for Prince Chun. Matters of state go to Prince Gong."
Princes or whatever, he's still a kid.
His face flushed purple, near explosion. I decided to drop a hint.
"What you want isn't advice for Great Qing's future."
"......"
Face stiffened, but hands kept fidgeting tiles nonstop.
Long after shuffling, he finally looked up.
"I want wisdom."
"What kind—"
"I want to live. All I offer is owing you a favor—but I want to live."
The big fish bit.
How much effort to engineer this?
Spinning conspiracies, puppeteering Joseon, Japan, Britain—portrayed as era's worst schemer. How I suffered spreading that in Beijing.
All to lure this kid here on his own.
"By my knowledge, both Emperor and Prince Gong share deep brotherhood and filial piety—no neglecting kin."
"Cut the crap; it's just us. I'm scared. Brother Yixun imprisoned even the Emperor—why spare me? Obviously fabricate a treason plot, purge foes, and take me down too."
Yeah... I'd kill him too. One brother per coup plot. Too valuable to waste. Prince Gong's desperate too.
I channeled scheming advisors from dramas and movies, posture regal.
"Your position is precarious—eighty, no ninety-nine percent fatal. Prince Gong seems sky-high, but many deem his acts unfit for the realm. Those toppling him will back you."
"I know. And venting once means death that day! That's why I need you—foreigner, already hated by brother."
Kid, don't tag that—might be mending fences with Gong via this chat.
- He's a kid, duh.
True. Sharp brain wouldn't come to me. Dull one tried hard, bless him.
"Ordinary ways won't save you."
"...Sigh."
"Need extraordinary measures."
"I'm listening."
I glanced at the lackeys without answering.
"Leave."
"Your Highness, if we go too—"
"Now!"
They reluctantly descended.
Alone now.
"Anything to survive?"
"Yes. Anything."
"Then here's the answer."
Prince Chun shivered like he'd fallen off a cliff, found a mystic manual in a cave.
To his ready pupil, I bestowed peerless technique.
"To live, the Emperor must sire a son."
"......Possible?"
Expectant eyes turned rotten fish dead.
Opium kills libido.
Initial aphrodisiac, but addicts crave only its far stronger rush over sex. Xianfeng likely impotent too.
"I said extraordinary."
"What?"
"Anyway, make a son. Somehow."
"Wait, wait."
"Find a consort with ambition, guts, tight lips—get her pregnant."
"Even if lucky, what if it doesn't look like the Emperor?"
I stared him down, rudely.
No fit; he pondered my gaze.
Mouth agape.
"Me?"
"Better than knocking up some rando."
"Mad. Insane. What mad—"
"Boy born? Liquidate assets, spread rumors it's Prince Gong's."
No boys next in line after Xianfeng. His death means Gong ascends.
But a son changes everything.
That son becomes heir.
His mother? Not consort—Empress Dowager, regent-eligible. Gong's coup power crumbles before legitimate might.
No son?
Fabricate one.
The boy's eyes now beheld a monster.