The next morning, Li Ming arrived at the China Merchants Steam Navigation Company gates just as dawn painted the sky in shades of copper and gray. The guard from yesterday nodded with recognition.
"Young Master Zhao. Mr. Huang is expecting you. Third floor, same office as yesterday."
Li Ming climbed the stairs, his Zhongshan suit drawing approving glances from early-arriving clerks. The building smelled of coal smoke, ink, and the faint salt tang carried from the nearby wharves.
Huang Dezhong looked even more exhausted than yesterday, dark circles under his eyes suggesting a sleepless night spent wrestling with the accounts Li Ming had exposed. He glanced up from his desk as Li Ming entered.
"Zhao Yunsheng. Punctual. Good." He gestured to a chair. "I've assigned someone to show you the operations. Yang Jirong handles passenger services—he knows this branch better than I do. He'll orient you to procedures, introduce you to relevant staff, and explain your specific responsibilities."
Huang scribbled a note and handed it to Li Ming. "Take this to the passenger services office, second floor, east wing. Yang will be there."
As Li Ming turned to leave, Huang added: "And Yunsheng? Wang is still furious about yesterday. Watch your back around him."
Li Ming found the passenger services office easily—the sound of rapid-fire English and Chinese conversation guided him. He pushed open the door to find a young man in his early twenties pacing back and forth, gesturing animatedly while speaking to a clerk taking frantic notes.
"—and that's why we need to coordinate with cargo manifests! If the Shanghai route is carrying full cotton loads, we can't promise passenger cabin space without confirming hold capacity. Write to Shanghai immediately and—"
The young man stopped mid-sentence as Li Ming entered. His eyes were sharp and assessing, taking in Li Ming's appearance with the practiced efficiency of someone who judged people constantly.
"Help you?" His tone was professional but slightly impatient—clearly Li Ming had interrupted something important.
"Zhao Yunsheng. Mr. Huang sent me." Li Ming offered the note.
The young man's expression shifted from impatience to curiosity. He read quickly, then looked up with new interest. "You're the one who exposed Old Wang's embezzlement yesterday?"
"I simply reviewed the accounts Mr. Huang requested."
"And found three hundred taels in discrepancies that Old Wang had been hiding for months." A grin spread across his face. "Yang Jirong. Pleased to meet someone who actually knows how to read a ledger." He extended his hand in Western style.
Li Ming shook it, noting the firm grip and ink-stained middle finger. Yang carried a leather portfolio under his other arm, and a silver pocket watch chain gleamed against his Western-style waistcoat.
"Well then, Zhao Yunsheng. Mr. Huang has assigned me to show you around, though I should warn you—I have a ship crisis this morning." Yang's frustration bubbled through his professional demeanor. "The Hai Lung was supposed to depart for Shanghai tomorrow with fifty-three booked passengers, but cargo inspectors found structural damage in the hold. Now I have fifty-three angry customers and no ship."
"What are the alternatives?"
Yang's eyebrows rose slightly. "You jump straight to solutions. I like that." He pulled out a schedule from his portfolio. "The Yung Hao departs in three days, but it's already at capacity. The Fuping could take them, but it's slower—five days instead of three. Passengers will demand refunds for the delay."
Li Ming studied the schedule. "What if you offered Fuping passengers a price reduction for the delay but included upgraded accommodations? Convert some cargo space to passenger cabins for this voyage. You lose cargo revenue but keep passenger goodwill."
Yang stared at him for a long moment. "That... would actually work. And it's creative enough that passengers might accept it as fair compensation." He scribbled notes rapidly. "How did you think of that so quickly?"
"Logistics is about trade-offs. You can't optimize everything, so you choose what matters most."
"Where did you learn logistics?"
"Dock work. You learn how goods move when you're the one moving them."
Yang laughed—genuine, surprised laughter. "A dock worker who understands commercial strategy better than most of our managers. No wonder Old Wang is furious." He clapped Li Ming on the shoulder. "Come on, let me show you this organization properly. And I'll explain who you should avoid making enemies of—though you've already antagonized the most vindictive one."
For the next several hours, Yang guided Li Ming through CMSNC's Tianjin operations with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved his work. He explained everything in rapid succession, jumping between topics with the assumption that Li Ming could keep up—which, to Yang's visible pleasure, he could.
"This is the manifest room," Yang said, gesturing at rows of filing cabinets. "Every cargo shipment gets documented here—origin, destination, weight, value, freight charges. Your job includes verifying manifest accuracy against actual cargo received and loaded. Wang's embezzlement worked because he altered manifests after cargo was loaded but before revenue was recorded."
Li Ming examined the filing system. "How often are manifests audited?"
"Supposed to be monthly. Actually? Maybe quarterly, when Shanghai headquarters demands reports." Yang's tone carried professional disgust. "Which is how Wang got away with it for so long."
As they walked through warehouses and dock facilities, Yang pointed out the human landscape as carefully as the physical one.
"See that man there? Zhou, the cargo supervisor. Competent but lazy—if you need something done, bring him tea first and ask second. The tall fellow by the crane is Liu—British-trained engineer, brilliant but drunk half the time. The woman in the counting house is Mrs. Chen—she actually runs half the administrative work while pretending to be just a clerk's widow. Be respectful to her; she can make your life easy or impossible."
By midday, they stopped at a tea house near the docks for lunch. Yang ordered quickly and continued his tutorial between bites.
"Your responsibilities," he said, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and writing as he talked. "One: verify all incoming cargo manifests match actual goods received. Two: audit freight charges before payment processing. Three: coordinate with passenger services—that's me—when cargo affects passenger space. Four: monthly reconciliation reports to Shanghai headquarters. Five: handle correspondence with foreign shippers regarding documentation disputes."
"That's a lot for a three-month trial position."
Yang's expression darkened slightly. "Huang is testing you. He needs competent people, but Shanghai keeps sending appointees with connections instead of capabilities. The frustrating part is—" He paused, then continued more carefully. "This company needs fresh thinking. We're competing with British and Japanese lines that have better organization, better funding, better everything. But we can't implement improvements because bureaucratic factions block any changes that threaten their positions."
"You sound like you've tried to improve things."
"I've proposed three efficiency reforms in the past year. All rejected. Not because they wouldn't work—everyone knows they'd work—but because I'm twenty years old and lack the right connections." The bitterness in his voice was clear. "I handle passenger services well, but that's all they'll let me do. No expanded responsibilities, no promotion to higher positions, and definitely no transfer to Shanghai headquarters."
"You want to work in Shanghai?"
"Of course I do." Yang's frustration poured out now. "Shanghai is where the real decisions are made. The Pearl of the East, the center of everything modern in China. But transfers require recommendations from senior management, and senior management protects their relatives and patrons. Someone like me—competent but unconnected—gets stuck handling the same tasks year after year while watching less capable people advance through nepotism."
He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he'd said too much. "Sorry. That was unprofessional."
"It was honest. I appreciate honesty."
Yang studied Li Ming more carefully. "What about you? What are your aspirations beyond a three-month trial position?"
Li Ming considered how much to reveal. "I want systematic education. Western-style schooling that teaches modern knowledge—mathematics, sciences, engineering, economics. The kind of education that prepares people to build modern enterprises, not just work in them."
"You want to attend university?"
"Eventually. But first I need to earn enough to support my family while saving for tuition. And I need to prove I'm capable of handling advanced studies."
"Your English is already quite good for self-teaching."
"It's functional, not fluent. I can read technical materials and conduct basic business correspondence, but I struggle with complex abstract concepts." Li Ming paused. "What I really need is the systematic foundation that proper schooling provides—the organized curriculum, the qualified teachers, the structured progression from fundamentals to advanced topics."
Yang nodded thoughtfully. "St. John's in Shanghai offers that, if you can afford it."
They spent the rest of lunch sharing their backgrounds more fully. Yang described growing up in Shanghai's treaty port environment, his father's rise from comprador assistant to chief clerk at Jardine Matheson, the Western education at St. John's that prepared him for commercial work.
Li Ming shared Zhao Yunsheng's story—the village childhood, his father's death from tuberculosis, the family's desperate migration to Tianjin, years of dock labor while self-educating through scavenged books.
"You taught yourself English from trash?" Yang's respect was genuine. "That's remarkable dedication."
"Desperation is a powerful teacher."
As they stood to leave, Yang gestured at Li Ming's zhongshan suit. "I've been meaning to ask—where did you get that clothing? It's not traditional Chinese style, but it's not standard Western either. Very distinctive."
"A friend made it. Chen Weiming—he's a tailor apprentice at Henderson & Company in the British concession, but he's preparing to open his own shop."
"The design is excellent. Professional enough for business, but with Chinese aesthetic sensibilities. Very practical." Yang examined the construction with a commercial eye. "This could be commercially successful. Foreign-influenced Chinese professionals need clothing that commands respect in treaty port environments without looking like poor imitations of Western dress."
"Chen has similar thoughts. He's developing several designs along these lines."
"I'd like to meet him. If his other work matches this quality, he might be someone worth knowing. Good tailoring is always in demand among the merchant class."
"I could arrange an introduction."
"I'd appreciate that."
The afternoon passed in detailed instruction about CMSNC's unwritten rules, informal power structures, and practical shortcuts that made the bureaucracy function despite itself. By the time the workday ended, Li Ming had a comprehensive understanding of both the official operations and the shadow system that actually kept goods moving.
"First day survived," Yang announced as they left the building. "This deserves celebration. There's a decent pub in the British concession—the Red Lion. British beer, decent food, and they don't throw out Chinese customers as long as we're well-dressed and paying."
"Actually," Li Ming said, "would you mind if I invited Chen? I'd like you to meet him, and he should join our celebration."
"Of course. The more the merrier."
They walked to Chen's boarding house and found him just finishing work for the day, his hands still showing traces of fabric dye despite careful washing.
"Zhao Yunsheng!" Chen's gentle face lit up. "How was your first day?"
"Successful. This is Yang Jirong from passenger services—he showed me around the company. Yang, this is Chen Weiming, the tailor I mentioned."
Yang examined Chen's own clothing—simple but impeccably constructed. "You made what you're wearing?"
"Of course. A tailor should be his own best advertisement."
"The craftsmanship is excellent. Zhao tells me you're planning your own shop?"
"Planning, yes. Funding and executing—that's still ahead."
"We should talk about that. But first, let's get drinks. I have many questions about your tailoring business."
The Red Lion occupied a corner building in the heart of the British concession, its wooden sign creaking in the evening breeze. Inside, gas lamps cast warm yellow light across dark wood furnishings, and the smell of beer and fried food filled the air.
Yang secured them a corner table and ordered three pints. As the evening progressed and the alcohol flowed, Yang's careful professional demeanor loosened. His frustration with being trapped in a position below his capabilities resurfaced, but in the comfortable atmosphere, it transformed into more personal sharing.
"You know what the worst part is?" Yang said, slightly slurred. "My father was right. About everything. I wanted to join the navy—spent years dreaming about it, studying naval tactics, memorizing ship specifications. My father forbade it. Said commerce was more secure. I resented him for crushing my dreams."
He stared into his beer. "Then the war came. The Beiyang Fleet was destroyed at Weihaiwei. All those officers I'd read about, all those ships I'd memorized—gone. Sunk or captured. My father saved my life by refusing to let me pursue what I wanted. And now..." He gestured helplessly. "Now I don't know what to feel. Grateful? Angry? Both?"
Li Ming placed a hand on Yang's shoulder. "Your father saw the practical reality you couldn't see as a young man. That doesn't mean your dream was foolish—it means circumstances were tragic. But you're alive, you're talented, and you're building expertise that China desperately needs."
"Expertise in selling passenger tickets?"
"Expertise in logistics, organization, and commercial operations. When China rebuilds—and it will rebuild—we'll need people who understand how to move goods efficiently, coordinate complex operations, and compete with foreign firms. You're learning those skills now."
"That's very optimistic."
"It's realistic. The war showed our weaknesses, but weaknesses can be corrected with knowledge and effort. You're acquiring both."
Chen, who had been quietly listening, added in his gentle way: "My grandfather used to say that thread cannot become cloth until it's woven into patterns. Your current work is thread. The pattern emerges later."
Yang laughed—tipsy but genuine. "That's oddly comforting. Thank you."
"Now," Chen said, steering toward lighter topics, "Yang wanted to discuss the Zhongshan suit design?"
Yang straightened, his commercial instincts overriding alcohol. "Yes! The design Zhao is wearing—it's brilliant for the treaty port professional class. Chinese merchants and clerks who need to look modern without abandoning cultural identity. What would it cost to produce at scale?"
Chen's eyes gleamed with the particular focus that came when discussing his craft. "If I could secure proper fabric supplies and equipment, I could produce a finished suit for approximately four taels in materials and labor. Retail price might be eight to ten taels depending on market positioning."
"That's affordable for the target market. And if the quality matches what I've seen..." Yang trailed off, clearly calculating. "This could actually work as a commercial venture."
Their discussion was interrupted by raised voices from across the room. Li Ming glanced over to see a cluster of British Royal Navy officers surrounding a young Chinese waiter who looked terrified. At a nearby table, a group of British men in civilian clothes continued their dart game, apparently unconcerned with the commotion.
One man sat apart from the dart players—younger, perhaps twenty-five, with aristocratic bearing and expensive clothing. He watched the dart game with focused attention, seemingly oblivious to his companions' harassment of the waiter.
Before anyone could react, another Chinese man stood from a nearby table—thirtyish, dressed in the modest suit of a clerk, his face flushed with anger and alcohol.
"Leave him alone!" the man shouted in accented English. "He's just doing his job!"
Chen Weiming tensed. "We should stay out of this."
One of the officers turned, sneering. "And who the hell are you?"
"Tan Wei, China Merchants Steam Navigation Company accounting department." The man's courage was admirable, but Li Ming recognized liquid bravery when he saw it. "You have no right to bully service staff!"
"We'll bully whoever we please in our own pub," another officer snarled. "Now sit down before you regret it."
Yang leaned toward Li Ming. "That's Tan Wei from accounting. Good man, but becomes a different person when he is drunk—"
The confrontation escalated. One officer grabbed Tan's collar while another raised his fist. The waiter was crying, clearly terrified he'd lose his job over this incident.
Li Ming was moving before he fully decided to act. Years of PLA training took over—his body remembered what his conscious mind hadn't yet chosen.
He came up behind the officer raising his fist and executed a textbook grappling move: left hand on the wrist, right hand on the elbow, smooth rotation that hyperextended the joint without breaking it. The officer yelped and dropped to one knee, his raised fist now trapped in Li Ming's control.
The pub erupted in shocked exclamations. The dart players stopped mid-game. The aristocratic young man finally looked up, his attention snared.
"Bloody hell!" one officer shouted. "He's attacking British military personnel!"
Yang rushed over, hands raised placatingly. "Gentlemen, please, my colleague meant no—"
"Your colleague just assaulted a Royal Navy officer!"
Li Ming released the man's arm and stepped back, hands visible and non-threatening. When he spoke, his English carried no trace of fear—instead, there was something almost playful in his tone, as if this were an interesting philosophical discussion rather than a potential brawl.
"Assault? I prevented an assault." He gestured at the terrified waiter. "That young man was about to be struck by a uniformed officer of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Tell me, gentlemen, is it proper bearing for representatives of the British Empire to bully service staff in foreign ports?"
"How dare you lecture us about—"
"I'm simply curious," Li Ming continued in that same light, almost amused tone. "You wear uniforms that represent discipline, honor, and the finest military tradition in the world. Yet here you are, drinking on duty—yes, I can see your uniforms—and harassing a teenager who can't defend himself. Does this enhance Britain's reputation? Or stain it?"
Several French merchants at nearby tables hooted with laughter. "He has a point!" one called out.
Li Ming turned his attention to the aristocratic young man who had finally stood from his seat and was approaching. "And you, sir. Your bearing suggests nobility. Your companions clearly defer to you. Yet you sat watching while they behaved dishonorably. What would your ancestors say about a nobleman who permits such behavior under his tacit authority?"
The young man's eyes widened—not with anger but with fascination, as if Li Ming were some exotic creature unexpectedly found in a familiar setting. He was handsome in that particular British aristocratic way, with sharp features and expensive tailoring that probably cost more than Li Ming's family earned in a year.
"Remarkable," the nobleman said, his Oxford accent crisp. "A Chinese clerk is lecturing me about noble responsibilities. This evening is becoming more interesting." He circled Li Ming slowly, examining him. "Tell me, what's your name?"
Zhao Yunsheng, clerk at China Merchants Steam Navigation Company."
"Rupert Montague, third son of the Earl of Pembroke." He smiled—not mockingly but with genuine interest.
"How about this, I propose a wager to settle this. A duel of darts. You win, my companions apologize to this young man and I pay for everyone's drinks tonight . I win, you apologize for your interference, and we part as gentlemen."
Li Ming shook his head. "I couldn't possibly accept. I'm far too young and inexperienced to duel with a nobleman."
"It's darts, not swords. Surely you're not afraid?"
Li Ming shook his head slowly. "I'm honored by the offer, but I must decline. I don't understand this game."
Rupert smiled. "It's quite simple. Throw small arrows at a board, aim for high-scoring areas. Surely you can learn quickly enough?"
"I'm sure the game has subtleties I couldn't master in moments. It would be unfair."
"Then you concede defeat?"
"I simply recognize my limitations."
"Double the stakes, then. 500 British pounds " Rupert's eyes gleamed with competitive interest. "I'll play to 501 points using standard rules. You play a simpler challenge—just hit two triple twenties and a bullseye in three throws. Surely even a novice might accomplish that through luck?"
Yang grabbed Li Ming's arm, whispering urgently: "Don't do this. It's impossible—"
But Li Ming saw something in Rupert's expression—not cruelty, but genuine curiosity about whether this unusual Chinese clerk might surprise him. And Li Ming understood the opportunity when it presented itself.
"Very well. I accept your terms."
The pub crowded around the dartboard. Rupert went first, playing with practiced ease. His throws were precise, confident, the result of countless hours at country estates and gentlemen's clubs. The score mounted rapidly.
After several rounds, Rupert was down to ten points remaining. "I need a double five to finish," he announced, taking aim.
His throw landed—but hit a single five instead of the double. He was left with five points, unable to finish without hitting another double.
He turned to Li Ming with a gracious bow. "Your turn, Mr. Zhao. Two triple twenties and a bullseye. Let's see if fortune favors the bold."
Li Ming picked up four darts, weighing them in his hand. They felt familiar in a way he couldn't quite place—or rather, in a way he had to pretend not to place.
He held the first dart, preparing to throw. "You know," he said conversationally, "people have underestimated me my entire life. At the docks, they saw my small frame and gave me the worst jobs. In the concessions, shop owners assumed I couldn't afford their goods before I spoke. Even at Henderson's tailor shop yesterday, the British owner lectured me about fabric quality as if I couldn't understand excellence."
He threw. The dart struck twenty perfectly.
"For years, I wondered why everyone judged me so quickly. Why did they assume incompetence before knowing anything about me?" He picked up the second dart. "Then one day, I found something in a discarded book—"
The second dart flew. Another twenty.
"It was a quote by Walt Whitman, the American poet: 'Be curious, not judgmental.' Those four words changed how I understood the world." He picked up the third dart, holding it loosely. "All those people who underestimated me—they weren't curious. They thought they had everything figured out. They judged without asking questions."
He looked directly at Rupert. "If any of you had been curious rather than judgmental, you might have asked: 'Why does this young clerk seem so confident about a game he claims not to know?' If you'd asked, I would have told you."
The third dart flew. Another twenty
The pub was completely silent now.
"I don't know darts, that's true. But I played pitch-pot from age five until fourteen, when my family moved to Tianjin. Pitch-pot is an ancient Chinese game—throwing arrows into narrow vessels from a distance. Same skills: hand-eye coordination, trajectory judgment, controlled force." He smiled slightly , picking up the last dart dart "Nine years of daily practice, gentlemen. That's what curiosity would have revealed."
He threw the final dart. It struck the bullseye dead center.
The pub exploded. French merchants cheered. Chinese customers applauded. Even some British patrons laughed and clapped. The waiter was crying with relief.
Rupert stared at the dartboard, then at Li Ming, then burst into delighted laughter. "Magnificent! You set that up perfectly—the humble protestations, the philosophical discourse, and then flawless execution." He extended his hand. "That was masterfully done. You didn't just win a game—you taught a lesson."
They shook hands—mutual respect between men from different worlds who had found unexpected common ground.
"Drinks for everyone!" Rupert called out. "On my account!"
Another cheer erupted. Rupert's companions grudgingly apologized to the waiter. The tension dissolved into celebration.
Yang Jirong appeared at Li Ming's elbow, his face showing wonder. "Where did you learn pitch-pot? You never mentioned that."
"Village childhood. My friends and I played it constantly."
Chen Weiming smiled his gentle smile. "The thread becomes cloth."
Tan Wei approached, sobered by excitement. "Thank you. I shouldn't have lost my temper, but thank you."
"The waiter deserved protection. And those officers were out of line."
The young waiter himself came over, bowing repeatedly. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."
As the celebration continued around them, the three friends—Yang, Chen, and Li Ming—returned to their table. They were joined by Tan, who introduced himself properly now.
"Four of us now," Yang said, raising his glass. "To new friendships and unexpected victories."
They drank together, and in that moment, Li Ming felt something he hadn't experienced since arriving in 1895—genuine contentment. Not just survival, but connection. Not just planning for some distant future, but enjoying the present moment with people who might become true friends.
He didn't know yet what path his life would take in this era. The future still seemed abstract, distant, a thing to worry about later. But he knew this: he had found people worth knowing. Chen Weiming's quiet dedication, Yang Jirong's frustrated ambition, Tan Wei's impulsive courage—these were qualities that mattered, regardless of what the future held.
Outside the Red Lion's windows, Tianjin's evening commerce buzzed on. Two worlds existing side by side—foreign and Chinese, powerful and struggling. But inside this pub, those lines had blurred. A Chinese clerk had bested a British nobleman not through violence but through skill and wit.
It wasn't a war. It wasn't even politics. It was just four young men sharing drinks and laughter on a spring evening in 1895.
And for now, that was enough.