It was no secret that the Golden Emperor was nearing the end of his life; and, with no successor appointed, it was obvious to even the most slow-witted of peasants that there would be no peaceful transfer of power. As the saying goes, even wolves must meet in darkness; so the three greatest warlords in the southern empire met in secret to discuss their plans.
The Warlord of the Plains was the most aggressive. "We must strike quickly!" he declared, and slammed his fist on the table. "If we use overwhelming force, we can take the emperor's palace and the throne with it. No-one would have the strength to oppose us."
The Warlord of the Forests was more cautious. He sneered at his fellow conspirator. "And if we followed your plan, we would alert the others. By the time we would have gathered our armies, our rivals closer to the capital would be waiting for us."
The Warlord of the Coast took a piece of paper and folded it into the shape of a horse.
"So, what do you suggest?" The Warlord of the Plains glared across the table.
The Warlord of the Forests smiled politely and answered in the same turn one would use when addressing a backward child. "Secrecy. That is the key to success. We cannot stop our rivals from mobilising their forces when they see us doing the same. But we can prevent them from seeing what we are doing.
"I say that we first send agents into the palace - to infiltrate the household and prepare the way. We move our forces piecemeal into position. Then, when the time is right, we will be best prepared."
The Warlord of the Plains shook his head in disbelief. "All this will take time. And time is a luxury we do not have!"
The Warlord of the Coast took another piece of paper and folded it: this time into the form of a warrior. He listened to the other warlords' bickering, occasionally glancing up from his paper folding. It was only when the argument seemed ready to move from words to physical violence that the Warlord of the Coast spoke. "If I might interject?"
Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards him.
"What do you have to say?" the Warlord of the Forests asked politely.
"He has nothing to say!" The Warlord of the Plains could barely restrain his rage. "Look at him! He has been sitting and playing with his paper dolls - haven't you? Paper dolls! Fitting for a paper tiger!"
Swift as a serpent, the Warlord of the Coast struck, slashing across the wrist of the Warlord of the Plains. The Warlord of the Plains howled in pain and drew his hand back, blood dripping from it. The blood was matched by a film on the paper knife the Warlord of the Coast had just made.
"Paper tiger?" the Warlord of the Coast said without any rancour. "Perhaps. But - remember. All tigers have claws."
