The fevered memories still clung to Li Ming like smoke, fragments of Yunsheng's hunger burning inside him. He could feel it now—the boy's obsession, not with wealth for its own sake, but with lifting his family from the pit. If there had been no chance, Yunsheng might have endured poverty as his lot. But opportunities glimmered just out of reach: books tossed away, clerks' posts demanding silver, foreigners sailing in with new sciences. Yunsheng had seen the door and refused to look away.
Li Ming pressed his palm against the wall, steadying his breath. "I understand," he whispered into the shadows. "You wanted a better life for them. You never stopped fighting. I swear—I'll carry it for you. Whatever this is, however I got here… I'll move forward where you couldn't."
The vow steadied him. For the first time since waking in this borrowed body, he accepted the truth: he was not merely trapped in history. He had inherited someone else's unfinished struggle.
Knock, knock.
The same knock as before.
This time, he rose. His legs trembled, but he forced them steady and pulled the door open.
Zhao Meiling stood there, braid slightly undone, eyes sharp as knives. She carried herself with an odd mixture of weariness and defiance, fifteen going on thirty.
"You took your time," she said, arms folded. Her gaze flicked over him. "So, how bad is it? Don't bother lying."
Li Ming froze. He had braced for concern, not interrogation. "It's… nothing serious."
Her eyebrow arched. "Nothing serious? You limp like a cripple and cough like a grandfather. I know you've been running errands for those smugglers. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
She said it with such bluntness that Li Ming nearly laughed. In his old world, in the 21st century, he had known confident women—coworkers who held meetings hostage with their sharp words, classmates who cut down lazy excuses with a glance. To find that same steel in a fifteen-year-old in patched cotton startled him. She was poor, yes, but she carried herself like she had a right to stand tall.
"I… don't know what you mean," he muttered, trying to play the part of her brother.
"Oh, please," she shot back. "You think because I'm younger I can't see? Next time you sneak in with bruises, at least try not to leave a trail of mud."
Before he could respond, a small voice rang out.
"Brother!"
Zhao Ming, six years old, darted into the room. He hurled himself against Li Ming's chest, skinny arms clinging tight. Pain flared in Li Ming's ribs and he sucked in a sharp breath.
"Ow—easy," he winced, steadying the boy.
Zhao Ming pulled back, eyes wide. "Did I hurt you? Sorry, Brother, I was just happy you're back." His voice carried both guilt and affection. Then he grinned mischievously. "You're getting slower. Before, you could pick me up. What happened, huh?"
Li Ming blinked, caught off guard. Not blind worship, not scolding—just the chatter of a little brother who expected answers. He almost smiled. "Maybe you've gotten heavier."
Zhao Ming giggled, covering his mouth. "Meiling says you're just lazy."
"That's because Meiling likes to nag," Li Ming replied before he could stop himself. The words felt strange on his tongue, like he was stepping into a role that wasn't his, but Meiling's quick snort made it land.
Before the banter could grow, their mother appeared in the doorway. Zhang Shufen's thin figure filled the threshold, posture straight despite her limp. Her hands were red from weaving, her face drawn from years of work, but her eyes carried sharp concern.
"Yunsheng," she said, her voice firm but low. "What injury are you hiding?"
At once, both son and daughter stiffened. Meiling crossed her arms tighter, looking away. Li Ming forced a crooked smile. "Just a strain, Mother. Nothing to worry about."
Her eyes lingered, suspicion hardening into weary acceptance. She stepped closer and touched his arm, fingers rough but warm. "You push too hard," she murmured. "Every time I see you like this, I think of your father… how he burned himself out before his time."
Her words pierced him. Li Ming's vision blurred. For a heartbeat, the room shifted—her voice tangled with his mother's from another world, another time. The same furrowed brow, the same quiet worry. He remembered his 21st-century mother, waiting with tear-red eyes during his father's arrest, holding her composure for his sake.
Tears stung him before he could hold them back. He looked away, fumbling in his sleeve, and pressed a small bundle into Meiling's hands. Silver clinked.
"Twenty-five taels. Use it for the family. Food, medicine—whatever's needed."
Meiling's eyes widened. "Where did you—"
"Don't ask," he cut her off. "Just… keep it safe."
Her lips tightened, part anger, part gratitude. Zhao Ming tilted his head. "Wow, Brother, that's a lot. Can we buy meat? Just once?"
Li Ming let out a shaky laugh. "Yes, Ming. Meat."
The tension broke slightly. Meiling sighed, tucking the silver away, and Li Ming nudged them all toward the hall, shutting the door after them.
Alone, he sagged against the wall, chest heavy. He couldn't go back to the docks; the smugglers would be after him. The trading firm? Impossible—the warehouse manager knew too much. Both paths were closed.
Then memory stirred.
In the compound where he'd grown up in 1960s Beijing, there had been an old man—untouched during the political storms because of his education. A man who had once been a factory manager in the Republic, his authority shielded by his degree. That degree had come from Peiyang University, founded here in Tianjin in this very year.
The thought jolted him.
Peiyang University—born in October 1895 under the approval of the Guangxu Emperor, guided by Sheng Xuanhuai. Not a temple for classics, but China's first government-run university of science and technology. Its curriculum included engineering, mechanics, mining, telegraphy, and international law. Its professors were drawn from both Chinese reformers and foreign experts.
This was no school of idle scholars. It was a forge for modern China. Men who studied there would become diplomats, ministers, poets, and revolutionaries.
If he could reach such a place, he could not only honor Yunsheng's hunger for knowledge—he could prepare himself for the storms he knew were coming.
But he needed footing until then. And another path shimmered in his thoughts: the China Merchants' Steam Navigation Company.
Founded by Li Hongzhang in 1872, it was the empire's first great experiment in modern shipping. Unlike foreign firms, it had Chinese shareholders, Chinese crews, and Chinese backing. Its steamers carried tribute grain to the capital and contested the foreigners' grip on trade. Sheng Xuanhuai, the same man behind Peiyang University, now directed it. It was more than a company—it was a cornerstone of the Beiyang modernization drive.
If he could step into that circle, even as a minor clerk or dockhand, he might find wages, safety, and a chance to see how power truly shifted in this crumbling dynasty.
Li Ming sat back, rubbing his eyes. Yunsheng's vow echoed again in his chest.
This time, he would not let the future slip away.