Heijing, Northwest-Hei Province, Da Nanguo Young Ji sat atop the foreman's office's balcony, peering downward though twisted iron railings, at thousands of filthy peasants toiling away below, dying slowly in the endless fields of coal and shattered rock. It was early in the afternoon, yet the sky was already dark. Flakes of soot and ash pirouetted downward, landing softly in the emperor's hair. He shook them away without ceremony, and gazed further at his labouring subjects.
Lifting a hand from his silk-laden lap, he reached for a cotton kerchief. Raising it to his face, he forcefully blew his nose. He didn't feel ill, but the scent of this city had become an unbearable offense to his nostrils. He tried as best he could to eject the smell, to no avail. Placing the soiled cloth on his lap, he drew a bottle of vinegar from the floor. He doused the kerchief in the pungent concoction, and again held it to his face. Foul as it was, it was an escape, a distraction, from the thick deluge of impurity that flowed all around him. Several stories below, the hacking and wheezing of the miners and factory workers echoed their way up to Ji. He scowled through the doused rag, still resting against his face. It was break time, and the coughing would soon be drowned out by the chiming of a thousand pickaxes harvesting the lifeblood of the nation.
That was Ji's motivation for spending so much time in this wretched city. He gained no satisfaction from seeing his subjects die of Hei Fei Disease, but he knew this great pit, this festering wound, was Da Nanguo's only hope. Ji remembered reading of the Hanish emperors of old, who grew fat, lounging about in their rice-paper mansions, while barbarians raided the countryside. They paid no heed to their receding borders, or the grim future of their people. They were plump and happy, and that was all that mattered to them. This wasn't the legacy of the Qing. It was the bloodline's insatiable determination, a lust that could never be placated, that allowed the Qing to seize power. Ji learned well, that the destiny of Great Han was endless expansion. Any expressed doubt for this doctrine was met with a vicious beating from the Prosperity Emperor himself, Ji's father.
Ji let out a mournful sigh, before wearily rising to his feet, and giving an authoritative nod to the foreman below. The foreman, who had been waiting attentively for the emperor's signal, began shouting to the workers. Break time was at an end. As the workers scrambled to their feet, Ji slumped back into his chair. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, halfheartedly attempting to stave off an oncoming headache. Below, the sounds of whips and whimpers rang aloud.
"Chun Lin", Ji called.
"Yes your majesty?", responded a lanky, sickly-looking adviser.
"How steady is this mine's export of coal?"
"Your holiness, this mine is one of your largest, within all of the Celestial Empire."
"Yes Chun Lin, I know thi-."
"A thousand pardons, your greatness", the groveling official pleaded.
Ji emitted another sigh, this time born from deep exasperation. "What I mean, Chun Lin, is how does the mine's production, this month, compare to its production last month, and the month before that?"
"S-sir, as much as it saddens me to say, it has been steadily declining. Through no fault of the workers or managers, I should add. The pits are simply running dry, and we're running out of locations to mine."
The emperor furrowed his brow at the concept. "What about that mountain, over there", he commented, pointing toward the next mountain over. "If we found so much coal here, it seems likely to me that we'll find more there as well."
"Your economic brilliance knows no limits, great one", the adviser commented without the slightest air of irony, "however, oh mighty one, that mountain houses the Mengren tribe. The area is sacred, and was gifted to them by Second Prosperity himself, when he mercifully recognized the various native tribes of our glorious empire, and granted them their own land."
"Chun Lin", Ji grunted, "There is only one tribe in Da Nanguo. That tribe is called the Da Nanguoren, and the Da Nanguoren have need of that mountain. Send the Heijing city guard to clear any tribals from the mountain, and begin mining at once."
"As you command", Chun Lin uttered fearfully, scurrying off.
"It's what he would have wanted. It's what he would have wanted. It's what he would have wanted", Ji silently chanted to himself, in a distinctly neurotic fashion. "It's definitely what he would have wanted... Guard!"
"Yes sir!", responded a young, armour-clad man, emerging from beyond the balcony entrance.
"Fetch my carriage driver! I have factories to inspect!", Ji commanded.
"At once, sir!", bellowed the enthusiastic guard, rushing back inside the metallic tower, and clamouring down the stairs.
"It's what he would have wanted. It's what he would have wanted. It's what he would have wanted.", the emperor whispered, rocking back and forth slightly, in rhythm with the words. "It's what he w-"
Ji broke into a fit of coughs. The air was getting to him. It had to be the air. Emperors, with things required of them, didn't have time for sickness. As such, sickness knew to respect the crown by staying far away during times of war. This unshakable truth was passed down from the first Qing emperor, and Ji knew better than to question it. Clasping his throat in discomfort, he continued the ritual.
"It's what he would have wanted. It's what he would have wanted..."
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