The first grey light of dawn crept over the water like a blade being drawn. The fog clung stubbornly to the estuary, but the rising sun carved its way through, unveiling the jagged silhouettes of the Humen fortifications. Stone bastions, battered by years of monsoon and neglect, stood like ageing sentinels guarding an empire that preferred ceremony to readiness.
From the deck of the Queen's Vengeance, Arthur watched the scene unfold with an expression of ice.
The signal officers moved with crisp precision. At his nod, the Imperial Standard rose, unfurling in the morning wind. One by one, across the entire fleet, flags snapped open—red, white, and blue streaming defiantly into the sky.
A message written in colour.
Not to Humen.
To the world.
Within minutes, distant forts stirred. Bells clanged. Drums rolled. Men scrambled along the parapets like startled ants. The Qing garrison had clearly not expected visitors—let alone forty British warships assembled in perfect battle order.
General Yewell returned to Arthur's side, binoculars in hand.
"They're confused," he observed. "They don't know whether to salute us, fear us, or pretend not to see us."
"Good," Arthur replied. "Confusion is fertile soil for diplomacy."
He finally lifted his own spyglass. Through the lens, he saw it clearly—soldiers rushing to man unstable cannons, officers shouting conflicting orders, banners rising with uncertain haste. A scene of ritual masquerading as readiness.
"Do you intend to open communication, Your Highness?" Yewell asked.
Arthur lowered the spyglass.
"In a manner they cannot mistake."
He beckoned the communications lieutenant.
"Prepare a broadside signal to the nearest fort. Full formal salute—twelve guns."
Yewell blinked. "A salute, sir? That will spook every commander in Guangzhou. They won't know if it is honour or intimidation."
Arthur's lips curved faintly.
"That is precisely the point."
Moments later, the order thundered across the deck. Gun crews sprang to position. The broadside cannons roared one after another, each shot booming across the water and echoing off the stone walls of the fortress.
Smoke billowed. Sea birds scattered. The fort trembled from the concussion.
It was not an attack.
It was a message wrapped in thunder:
We are here, and we dictate the tone.
On the parapets, Qing soldiers froze. Several stumbled backward. Officers shouted commands lost in the reverberation.
Yewell exhaled. "They'll scramble their commanders now. The Governor-General will be in a panic."
"Panic," Arthur replied calmly, "is the gateway to negotiation."
He turned slightly.
"Send a formal envoy ashore. Full diplomatic dress. No weapons beyond personal sidearms. The message will be simple."
The lieutenant stood ready to record.
Arthur spoke each word with the precision of a blade sliding into a sheath.
"Her Britannic Majesty's fleet requests immediate audience with the provincial authorities of Guangdong to discuss matters of commerce, maritime conduct, and the protection of British nationals."
He paused, then added:
"And that refusal will be interpreted as an unfriendly act."
The lieutenant swallowed but wrote it faithfully.
A giggling breeze shifted across the deck, carrying with it the faint scent of river silt and pollutants from the city upstream. Arthur breathed it in without flinching. This was the smell of an empire convinced of its own permanence—one that did not yet realise history had quietly set a date for its audit.
Yewell studied him. "If they refuse the envoy?"
Arthur's gaze drifted toward the forts again.
"They won't refuse."
"But if they do?" Yewell pressed.
Arthur's voice was unhurried, almost gentle.
"Then we will correct their misunderstanding of the world."
The general nodded once—an acknowledgement, not of agreement, but of inevitability.
Below, the launch boat was lowered into the water, the diplomatic delegation boarding with stiff collars and immaculate uniforms. They carried letters sealed in crimson wax, polished shoes reflecting the morning sun. The performance was deliberate, almost theatrical.
Everything in this operation was an act on a stage too large to be taken lightly.
As the boat cut across the surface toward the fortress pier, Arthur remained still, hands clasped behind his back.
He wasn't watching the envoy.
He was watching the fort.
Watching how an old world reacted to the approach of a new one.
The Qing soldiers leaned over the walls, squinting at the incoming vessel. Officers spoke rapidly among themselves. Arthur could almost imagine the arguments—protocols being dusted off, ancient instructions recalled, pride grappling with fear.
Yewell murmured, "It must be strange for them, seeing a fleet two generations ahead of their own moored in their river."
Arthur did not look away.
"It is not strangeness they feel," he said. "It is the beginning of recognition."
He straightened.
"And recognition is the first step toward submission."
The fort began lowering a ceremonial banner. Soldiers were gathering at the pier. A reception party was forming—hurried, uneven, but forming nonetheless.
Yewell exhaled. "They're going to receive us."
Arthur's voice remained cold, calm, absolute.
"Of course they are."
He finally stepped back from the railing.
"Prepare the next stage."