The morning mist rose from the Hai River like the breath of a dying giant, carrying with it the mingled scents of coal smoke, sewage, and something else—the sharp, metallic smell of change that cut through the familiar odors of home.
Li Ming walked through the narrow hutongs of the old Chinese city, where the ancient rhythm of life continued its stubborn beat despite the thunder of foreign wheels beyond the invisible boundaries. Here, the alleys twisted like the intestines of some great beast, lined with gray brick walls that seemed to lean inward, as if trying to shut out the world beyond. Paper lanterns hung like wilted flowers from wooden beams, their red paint faded to the color of dried blood.
But even here, the infection of defeat had spread. Old men sat hunched on wooden stools outside tea houses, their backs curved like question marks, smoking long pipes with hands that trembled not from age but from a deeper palsy—the shaking of a world turned upside down. They no longer debated the classics or discussed the weather. Instead, they whispered of sons who would never return from Port Arthur, of relatives lost at Weihaiwei, of the terrible silence that came in letters from the north.
"My boy was on the Zhiyuan," one old man murmured to another, his voice carrying the hollow echo of a bell struck too many times. "Captain Deng Shichang's ship. They said he tried to ram the Japanese cruiser. Now they're both on the sea bottom."
Women moved through the alleys like ghosts in their mourning white, their bound feet making the soft shuffling sound of leaves across stone. They carried baskets of vegetables that cost twice what they had a year ago, paid for with silver coins that seemed to shrink with each passing day. The children who once filled these lanes with laughter now pressed close to doorways, their eyes too old, too knowing.
At the boundary between the old city and the British concession, the world changed with the violence of a sword cut. Wide avenues stretched in perfect European rectangles, lined with gas lamps that burned even in daylight. Two-story buildings rose like foreign soldiers standing at attention, their red brick facades and white-painted window frames as alien as the faces of their inhabitants.
Chinese workers streamed between the two worlds like ants crossing a river, their faces carefully neutral, eyes downcast. They carried the loads, swept the streets, pulled the rickshaws that transported their foreign employers. At the checkpoint, British constables watched with bored efficiency, their rifles gleaming in the weak sunlight.
Young Chinese men stood in small groups at the corners where the two worlds met, their faces dark with an anger that had nowhere to go. They wore Western-style suits that didn't quite fit, bought with money scraped together from families that could barely afford rice.
"The Germans want their own concession now," one said, his hands clenched into fists. "As reward for 'helping' us keep Liaodong."
"And what can we do? Our navy sleeps with the fishes. Our army scattered like leaves."
Their eyes burned with a fire that defeat had not extinguished—if anything, had made brighter.
In the German area, construction had already begun. Workers broke ground for what would become another slice of Europe transplanted to Chinese soil. The sound of hammers rang like funeral bells, and dust from the construction mixed with the river mist to create a gray shroud that seemed to settle over everything.
Between all these foreign islands, the Chinese city contracted like a wounded animal, its people moving with the careful steps of those who had learned that sudden movements drew attention, and attention brought trouble.
The tea house sat at the edge where the old city met the British concession, its wooden facade weathered but dignified. Red paper lanterns hung from the eaves, though their color had faded to the rusty brown of dried blood. Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the bitter scent of jasmine tea, mingling with the low murmur of careful conversations.
Li Ming pushed through the wooden door, the stolen silver heavy in his jacket. This was the kind of establishment where merchants met to discuss business away from prying ears—respectable enough to avoid suspicion, discreet enough for sensitive conversations.
The shopkeeper, a thin man with careful eyes and fingers stained yellow from counting copper coins, looked up from his abacus. "Young master, how may this humble establishment serve you?"
"I'm looking for lodgings," Li Ming said, keeping his voice low but confident. "Something respectable, near the concessions. I can pay well."
The shopkeeper's eyes brightened at the word pay. "There is a gentleman here who might assist you." He gestured with a subtle glance toward a corner table where a solitary figure sat nursing a cup of tea.
The man was perhaps twenty-four, with the bearing of someone raised to command. His queue was carefully braided, his cotton robe well-kept but mended. His hands—soft but ink-stained—spoke of one who now wrote letters himself, a task that once would have been beneath his station.
"Master Tatara," the shopkeeper called with a hint of deference, "this young gentleman seeks lodgings."
The man looked up. His eyes held not the dull acceptance of the broken, but the restless frustration of someone who remembered better days and refused to let them go.
"Please, sit," he said, his Beijing accent precise, his tone courteous but careful.
Li Ming sat.
"Tatara Jinliang," the man introduced with a slight bow.
"Zhao Yunsheng," Li Ming replied, bowing in return.
They sat for a moment in the smoke and clatter of the teahouse, the faint rustle of abacuses and dice games around them. Jinliang studied him with the cool caution of someone who had learned not to trust appearances.
"You seek lodgings near the concessions," he said at last. "Not the choice of most men. Why there?"
"I have some education in foreign languages," Li Ming said, holding his voice steady. "I hope to find employment with the China Merchants Steam Navigation Company."
At this, Jinliang's eyes sharpened with genuine interest, and Li Ming caught a flicker of something—hope? anticipation?—crossing the man's face.
"The China Merchants company? That is… ambitious. They are selective."
"Times require ambitious thinking," Li Ming said, meeting his gaze. "The old certainties are gone. A man must adapt or perish."
Jinliang leaned back slightly, intrigued. Most Han youths he met were either deferential or resentful. This direct confidence was new.
"Adaptation without surrender," he mused. "Tell me, Master Zhao, what is your family background? Your manner suggests education, but your accent—northern."
"My family were small landholders in Hebei," Li Ming answered, blending Yunsheng's real history with care. "We lost our holdings after my father's death. I've educated myself as I could."
"Self-educated?" Jinliang's brows rose. "Most young men of ambition seek tutoring or the examinations."
"The examinations test knowledge of a world that no longer exists," Li Ming said bluntly. "I prefer to study what is useful now."
Jinliang carefully set down his cup. "And what do you call useful?"
"Languages. Mathematics. Accounting. The workings of modern machines and industry. The ways political power ties to commerce. And—" he paused—"the ability to work with all people: Han, Manchu, foreigner. Mutual benefit, not dead hierarchy."
The words hung in the smoke between them.
Jinliang regarded him closely. "You speak of working with Manchu people. Many young Han blame the banners for the empire's failings."
Li Ming's gaze did not waver. "Blame serves nothing. The empire failed because it could not adapt. Heritage matters less than whether a man can face what is coming."
Something flickered in Jinliang's eyes. Approval, cautious but real.
Li Ming felt a flicker of something stir in him then: memories of polished skyscrapers and humming trains, of engineers in hardhats and accountants with glowing screens. A world built on the very skills he had just named. He forced the vision away before it could soften his expression.
Jinliang's voice drew him back. "And yet, many of your countrymen speak differently. They would rather see bannermen stripped of their stipends and titles. Some even say we bear the whole blame for defeat."
Li Ming set his cup down. "I've heard the same whispers. But blaming bannermen, or blaming anyone, changes nothing. The empire failed because it could not adapt, not because of one group." He let the pause hang, then asked, "Tell me, Master Tatara—do you agree with those who say our officers in the fleet were cowards?"
The younger man's jaw tightened. For the first time, his composure cracked. "No. That I will never say. Admiral Ding chose death over surrender. Captain Deng Shichang rammed his ship into an enemy cruiser. These were not cowards. They were men who gave everything."
Li Ming leaned in slightly. "Then the fault was not in the men. It was in the house itself. A rotten house will spoil even new beams. A dirty aquarium pollutes even fresh fish."
The words startled even him. They had slipped out, heavy and sure.
Jinliang blinked, taken aback. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes… yes, that is well put. The rot was not in the officers, but in the walls above them. Funds stolen, supplies sold, orders muddled. Brave men cannot swim in poison."
Li Ming went still. His own words echoed inside him, stirring old sounds: his grandfather's voice, teaching him that a house must be swept daily or filth would consume it. Then, without warning, came flashes of the world he had left—gleaming railways, proud officers saluting in crisp uniforms, a government that, for all its faults, had at least built walls strong enough to stand.
The thought jolted him. In his own time he had cursed that government; now, here, he found himself… grateful.
Jinliang set his cup aside. "You speak boldly for one so young. I think… we may speak again. Here is my card. Tomorrow evening, the hour of the dog. We will arrange lodgings—and perhaps exchange further thoughts."
Li Ming accepted the card in silence.
When Jinliang departed, the teahouse felt louder, coarser, as though the careful space between them had vanished with him. Li Ming stared at the neat calligraphy on the card, unsettled. His thoughts circled back to the metaphor he had spoken, the flashes of a future he had once despised but now, disturbingly, admired.
For the first time, he wondered if he truly understood his own heart.