It is said by the old poems in heaven, then upon when the One True Voice is silenced, so will everything be heard. That in its muting the clarity and symmetry of nature will reveal itself. The voices felled silent, like a dear pounced by the tiger. Or the choking dawning of night upon day. Its light extinguished, and the ultimate clarity of the heavens revealed for all of man to see. To reveal the purpose and the function of the Dao.

So was the tiger who sat upon his guilded throne. Reclaimed from nearly a century of empty display in the front room of some museum. Reclaimed from its humiliating seat. No longer dishonored by being empty, or sat upon by the men who were not ordained by heaven to rule. Dressed in the deep red and orange robes the tiger was a king. A dragon. Held tight in his hands the heavy blade of his rule.

Such a blade was wrought of yesteryear's sins. Jewelled and scarred knuckled flexed across its lacquered handle as he brooded down the long hall in cold Xanadu. The guards and courtiers who so recognized is heavenly rule stood at attention as down the fiery carpet uniformed sergeants dragged by the shoulders a mottled and disheveled man. In the light of the great stone hall shone purple patches of bruises the size of dinner-plates. Swollen sores around his squinted eyes. He wore torn rags. Loose denim and polyester. Weakly the man babbled in weak Japanese, hopping to Mandarrin. Hoping to plead for mercy.

Yet the tiger on his throne did not pay him the heed. He was another voice that disturbed his silence. Disturbed the global silence. And by the righteousness bestowed upon him by Tian he was to vanquish the voices. There would be peace and balance again. A restoration of nature's symmetry. And he had been bestowed to rule this world with dragon's fire. The ram's wisdom. The snake's cunning.

He furrowed his brow. There was a burning fire deep in his evergreen eyes. He bit his lip, chewing it. He anticipated the moment as he leaned forward on the throne, clutching that sword in his hands as it dug into the deep colored wood of his plinth. His stage.

The two soldiers stopped abruptly, clapping their boots together as they stood at attention. Their eyes fixated forward as they wore the tired, stressed masks of their position. They were intent and loyal. As they should. Every man to the one above them. That was as it was since their father's age, and their father's age, and the age before that. That was China. That was the will of China. And there was nothing higher than Heaven.

“Present!” the tiger bid loudly, his voice boomed like the sound of thunder in the cavernous throne room. Even the fluorescent lights and the crackling torches seemed to flicker and bend to the sound of his voice.

The man was thrown to the floor with a grunt. He landed face-first on the thick red carpet. The soldiers stepped back.

“Your name.” the tiger demanded sternly, leaning forward on his fore-arm. His wide face was tortured by the grains of war, the harshness of the time. If he was a youthful man it had disappeared over the years.

The man babbled weakly, groveling on the carpet. His pathetic sobs rising and falling as his back retched and quivered.

“I asked for your name!” the Tiger boomed, “If your name is Shit than keep groveling. I wonder, Shit: do you speak the Word of Man?”

The man rose on his knees, “H-Hitor-r, Hitori.” he pleaded, “Hitori Samasuka.”

“Hitori Samasuka!” the tiger declared loudly, standing up from his throne, “Yes! I know that name!” he declared, “I have it heard that you represent- no, lead certain Japanese factions?

“Was it just recently you were sentenced by the courts for your crimes against nature. In ordering the bombings of our Harmonious Army of Banners in Kyoto? One who is responsible for the deaths of not just Chinese soldiers, but Japanese civilians.”

The staggered and bedraggled Japanese man could only shake and stutter as he looked up at the imposing man before him. In his air, he had not stepped forward, but gone back. He was a royal in all dress. Returning to the gilded robes and wide hats, giving him the appearance of a wide halo. Long serpentine dragons, and slender eloquent herons danced and twined across his bell-shaped robes. A true representation to the dichotomy of nature that he so represented. The peaceful and wise movements, the harsh unforgiving and brutal violence. His sword was emblazoned with the silhouettes of lunging tigers, embossed across the metal blade. It was a sharp and large sword, a truly vicious scimitar. Not a weapon, but an executioner's tool.

“I will not spare you the knowledge of the crimes that you have been proven guilty too, and sentenced to by jury. You have without doubt been known to this on your own sentencing.” the emperor proclaimed, “No, what I suspect you think is not that I will. But that you look up at me now and wonder just how you have entered upon my throne room. You could have spent the last year, two perhaps, waiting to be hanged.

“But I am merciful.” the emperor said, walking around the side of the man. The great blade dragging along the carpet. The reflection of the lights shone off the metal as it was lifted and spun in his hands. Lifting up to raise above the executioner's head.

“And that some deaths are best dealt by heaven.” he added, “We shall no doubt meet in Diyu. But the last question I will ask is: are you ready to accept your punishment in the here-after?”

The man couldn't answer. Too terrified, and too shocked he whimpered on the floor. His scabbed fingers ringing the carpet in search of escape. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt too swollen. Like an overstuffed rat in the jaws of a snake. And how he had bit too hastily on that rat.

“Then send my regards to the Yama Kings, for I fill their court.” he said plainly, hoisting up the blade higher for one down-stroke.

With the hiss of metal, and the wet clash against wood the head of the prisoner peeled off and fell to the ground. There was no ceremony. The head rolled off from the shoulders as the sword cut it free in one swift stroke. The body peeled back spraying out a ribbon of warm blood, falling to its side like a sacrificial ox. The last spurt of the dying body glazed the robe of the emperor in the spirited red of the Japanese corpse. The bruised head rolling to a stop to stare skyward, its tongue held open as its mouth hung agape in sudden awe.

“He will meet with the ferryman soon enough.” the Emperor said with confidence. Unphased by the execution of his own hand. Gently he handed the sword to the side, passing it between jeweled fingers. The guards who had brought the prisoner in accepted it readily.

“So to his corpse is cleaned and dressed. Sew his head back on, and burn the body.” he ordered, “Return the ashes home, as all the others.”

“Yes, my honor.” the guard nearest bowed. His partner knelled over to gather the headless corpse from the rug.

“And summon the steam cleaners. Remove this mess.” the Emperor insisted, flailing his arms to the side to brush away any loose droplets of blood that clung to his scarred fingers. They told many stories, but which instances of former torture the Emperor had endured was lost in the mess that dressed his hands and fingers. Which break had healed or burn inflicted years ago was indecipherable from another. It was a miracle he could hold a sword.

Turning to the throne the Emperor shouted to the court, “And what issue does this man here illustrate to us?” he roared, slowly and purposefully walking up to the throne.

“That the freedom fighter movements are still active and well, my lord.” a man in the corner shadows spoke. He stepped forward to meet his Emperor alongside the throne.

“Exactly, Xin Wu.” the emperor said, taking back his seat, “It's been under a year since we annexed Japan. Their nationalist elements our proud, that much I can admire.”

“I understand.” the commander bowed. He was a tall man, even for a Chinese national. He looked as stretched as well. A hawkish face met the world with the eyes of a inquisitive rat.

He wore the uniform typical of his position. Since the over throw of the communist regime the officers dressed in a limbotic state between PLA and the dynasties before. Rough olive green drab. Contrasting yellow or orange lines cutting down the length of their sleeves to folded back collars, pinned with the serpentine dragon; the long. Likewise on their pants, where there was not a long whipped tail trailing behind them, and the tufted red hilt of a seethed jian. Had he been wearing a helmet, it would have been pointed and crowned with strands of horse hair.

“It may come to it. But if these movements persist we may need to set aside additional land to contain the malcontents until they can be reformed, or simply expire.” the Emperor said, “How goes the current state of the former Fukushima province?”

“It's still considerably irradiated, at least the soil.” Wu said, “I read the details of the last Imperial Engineer Corps travels in the region and the current radiation levels are not promising. Despite the Japanese attempts to stifle the leak of radiation, the wars of the last six years have done little to actually do anything.”

“Then there's little chance we can realize better.” the Emperor grumbled, his voice took a dark tone, “what have they been doing so far to date, since we liquidated their government?”

“Namely using migrant workers to try and contain it. But I can't find any evidence they slowed the leaking from the reactors of the Fukushima plant.”

“Then to save us all we'll need to send to work their own blood to fix the neglect they let run rampant for so long. I will issue an official order later this day, but consider it official now: I'll allocating the resources and giving the resources the Engineer Corp needs to further isolate the Fukushima plant and to move in their new residents. Chain off the entire prefecture if need be. But I want that nuclear wasteland contained and repaired.”

“Certainly, your holiness.” bowed the commander, “I'll convey the order to the rest of the general staff. We'll have the surveys under way when you send the order.”

“That is good.” the Emperor said, dismissing the man. As he left he held him back, “And commander Wu, if it would be possible I want the worst terrorist offenders in the middle of that plant working. Normal subversives on the outer more containment jobs. Their sins will absolve the lot of them in this world, if they survive their sentences.”

“I understand.”