Reincarnated as Napoleon II

Edo Bay, Japan.

Early August 1836.

The first people to see the Rivoli were not soldiers.

They were fishermen and merchants already out on the water before the heat of the day fully settled over the bay. Their vessels were small, built from wood, narrow in frame, and familiar to the people who lived along that coast. They moved with the rhythm of wind and current, their crews more concerned with catch, cargo, and weather than with the politics being discussed in Edo.

Then one of them looked up.

At first, he thought it was land.

A dark shape far out on the water, too large and too strange to fit the eye properly. It did not look like any Japanese vessel. It did not look like the Dutch ships that came through Dejima. It did not even look like the large foreign warships some had heard described in scattered reports from the south.

It looked wrong.

Too long.

Too low.

Too hard in its shape.

As the morning light rose higher, the details became clearer, and the wrongness of it only deepened.

The hull was dark and smooth, with none of the familiar lines of wood and sail that marked ships of the region. It moved with a kind of certainty that seemed unnatural. Even before the fishermen noticed the smoke rising from it, they knew it was not depending on the wind. It cut through the water as if the sea itself had no say in the matter.

More people saw it.

Then more.

The alarm spread across the bay without needing formal signal. Merchant crews began shouting to one another. Oars changed direction. Small cargo vessels that had only just left shore turned back in haste, their crews no longer caring about the loss of time or goods. Men stood in their boats, pointing toward the approaching shape and speaking over one another in voices that carried fear more clearly than understanding.

The Rivoli dwarfed all of them.

That was the first fact that settled into everyone who saw it. It was not merely larger. It was on a different scale entirely. Even the biggest ships known to them did not carry themselves like that. Its sides rose high and severe, its guns visible along the structure in a way that made its purpose impossible to mistake. The smoke drifting from it only made the scene more unnatural, as if the ship itself carried its own weather.

And behind it were others.

Not as large, but large enough.

Enough to make it clear that this was not one wandering vessel blown off course. This was an arrival.

Along the shore, watch posts began sending signals inland. Temple bells rang in some districts before official orders could stop them. At fishing villages along the bay, mothers pulled children inside, and old men stood at the waterline staring toward the horizon, their faces hardening with the same thought.

The barbarians had come to Edo.

Farther inland, the alert reached the local coastal officials quickly.

By the time it reached the outer command post overseeing traffic in the bay, the first descriptions were already growing more dramatic with each retelling. A black ship. A demon ship. A floating fortress made of metal. Some said it glided without sails. Others swore it left smoke like a burning mountain. One panicked merchant claimed it was not a ship at all, but a moving wall.

The commander at the post, a samurai named Sakai Tadayuki, did not waste time correcting any of them.

He climbed to the observation platform himself and took the spyglass from one of the watchmen. The moment he fixed the lens on the approaching vessel, his expression changed.

It was a ship.

But not like any he had seen.

The hull did not show wood grain or joinery. It looked hard, uniform, and cold under the morning light. The guns mounted on it were larger than expected, and the whole ship gave the impression of something built with a single purpose in mind. It was not a trader forced to carry arms for protection. It was a warship that allowed trade to follow in its wake.

He lowered the spyglass slowly.

"How far?"

"One hour, perhaps less, if it keeps that pace," the watchman replied.

Sakai nodded once, then turned.

"Send word to Edo Castle. Tell them the foreign fleet has arrived."

The messenger did not wait.

Aboard the Rivoli, the mood remained controlled.

The officers were already at their posts. The crew moved with the practiced rhythm of a ship that knew exactly why it had come and what it was meant to do. Guizot stood on the upper deck with his aide beside him, his gaze fixed on the coastline ahead.

The bay was busy. That much was obvious even from a distance. Small vessels were already breaking away, turning back toward shore, their movements irregular and hurried. News was spreading ahead of them without a single word needing to be sent.

His aide glanced toward the smaller Japanese ships scattering before them.

"They’re alarmed already," he said.

"They were always going to be," Guizot replied.

The captain approached from the command position.

"We are entering the outer range of the bay," he said. "Shall we hold course?"

Guizot looked forward for a moment longer, then nodded.

"Yes. Slow slightly, but continue."

The captain inclined his head and returned to give the order.

The Rivoli adjusted its pace without losing its line. It did not appear hesitant. It simply became more deliberate.

Guizot folded his hands behind his back.

"They’ve never seen anything like this," his aide said quietly.

"No," Guizot replied. "And that is part of the mission."

He watched the shoreline grow clearer. There were more people visible now, small shapes gathering near the waterline, more signals being raised inland, more activity spreading outward from the points that had first noticed them.

Then he made his decision.

"Prepare a blank shot."

His aide turned toward him.

"A warning?"

"A statement," Guizot said.

The order was relayed at once.

Crewmen moved to one of the forward guns. The loading was done with practiced care, without haste, without wasted motion. Even those who did not know what the shot would mean could feel the ship tighten slightly around the command.

On the coastline, some of the Japanese observers had not yet understood what was happening.

They understood a moment later.

The gun fired.

The sound tore through the bay with a violence no one on shore was prepared for. It struck the air like thunder, but sharper, closer, and more deliberate. The echo rolled across the water and bounced back from the land, turning one blast into many.

On the shore, people ducked instinctively. Some fell to the ground. Others cried out and covered their ears. A few older villagers dropped to their knees at once, convinced that something divine had been angered. In one district near the water, a woman dragged her children inside and slammed the door behind her while shouting prayers to ward off misfortune. Fishermen already returning to shore rowed harder, some refusing to look back.

Even the samurai at the watch posts stiffened at the sound.

It was not merely loud.

It felt wrong.

It did not resemble cannon fire as they understood it. It was heavier, sharper, and carried with it a sense of scale that matched the ship itself.

Sakai Tadayuki held his position, though even he felt the shock in his chest.

"A blank," one of the men near him said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Sakai glanced at him.

"How do you know?"

"No impact," the man said, still staring toward the water. "If it were meant to strike, something would have broken."

Sakai did not answer.

He knew the man was right.

This was not an attack.

It was a warning.

Or worse, a display.

On the Rivoli, the smoke drifted from the gun and was carried off by the sea wind.

Guizot did not flinch.

He kept his eyes on the shore, watching the reaction spread.

His aide exhaled slowly.

"They’ll think the gods are against them."

Guizot said nothing.

The captain returned.

"The message boat is ready."

Guizot nodded.

"Send it."

A small boat was lowered from the side of the Rivoli, its crew chosen carefully. They were unarmed except for sidearms not meant to be displayed, and at the front of the boat was a white flag raised clearly for anyone watching from shore. The symbolism was obvious enough even across language barriers.

In the hands of the officer seated at the center was a sealed letter bearing the authority of Emperor Napoleon II.

The boat moved away from the great steel hull and toward the shore, growing smaller with every pull of the oars. Compared to the Rivoli, it looked almost harmless.

On shore, the Japanese did not relax.

Armed men gathered at the landing point, uncertain whether they were receiving envoys or bait. The white flag gave them pause, but not comfort. The sound of the blank shot still hung in the memory of everyone near the water.

The small French party stopped at a respectful distance, enough to show they were not attempting to force themselves ashore. One of them rose carefully and raised the sealed letter.

The Japanese at the shoreline did not step forward right away.

They watched the paper.

They watched the flag.

They watched the great ship beyond the boat.

Finally, one of the local officials moved ahead with two samurai at his side and accepted the letter without a word.

The French officer said something in French, then in English. Neither was understood.

The Japanese official said something in return that the French did not understand either.

For a moment, both sides stood there in the uncomfortable stillness of complete mutual incomprehension.

Then the French officer lowered his head slightly, as if to say that the message had been delivered, and stepped back into the boat. The crew turned it around and rowed back toward the Rivoli.

The letter remained in Japanese hands.

That was enough for now.

The official at the shore looked down at the document.

The seal was foreign.

The script was completely unreadable.

He turned it over once, then looked toward Sakai Tadayuki, who had by then arrived with additional men.

"Can you read it?" the official asked.

Sakai took one look and shook his head.

"No."

"Chinese?"

"No."

"Dutch?"

Sakai hesitated, then nodded once.

"Possibly. Or French. Either way, not here."

He looked back toward the black ship in the bay.

"Send this to Edo at once."

The official lowered his voice.

"What will they do?"

Sakai’s eyes stayed on the Rivoli.

"They will have to understand it first."

"And if no one can?"

Sakai answered without looking at him.

"Then they bring someone who can."

The letter was sealed again and passed into safer hands.

Before the afternoon was over, riders were already moving toward the capital with the message and with the same report spreading in every direction.

A giant foreign warship had entered Edo Bay.

It had spoken with thunder.

It had sent a white flag.

And it carried a letter from a foreign emperor that no one in Japan could read.

By evening, the answer to that problem had already been named in Edo.

A Dutch translator would have to be brought from Dejima.

Only then would the shogunate know what the barbarians wanted.