Yang Jirong and Zhao Yunsheng emerged from Morrison's office, their backs soaked with cold sweat despite the morning chill. But their faces showed undisguised excitement—the first real step forward had been taken.
As they descended the stairs, Yang gave Zhao a long, searching look. He had helped draft the proposal, understood every component, could explain the franchise model and service fee structures in his sleep. But Morrison's dissection of their hidden strategic intentions had shocked him. Yang had seen commercial opportunity in bulk purchasing and shipbuilding coordination. He'd missed entirely that Zhao had designed a mechanism to control China's entire industrial modernization.
"You could have told me," Yang said quietly, halfway down the second-floor landing.
Zhao stopped, meeting his gaze directly. "I should have. I'm sorry. I was so focused on making each piece work that I didn't explain how they fit together into something larger."
"Morrison saw it immediately. 'Tie rope around every enterprise created by the Westernization Movement.' That's what you're doing, isn't it? Using CMSNC as the lever to move everything else."
"Would you have helped if I'd explained that from the beginning?"
Yang considered, then laughed—a genuine sound despite his frustration. "Probably not. I would have thought you were insane. A sixteen-year-old dock worker planning to control China's industrialization? I'd have backed away slowly and found someone more reasonable to work with."
"And now?"
"Now I've already committed. Might as well see how far this madness goes." Yang clapped Zhao on the shoulder. "But next time, share the grand vision before I accidentally become part of a conspiracy to reorganize the entire Chinese industrial development."
They reached the ground floor, their minds already racing toward the next challenge. The framework existed, Morrison would help recommend it to upper management, but implementation required expertise they didn't possess.
"We need help," Zhao said. "Real help. Morrison gave us four days to revise this proposal—we can't do it alone. The financial projections alone..."
"Tan Wei," Yang interrupted. "From accounting. He's in our darts team. The man's a genius with numbers, can calculate complex freight charges faster than most people can work an abacus. If anyone can build the financial feasibility report, it's him."
"The one from the pub? Who defended the waiter?"
"That's drunk Tan Wei. You should see sober Tan Wei—completely different person. But sober or drunk, his mathematical ability is frightening. I've watched him catch errors in ledgers that three senior accountants missed."
"Can he handle this kind of pressure? Four days isn't much time."
"If we give him clear direction and keep distractions minimal, he'll work through anything. Numbers calm him—it's people that make him nervous."
---
They found Tan Wei in the accounting department, hunched over a ledger in the back corner desk where he always positioned himself—as far from foot traffic and social interaction as possible. His thick glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back up unconsciously as he worked, his brush moving in precise characters across the page.
Yang approached while Zhao hung back, recognizing that Tan would be less overwhelmed by one person initially.
"Tan, can you spare a few minutes?"
Tan looked up, startled, his face immediately flushing. "Yang. I... yes? Is something wrong with the accounts?"
"Nothing wrong. Actually, we need your help with something important. Can you come to my office?"
Tan's anxiety was visible—leaving his safe corner desk for an undefined meeting clearly stressed him. But he nodded, carefully capping his ink bottle and following Yang with the careful steps of someone navigating uncertain social terrain.
In Yang's small office, Zhao had already spread the proposal across the desk. Tan's eyes widened slightly at the volume of documentation.
"Tan, we're working on a major proposal for the company, and we need someone who can handle the financial and statistical analysis. Yang says you're the best numbers man in the building."
Tan's face reddened further at the praise. He didn't respond, just stared at the papers.
"Just look it over," Zhao said gently, recognizing the social anxiety. "Take your time. Tell us what you think."
Tan sat and began reading. The office fell silent except for the soft rustle of pages turning. Yang started to speak several times, but Zhao caught his eye and shook his head—let Tan work at his own pace.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Tan's expression remained neutral, but his fingers occasionally twitched, as if calculating invisible numbers.
Finally, he set down the last page and sat motionless, staring at the wall.
Yang couldn't contain himself. "Well? What do you think? Can we—"
"The franchise fee structure needs refinement," Tan said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper but suddenly confident. "Fifteen to twenty percent is too broad. Based on the projected operational costs and required return on infrastructure investment, optimal range would be sixteen to eighteen percent, with specific rates determined by ship tonnage and route profitability. I can calculate exact brackets if you provide current fleet data."
Zhao leaned forward. "You can do that?"
"The service fee projections are understated," Tan continued, still staring at the wall, lost in his mental calculations. "Warehouse storage, docking fees, repair services—current market rates suggest you could charge fifteen to twenty percent more than these estimates without losing competitiveness. Insurance premiums need complete recalculation based on historical loss ratios and risk assessment by route and cargo type. The shipbuilding bulk purchase negotiation leverage calculations are missing—I'll need Western shipyard pricing data and current Chinese construction capacity figures to model properly."
Yang grinned at Zhao. This was why Tan Wei was invaluable—once he started thinking about numbers, the social anxiety disappeared.
"Can you build the complete financial feasibility report?" Zhao asked. "Three years of projections, profit and loss statements, cash flow analysis, everything Morrison will need to take this seriously?"
"Yes."
The simple, quiet affirmation hung in the air. Yang kept signaling Tan to elaborate, to show some enthusiasm, but Tan's mind was clearly racing through statistical models and probability calculations, oblivious to the social expectation for more expansive response.
Zhao suppressed a smile. Even sober, Tan's pure competence was exactly what they needed.
"I need you to handle the complete financial and statistical part of the plan," Zhao said directly, cutting through any ambiguity. "Can you do it?"
"No problem."
Silence stretched.
"Don't worry, Tan's a man of few words. Mostly numbers," Yang joked, trying to ease the awkwardness, and laughed.
But Tan didn't seem to register the joke—his mind was already building spreadsheets and calculating variance models.
They were just beginning to discuss next steps when a knock interrupted them. Before anyone could respond, the door opened and Captain Morrison entered, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation.
"So this is where my ambitious conspirators are hiding. While the rest of the company works, you three are plotting in comfort."
He said it with enough humor to soften the criticism, but his presence immediately made the small office feel cramped.
"Captain Morrison," Yang stammered. "We were just—"
"Recruiting help, I see." Morrison glanced at Tan Wei, who had gone rigid with anxiety at the senior officer's unexpected appearance. "Smart. You'll need it for what you're attempting."
Morrison turned toward the door. "Come in, Fu. Meet the team."
---
The man who entered was in his early thirties, with the lean, weathered build of someone who'd spent years at sea. He moved with precise military bearing, his eyes taking in the room's occupants with the systematic assessment of someone trained in navigation—calculating angles, distances, strategic positions.
Captain Fu Weihong, one of CMSNC's senior ship captains, wore his merchant marine uniform with the same meticulous care he might have shown with naval dress. His face was angular and intelligent, marked by sun and salt air but showing the intensity of someone constantly thinking, analyzing, strategizing.
Yang recognized him immediately and stepped forward. "Captain Fu! I didn't realize Morrison was bringing you—it's good to see you again."
Fu's gaze acknowledged Yang with a slight nod—not warm, but professional. His attention remained primarily on Morrison, waiting for the formal introduction before engaging fully.
Morrison gestured to the group. "Gentlemen, this is Captain Fu Weihong. Some of you may know him as one of our best ship handlers, but that barely captures his qualifications. Fu is a graduate of the Fuzhou Navy Yard Academy, served as intern aboard USS Boston, and"—Morrison paused for emphasis—"completed four years of study at the United States Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island."
Li Ming's entire body went still. The Naval War College. During the early 1890s. Which meant...
"You studied under Mahan," Li Ming said, his voice sharper than intended.
Fu's eyes snapped to him, surprise flickering across his face. "You know of Captain Mahan?"
"The Influence of Sea Power Upon History," Li Ming recited, the title slipping out before he could catch himself, his excitement at the historical coincidence overriding his usual caution. "Published in 1890. Revolutionized naval strategic thinking. Argued that control of maritime commerce and the ability to project naval power were the foundations of national strength."
Li Ming's heart pounded. He'd nearly exposed his future knowledge. He saw the genuine astonishment in Fu's eyes—a sixteen-year-old former dock worker shouldn't know this.
He took a sharp breath, his mind racing for cover.
"I... I didn't read it myself. Not the whole thing." He lowered his voice. "I worked as a guide for a British naval officer at the docks—three days in exchange for some silver. The man was obsessed with this book, wouldn't stop talking about 'Sea Power' and 'Maritime Control.' I had to listen for hours just to keep him from complaining about everything. He let me hold the book once—heavy thing with a dark cover. I managed to read the first few paragraphs while he was distracted."
Li Ming offered a self-deprecating smile. "Dockworkers hear all kinds of strange things from foreign sailors, Captain. Mostly curses and complaints, but sometimes... sometimes you get an earful of their obsessions too."
Fu stared at him for a long moment, reassessing. The explanation was plausible—barely. Port cities were full of such chance encounters, and British naval officers were indeed prone to lecturing about their favorite topics.
Morrison watched the exchange with satisfaction. "This is why I brought Fu. If your proposal's merchant navy academy and shipbuilding capacity development is going to work, you need someone who understands modern naval education at the highest level. Fu is likely the only person in China qualified to design and implement such a program."
Li Ming's mind raced through his historical knowledge. In his original timeline, Japan had Akiyama Saneyuki—the brilliant naval strategist who'd absorbed Mahan's theories and helped Japan become the world's third-strongest naval power. Akiyama had studied as a military attaché, learning the theories second-hand.
And here was Fu Weihong—China's own potential Akiyama, but with direct exposure to Mahan himself. A naval genius wasted by the Qing dynasty's nepotism and regional factionalism, reduced to captaining merchant vessels when he should be commanding fleets.
The tragedy of it made Li Ming's chest tighten. How much talent had China squandered? How many brilliant minds had been marginalized because they lacked the right family connections or came from the wrong province?
"Captain Fu," Li Ming said carefully, "we would be honored to have your expertise."
Fu's expression remained guarded, his eyes moving between Li Ming and Morrison. "Captain Morrison speaks highly of your work. I'll reserve judgment until I see what you've written."
The professionalism was there, but so was the wariness—years of disappointment had taught Fu not to trust easily.
Morrison placed a hand on Fu's shoulder. "Read the proposal. Particularly the sections on the merchant navy school and shipbuilding capacity development. If anyone in China can execute that part of the plan, it's you. And these young men might be the only people willing to give you the authority to do it properly."
With that, Morrison left, closing the door behind him.
Yang gestured to the papers. "Captain Fu, the proposal is here. The later sections specifically address naval training and shipbuilding—that's where we most need your expertise."
Fu took the document and sat, his posture rigid with military precision. He began reading with the same systematic approach he'd use for navigating dangerous waters—thorough, methodical, missing nothing.
The franchise model drew no reaction—he understood it immediately. The infrastructure monetization earned a slight nod of approval. Ship repair facilities and cargo coordination made him grunt acknowledgment.
But when he reached the later sections—the establishment of a merchant marine academy, the systematic development of Chinese maritime capacity, and the strategic plan for domestic shipbuilding—his breathing changed, becoming more controlled, more deliberate.
He read those sections twice, his hands gripping the paper tighter the second time through.
Finally, he looked up, his eyes fixing on the group. "Who wrote the naval academy and shipbuilding sections specifically?"
Yang nodded toward Zhao. "That was Zhao Yunsheng's work."
Fu's gaze shifted to Li Ming, those sharp analytical eyes searching his face. Li Ming met his stare calmly, saying nothing.
Fu looked back at the proposal, re-reading the naval section. His hands trembled slightly—a detail Yang noticed with surprise. Why was the stoic captain so affected?
Fu set down the papers and took a deep breath, then another. This wasn't just a proposal to him—this was validation, opportunity, redemption. Everything he'd tried to implement in his rejected memorandum to Admiral Ding, everything his years of study had prepared him for—it was here, on these pages.
Finally, Fu stood and extended his hand to Zhao, this time with full formality.
"Fu Weihong. Captain, China Merchants Steam Navigation Company. Graduate of Fuzhou Navy Yard Academy and the United States Naval War College. I would be honored to work with you on this project."
When their hands clasped, Fu immediately felt it—the grip wasn't a civilian's handshake but something else. Military precision in the pressure, unconscious tactical awareness in the positioning. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, filing the observation away.
Yang was delighted. "Excellent! Captain Fu has an incredible record—his ships have the best safety ratings, fastest turnaround times, and—"
"The work," Fu interrupted gently but firmly. "Let's focus on the work. We have four days to make this proposal bulletproof, correct?"
"Correct," Zhao confirmed.
"Then we should begin immediately. But not here—too many distractions. We need a quiet space where we can work uninterrupted."
---
The four of them decided to take leave for the next four days. The proposal needed intensive work, and the office environment offered too many distractions. They would convene at Zhao's residence and work through every detail until the plan was bulletproof.
As they approached Zhao's modest courtyard house in the late afternoon, they found an unexpected guest: Tatara Jinliang sat in the outer room, conversing easily with Zhao's mother Zhang Shufen. Zhao Meiling stood in the doorway to the inner rooms, her sharp eyes taking in everything.
When she saw her brother arrive with three well-dressed men—one of them clearly a ship captain, another carrying the bearing of educated professionals—her expression shifted from surprise to intense curiosity. Her brother, the dock worker who'd barely scraped by, was now leading what appeared to be important men to their home for meetings?
Zhao's mother immediately rose, flustered but pleased. "Yunsheng, you didn't tell me you were bringing guests! I'll prepare tea—"
"Mother, please don't trouble yourself," Zhao said quickly. "We're here to work. These are colleagues from the company."
But Zhang Shufen was already moving toward the kitchen, determined to show proper hospitality despite their limited means.
Meiling caught Zhao's eye, her gaze demanding explanation. What had changed? Who were these men? And why were they treating her supposedly ordinary brother with such deference?
Jinliang stood, his aristocratic bearing evident even in the modest surroundings. "Zhao Yunsheng, you didn't mention you were bringing a working party. I hope my presence isn't intrusive."
"Not at all. Gentlemen, this is Tatara Jinliang—he's the one who helped arrange my current lodgings."
Introductions followed. Jinliang listened attentively as each man introduced himself, his sharp eyes taking in details: Yang's Western education and commercial knowledge, Tan's accounting expertise, Fu's naval background and American training.
And most importantly, he noted that they'd come to Zhao's home for their meeting. Not Yang's, not Fu's—Zhao's. Despite his youth and humble origins, this subtle choice of venue revealed the group's true hierarchy.
Jinliang was very good at reading situations.
"A gathering of Western-educated professionals," Jinliang observed. "And all coming to Zhao Yunsheng's residence for your planning session. What are you conspiring to achieve, gentlemen?"
Yang and Tan looked uncertain—discussing radical commercial reorganization with a Manchu noble seemed potentially dangerous. What if Jinliang reported their plans to officials?
They looked to Zhao, deferring to his judgment.
Zhao understood their concern but also knew Jinliang. The man was frustrated with the current system, hungry for change, and smart enough to recognize opportunity.
"We're developing a proposal to reorganize China Merchants Steam Navigation Company," Zhao said directly. "Franchise model, infrastructure monetization, merchant navy training school, shipbuilding capacity development. It's ambitious."
Jinliang's eyes lit with interest. "How ambitious?"
"Potentially reshaping how China's entire industrial modernization develops," Fu said bluntly. "Using commercial reorganization as lever for broader strategic transformation."
Jinliang smiled—the expression of someone who'd just heard exactly what he'd hoped to hear. "Now that sounds worth my time. What's the next challenge?"
"We need to make this proposal concrete enough that senior management and Beiyang officials will take it seriously," Yang explained, still wary. "We have the framework, but implementation will face massive resistance from conservative officials who prefer traditional methods."
"You need someone who understands how Qing officialdom actually works," Jinliang said. "Someone who knows which arguments resonate with different factions, how to frame radical changes in language that sounds properly conservative, where the political landmines are hidden."
Zhao nodded slowly.
"I can do that," Jinliang said. "I've spent years cultivating connections with Beiyang officials, studying how power flows through Li Hongzhang's network, watching which officials are open to reform and which will block anything that threatens their positions."
Before anyone could respond, Jinliang continued: "But you're missing something crucial. Do you have legal expertise?"
Zhao and Yang looked at each other, the realization hitting them.
"Your proposal operates across multiple jurisdictions," Jinliang pressed. "Treaty port regulations, Chinese commercial law, international maritime law, shipping insurance requirements, franchise contract enforcement. Every aspect needs legal framework. Without that, the whole structure collapses the moment someone challenges it in court—Chinese or foreign."
He was absolutely right. They'd been so focused on operational and financial aspects that they'd neglected the legal architecture.
"I have a friend who can help," Jinliang offered. "Xu Mingzhe. He works at the British Judicial Court in the Tianjin Concession as a law intern. Studied at Cambridge, knows treaty port law thoroughly, understands both Chinese and Western legal systems. If anyone can build the legal framework for your proposal, it's him."
Everyone looked relieved.
Jinliang stood. "Let me fetch Xu. He lives nearby. We'll be back within the hour."
As Jinliang departed, Zhao turned to Meiling, who'd been absorbing the entire exchange with barely concealed fascination.
Her brother—her supposedly failed brother who'd worked as a dock laborer—was coordinating educated professionals, a Manchu noble, and planning something that sounded like it could reshape China's commerce. The careful deference these men showed him, the way they looked to him for decisions, the casual mention of reorganizing entire industrial systems...
This wasn't the brother she thought she knew.
"Sister," Zhao said, interrupting her racing thoughts, "could you please find Chen Weiming and ask him to come? Tell him it's important."
Meiling nodded mutely, her mind still processing. She slipped out, leaving questions unasked that would demand answers later.
---
Li Ming watched her go, understanding her confusion. His sister had witnessed him transform from dock worker to... something else. Something she couldn't quite define yet.
He looked at the people gathered in his modest home—Yang Jirong with his encyclopedic commercial knowledge and infectious enthusiasm; Tan Wei with his mathematical genius and painful shyness; Fu Weihong with his world-class naval expertise and years of bitter disappointment; Tatara Jinliang with his political intelligence and pragmatic idealism.
Soon Xu Mingzhe would join with his legal expertise, and Chen Weiming would arrive with his quiet craftsmanship and industrial ambitions.
None of them were perfect. Each carried wounds—personal traumas, professional failures, social marginalization. Yang had been forced to abandon naval dreams. Tan struggled with social anxiety. Fu had been rejected by the very institutions he'd trained to serve. Jinliang bore his family's decline and his people's uncertain future.
In his original timeline, Li Ming had read about such people in the National Defense Academy's historical archives. The late Qing era had produced countless brilliant minds—men and women whose potential was stifled, whose talents were wasted, who died unknown or were forced to channel their genius into petty survival rather than national transformation.
The archives had told story after story: the engineer who could have built railways but died poor after his designs were stolen by officials; the educator who developed revolutionary teaching methods but was blocked by conservative examination boards; the military strategist whose tactical innovations were ignored until foreign armies used similar methods to defeat China.
Individual brilliance, like sparks in darkness, snuffed out by systemic dysfunction.
That was the real tragedy—not lack of talent, but the systematic waste of it. China had never lacked for brilliant people. It had lacked institutions that could identify, nurture, and deploy that brilliance for collective benefit rather than factional advantage.
He'd learned a harsh truth from those archives: in a broken system, individual virtue is merely a spark; individual brilliance, a candle against the storm. The vast institutional failures required not better individuals, but complete systematic overhaul.
And yet...
He looked at these men—Chinese and Manchu, scholar and worker, young and old—gathered in a former dock worker's modest home to draft plans that might reshape their nation's trajectory.
Maybe, Li Ming thought, the system could be changed. Not through individual heroism alone, but through organized collective effort. These men, working together, pooling their different expertise and perspectives, might accomplish what none could achieve alone.
It was a fragile hope, easily shattered. But for the first time since arriving in 1895, he allowed himself to feel it.
The real work would begin when Jinliang returned with Xu Mingzhe, and when his sister brought Chen Weiming. Then they would have their complete team—the core group that would carry these plans from paper to reality.
Four days until Thursday. Four days to build something that could survive Morrison's scrutiny and convince him to stake his reputation on their vision.
Li Ming smiled slightly, feeling the weight of both his lifetimes pressing down. He'd been a reluctant soldier, a cynical smuggler, a traumatized time traveler. Now he was becoming something else: an organizer building the foundation for systematic change.
His grandfather would have approved of the visionary commitment, even while being horrified by the capitalist methodology.
His father would have appreciated the systematic planning and technical expertise.
His own modern knowledge provided the strategic framework they would need.
All three generations, compressed into one consciousness, driving him toward this moment.
The sun was setting outside, casting long shadows through the courtyard. In the kitchen, his mother was preparing tea for guests she'd never expected. Somewhere in the streets of Tianjin, his sister was processing revelations about her brother while searching for Chen Weiming.
And in this room, men who should never have worked together—divided by ethnicity, class, age, and background—were preparing to attempt something unprecedented.
It wasn't the Communist revolution his grandfather had fought for. It wasn't the technical modernization his father had died pursuing. It was something different—pragmatic, commercial, systematically designed to build power through economic organization rather than direct political confrontation.
But it was a beginning nonetheless. Just a different kind, appropriate for a different moment in history.
Li Ming stood and moved to the window, watching the last light fade from the sky.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.