The courtyard of Zhao's modest home had transformed into a makeshift war room. Papers covered every available surface, tea cups accumulated in forgotten corners, and oil lamps burned late into each night as the Franchise Planning Committee worked through their impossible deadline.
Captain Fu Weihong had divided the work systematically on the first morning, his naval training evident in the crisp efficiency of his assignments.
Chen Weiming disappeared on the first morning with nothing but a simple notebook and pencil. He returned that evening with something that made even Fu pause in admiration: a comprehensive survey of ship owners operating in northern Chinese waters.
"Seventy-three private ship owners and 76% of them operate from Tianjin Port," Chen reported quietly, spreading his documentation across the table.
"I've categorized them by vessel type, tonnage, and financial situation."
Yang leaned forward, scanning the meticulous notes. "How did you gather all this in one day?"
Chen's slight smile showed a hint of pride. "I've served as personal tailor for many merchants in Tianjin over the years. Mr. Henderson never provided salary—I've always earned through independent commissions. That meant building relationships, learning their businesses, understanding their needs. A good tailor listens more than he speaks. I just needed to reach them out again and get the necessary information"
The survey revealed three main categories: traditional wooden sailing ships, hybrid vessels with basic steam engines, and modern iron steamships. Each faced different challenges and opportunities.
"This is extraordinary work," Fu said, genuine respect in his voice. "This level of market intelligence would take most commercial analysts weeks to compile."
Zhao studied the data, his mind already working through implications. Then something clicked—an idea about service differentiation.
"We need tiered service levels," Zhao said suddenly. "A flat franchise fee won't work—we must categorize based on vessel capability."
Everyone looked up.
"The needs of a traditional junk owner are fundamentally different from those of an iron steamship operator," Zhao elaborated. "The junk owner requires basic docking and cargo matching. The steamship needs comprehensive support: coal contracts, marine insurance, and technical maintenance."
Yang's eyes widened. "So, different service packages at corresponding price points..."
"Precisely. Standard, Enhanced, and Premium tiers. Each tier receives services tailored to its complexity and pays a fee that is proportional to its potential revenue."
Tan Wei swiftly ran the numbers. "The Premium tier could justify twelve percent—even with comprehensive support, they carry maximum cargo, and we can offer volume discounts for larger fleets. The Standard tier, by contrast, might be eighteen percent."
"And the best part is the incentive," Jinliang concluded. "Ship owners will be looking up, seeing the benefits and lower rates of the enhanced tiers, giving them a strong financial reason to modernize their fleet."
The tiered service model became a cornerstone of their proposal—elegant, practical, and demonstrating sophistication that would impress potential investors in this system.
All because Chen Weiming had spent years listening to merchants while measuring their suits.
On the second day, Tatara Jinliang disappeared into the concessions for an entire afternoon with Yang Jirong.
He returned that evening with Yang Jirong in tow, both wearing expressions of cautious satisfaction.
"I've secured preliminary investment commitments if the franchise plan is successful," Jinliang announced. "Three Manchu noble families, total capital of approximately eight thousand taelsand more can be invested if they see hope of stable returns"
"How did you manage that?" Fu asked.
"My brother-in-law's connections to Prince Qing's household opened doors. But I brought Yang to actually close the deals—he explained the commercial mechanics and profit projections. My role was simply making the introductions and providing political assurance."
Yang looked slightly exhausted. "Jinliang's relatives asked pointed questions about the return timelines and risk profiles. The social protocols alone were draining. I simply told them that before the war, a single company ship earned about 2,500 taels of silver. If they join and support the franchise system, they could earn 70 to 80 percent of that amount annually until the ship is no longer operational."
"But you succeeded," Jinliang said warmly.
"Because you treated them as intelligent investors rather than just aristocrats."
However, Jinliang's expression grew serious. "There's a problem. Several junior officers in the Beiyang administration will oppose this plan. They've been placed in CMSNC through family connections, drawing salaries without actual competence. Your franchise model threatens them."
"How?" Zhao asked.
"Your proposal will not just restructure the finances, it will purge the organization. It demands that our personnel actually perform. The incompetent—protected by the current, corrupt rules—will be swiftly exposed when private ship owners refuse to pay for anything less than professional service."
The current system is built on patronage and the quiet extortion of petty officials, where success depends on who you know and how much you can bribe. This new model changes the very foundation: it replaces corruption with competition, forcing our company men to either meet a demanding standard or be utterly bypassed by the market.
The room fell silent. This was precisely the kind of political obstacle that killed good plans.
"Can we neutralize them legally?" Xu asked.
Jinliang shook his head. "Not without antagonizing their patron families, who are the same people investing capital."
Zhao had been thinking. "We don't need to remove them. We just need to make performance matter."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"We build accountability systems into the proposal itself," Zhao said. "Quarterly evaluations measuring specific outcomes: franchise recruitment numbers, service delivery ratings, revenue growth. Officers are evaluated against objective criteria, not subjective patron satisfaction."
Fu's eyes lit up. "The competent ones will thrive. The incompetent ones will be exposed by their own failures."
"And because it's all objective measurement," Zhao continued, "patron families can't reasonably object. Their relatives simply failed to meet professional standards."
Jinliang sat back, a slow smile spreading. "You're not attacking them directly—you're changing the rules so that competence matters and connections don't."
"It's also just good management," Zhao said. "Upper management will appreciate systematic accountability."
Xu was taking notes furiously. "This needs to be woven throughout the legal framework. Performance standards, evaluation procedures, remediation processes."
"And the Manchu families investing capital should actually support this," Yang added.
"They want competent management protecting their investment."
Jinliang nodded thoughtfully. "I can frame it to them properly. Most of them have suffered from incompetent relatives managing their own businesses."
The performance assessment system was integrated into the proposal so seamlessly that it seemed like natural evolution of existing practices rather than revolutionary innovation.
On the third morning, Zhao found Xu Mingzhe sitting alone in the courtyard, smoking a cigarette with hands that trembled slightly. The law intern's usual composure had cracked.
"Problems?" Zhao asked, settling onto the bench beside him.
Xu took a long drag before responding. "I don't know where to start. I'm supposed to draft contracts and legal protections—but protect whom? The company? The ship owners? The cargo merchants? Each one has competing interests."
He gestured with the cigarette, frustration evident. "And then there's the foreign firms. Do I write aggressive provisions that challenge their interests? That invites legal warfare. Or do I write defensively? That fails to actually protect Chinese interests."
"What does your Cambridge training tell you?" Zhao asked.
"Cambridge taught me British law protects British interests. The entire treaty port legal system is designed to favor foreign commerce while constraining Chinese enterprise."
Bitterness colored Xu's voice. "But I don't know how to write laws that reverse that dynamic."
Zhao was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
"Your first responsibility," Zhao said slowly, "is to protect Chinese nationals in these arrangements. Against foreign merchants who use legal advantages to exploit them. Against concession officials who discriminate. Your laws create a shield for those who've never had protection."
Xu's eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity.
"Second, you protect the merchants ordering cargo. They're the weakest parties economically—they have the least capital, the most vulnerability. They need the law to level the playing field."
"Third, protect the ship owners. They take enormous financial risks but are still vulnerable—both to Qing officials who despise the merchant class and to foreign competitors."
"Fourth—and only fourth—you protect the company. CMSNC has official backing and institutional power. It needs the least protection."
Zhao met Xu's gaze directly. "Use law to protect the weak and build a level playing field. Even if parties are of different backgrounds and power levels—your framework should give each one fair standing."
Xu sat motionless. His cigarette had burned down to his fingers, but he didn't seem to notice.
Everything Zhao had just said contradicted everything Xu had learned about how law actually worked.
The rich and powerful bent law to their convenience. That was simply reality.
Except... wasn't that exactly what had killed his mother? A legal system that protected family hierarchy over individual justice, that made some lives matter less than others?
"What you're describing," Xu said hoarsely, "that's not how law works in the Qing Empire. Or anywhere I've studied."
"I know," Zhao said quietly. "I'm describing how law should work. Whether you can make it work that way—that's the challenge."
Xu's hands had stopped trembling.
Something crystallized in his eyes—not just acceptance but hunger.
"You're asking me to revolutionize legal practice while disguising it as commercial contracts," Xu said.
"Yes. Can you do it?"
Xu crushed out his cigarette. "Yes. I can do it."
He stood, his entire bearing transformed. "I need to start over. Build everything from the principle you just articulated: protect the weak first, the strong last. There are gaps in the foreign legal frameworks, ambiguities between jurisdictions. I can exploit those."
He was already moving toward the door, his mind clearly racing ahead.
"Xu," Zhao called after him.
The young lawyer turned.
"Thank you for believing that something different is possible."
Xu smiled—the first genuine smile Zhao had seen from him. "Thank you for showing me what that something could be."
As Xu disappeared inside, Yang emerged, having overheard part of the conversation. He looked at Zhao with an expression mixing admiration and concern.
"You're giving him a philosophy that contradicts everything about how power actually works," Yang said quietly.
"I'm giving him a philosophy that makes him willing to work eighty-hour weeks,"
Zhao replied. "Because now he's not just writing legal documents—he's building something he believes in."
Yang shook his head. "Sixteen years old, and you understand people better than men with decades of experience."
Zhao just smiled.
If Yang only knew that Li Ming had spent years learning exactly these skills through hard experience. But that wasn't a conversation they could have.
One more day remained, and the real integration work was about to begin.