By the afternoon of the third day, Tan Wei had compiled mountains of perfectly correct financial data—revenue projections, cost analyses, cash flow models, and break-even calculations. However, there was simply too much raw data to visualize effectively. Even Western-educated upper management and Li Hongzhang would find it impossible to grasp the meaning behind the sheer volume of numbers.
Tan sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, pushing his glasses up nervously. He looked miserable.
Zhao recognized the signs: Tan felt he'd failed the group, that his numbers had created problems rather than solutions.
"Tan," Zhao said gently.
"We need to try something different."
Tan looked up, eyes magnified by thick lenses, expecting criticism.
"I need you to teach everyone else how to read these numbers. Walk us through what the numbers mean, what patterns they show. Then we'll work together on presenting it."
Tan's face went pale. "I... I can't... teaching people, standing in front of everyone..."
"You don't have to stand. Sit right where you are. We'll gather around you. Just explain the numbers."
Before Tan could protest, Zhao called everyone to gather. Fu, Yang, Chen, Xu, and Jinliang arranged themselves around the terrified accountant.
"Start with the revenue projections," Zhao prompted gently.
Tan's hands shook as he picked up the first document. His voice came out barely above a whisper. "The base case assumes eighteen percent franchise fee for traditional vessels, fifteen percent for hybrid, twelve percent for modern ships..."
"Louder, Tan," Yang said kindly.
Tan flushed red but tried again. As he began explaining his calculations, something remarkable happened. His nervousness didn't disappear, but it became secondary to his engagement with the numbers.
"If we assume fifteen percent growth in franchise recruitment, which is conservative, and model seasonal variation based on historical patterns..."
His brush began moving, writing numbers and sketching calculations. "Break-even occurs in month seven, assuming initial capital of twelve thousand taels..."
The others leaned closer, following his logic. Tan's explanations were crystal clear. He had an intuitive grasp of how variables interrelated.
"This is fascinating," Jinliang murmured. "The analysis shows that keeping franchisees matters more than recruiting new ones for long-term profitability."
"Exactly!" Tan said, louder than before, actually making eye contact. "That's why service quality investments pay for themselves—happy ship owners stay, and recurring revenue is more valuable than constantly chasing new contracts."
For thirty minutes, Tan walked them through his financial model. Each question made his explanations richer, more detailed.
By the end, Tan was actually smiling—shy but genuine. He'd just taught five highly educated men something they hadn't understood before.
"Now," Zhao said, "we know what story these numbers tell. Let's work together on showing it visually. Tan, you tell us which data points are most important. The rest of us will sketch different ways to present them."
The group divided into pairs: Tan with Fu on naval academy finances, cost of buidling ship building capacity.
Tan with Yang on franchise revenue, Tan with Xu on cost recovery. Each pairing let Tan focus on his strength while someone else handled visualization.
By evening, they had a complete financial presentation—compelling and accessible. It was professional, persuasive, and entirely a team effort with Tan at its center.
As people dispersed, Tan remained at his desk, carefully organizing documents. His hands no longer trembled.
Zhao paused beside him. "Thank you, Tan. Your work is exceptional."
"I didn't think I could do it," Tan admitted quietly. "Teaching people, being the center of attention."
"You didn't fail. You led. You didn't have to be charismatic—you just had to share your expertise honestly."
Tan looked up, his eyes wet behind his glasses. "I've never felt valuable before. Not like this."
"You are valuable," Zhao said firmly. "Your mathematical genius is extraordinary. And now you know you can share it with others."
By the end of the third day, only one piece remained: Fu Weihong's naval academy and shipbuilding plans.
Fu had been working obsessively—barely sleeping, skipping meals, accumulating thick piles of papers with curriculum outlines, organizational charts, technical specifications.
The problem wasn't quality—it was integration. Fu had produced a comprehensive vision for maritime education and shipbuilding modernization, but it read like a military planning document, insufficiently connected to the commercial framework.
Around eight in the evening, Zhao found Fu still working, eyes bloodshot, uniform rumpled. Papers were scattered everywhere as Fu tried frantically to make everything cohere.
"Captain Fu," Zhao said firmly.
Fu looked up, startled.
"You need to stop. Right now."
"But I'm not finished—"
"You're exhausted. You can't think clearly. Everything you're writing now is making the problem worse."
Fu's face showed stubborn determination. "I just need a few more hours—"
"No." Zhao's voice was gentle but absolute.
"You need a bath, food, and eight hours of sleep. Tomorrow, when you're rested, we'll work on this together."
"Yunsheng, I appreciate your concern, but—"
"Do you trust me?" Zhao interrupted.
Fu stopped. "What?"
"Three days ago, I asked you to lead this committee. You agreed. Now I'm asking you to trust that I understand what needs to happen next. Your work is brilliant, but forcing it won't help. Rest will."
Something in Fu's military training responded.
He'd been operating on sheer willpower for seventy-two hours. Now that someone was ordering him to stand down, his body screamed agreement.
"Eight hours," Fu agreed reluctantly.
"But then we work through the integration."
"Deal. Meiling's already heating water for a bath, and Mother has dinner waiting."
As Fu stumbled toward the door, Yang approached Zhao with profound respect.
"That was necessary," Yang said quietly.
"Fu was spiraling. Another few hours and he'd have created such a tangled mess we'd never sort it out."
Zhao nodded. "He's brilliant but wounded. This is his chance to finally do what he's trained for—of course he's desperate to get it perfect."
The others had gathered, watching.
Xu spoke thoughtfully. "Three days ago, you positioned yourself as support staff. But you've led us every step of the way."
"Chen needed validation that his grassroots knowledge mattered," Jinliang added.
"You turned his network into the foundation."
"I needed philosophical direction," Xu said.
"You gave me a framework that made everything make sense."
"Tan needed confidence," Yang said. "You created an environment where his brilliance could shine."
"And Fu needed someone to protect him from his own desperation," Jinliang finished.
They all looked at him—this sixteen-year-old who'd understood each of their psychological needs.
"You're either the most naturally gifted leader I've ever encountered," Yang said slowly, "or you've had years of experience. And you're definitely not old enough for the latter."
Zhao shrugged. "I just try to pay attention to what people need."
"It's not common," Fu said from the doorway, having returned for a forgotten pocket watch.
"I've served under dozens of officers. Most barely noticed their subordinates as human beings. You see people. That's rare."
After Fu left, Zhao found himself with the original core group.
Yang spoke quietly. "Sixteen years old, and you orchestrate experienced professionals as if you've done it your entire life."
Chen Wei, listening, finally spoke. "If I may—I think you're overthinking this."
They turned to him, surprised.
"Zhao is brilliant, yes," Chen continued.
"But what makes him special isn't that he knows things we don't. It's that he believes things can be different."
Chen set down his tea. "We've all lived our entire lives in a system that tells us our place, our limitations. But Zhao Yunsheng doesn't carry those assumptions. He looks at problems and asks 'what should this be?' instead of 'what has this always been?' That freedom of thought—that's his real gift."
That observation hung heavy because it was true. Zhao's every proposal attacked the basic assumptions governing their work, making them confront their own shortcomings. They had successfully gathered advanced Western knowledge, yet their concessions were still governed by an antiquated mindset. The real task wasn't just learning new information, but opening their minds to new trends—they had to break free from entrenched, old-school thinking to truly progress.
"He's dangerous," Xu said suddenly, then smiled. "Ideas like his—law protecting the weak, merit over connections, women as professionals—these threaten the established order."
"They'll change everything," Jinliang finished quietly.
"For better," Yang said firmly. "China needs change. If Zhao's ideas threaten the old order, perhaps the old order deserves to be threatened."
The evening meal had brought everyone together.
Meiling served tea while the men discussed their progress, and Zhao noticed his sister listening intently.
As they reviewed Chen's market analysis, Meiling quietly set down her tray. "May I ask a question?"
The men looked up, surprised but attentive.
"You've categorized ship owners by vessel type and capability," she said carefully. "But Mr. Chen's notes mention that many owners formed their businesses through family connections or regional associations. Doesn't that create a challenge for our recruitment?"
Yang blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Ship owners and cargo merchants from the same province often prioritize doing business only with each other," Meiling continued, gaining confidence. "This regional trust limits our ability to solicit both independent ships and the merchants who control the valuable cargo they carry. They are an exclusive network, limiting the number of ships we can acquire for the franchise and the cargo volume we can guarantee."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"That's... that's absolutely correct," Jinliang said slowly. "Their loyalty to these regional associations is stronger than any financial incentive we offer."
Meiling then offered her solution. "If we cannot break their association, let us work with it. I propose we allow two or more ship owners to form a joint fleet partnership under the franchise model. They can pool their ships, share the franchise fee, and bid for the franchise as a single entity. By carrying a larger volume of cargo and passengers together, they can earn significantly more, and we simultaneously acquire multiple ships into our system."
Fu was nodding vigorously. "And as these joint fleets absorb more independent ships, cargo merchants who currently avoid us will face fewer non-franchise vessels, eventually forcing them to use our company network for their business."
Yang looked at Zhao with newfound understanding. "Your sister has genuine analytical ability."
"She's been studying," Zhao said simply.
"She's been taking down detailed notes of every insight and every problem we've uncovered during these three days."
"And she's applying them," Xu added with admiration.
"Taking abstract concepts and connecting them to concrete situations. That's sophisticated thinking."
Meiling looked overwhelmed by the praise, not quite believing these accomplished men were taking her seriously.
"Have you considered advanced education?" Fu asked.
"Your analytical skills would serve you well in serious study."
"I... I've thought about medicine," Meiling admitted quietly. "But that seemed impossible."
"The Women's Medical College in Philadelphia accepts international students,"
Fu said thoughtfully.
"If you're serious about medicine, that could be a path."
Zhao watched his sister's face transform—hope and disbelief warring in her expression.
The idea of studying medicine abroad, of becoming a real doctor, seemed impossibly distant yet suddenly almost tangible.
"The capability is clearly there," Yang said. "That's what matters most."
As the conversation moved on, Meiling caught Zhao's eye. Her look of gratitude and wonder said everything—these men, these accomplished professionals, had treated her intellectual contribution with respect. As an equal.
Later, as people dispersed, Xu paused beside Zhao. "That was instructive. Your sister demonstrated genuine brilliance, and we almost missed it because we weren't looking for it."
"Talent exists everywhere," Zhao said. "We just need to create spaces where it can be recognized."
As night deepened, Zhao Yunsheng remained in the courtyard, processing the past three days.
Inside his consciousness, he marveled at what they'd accomplished. Each team member had contributed something essential:
Chen's networks had delivered market intelligence no research could match. Jinliang's political acumen had secured backing and neutralized opposition. Xu's legal expertise was building protective frameworks. Tan's mathematical genius had created financial credibility.
And Meiling—his sister—had revealed a genuine brilliance that was all her own, untainted by the borrowed ideas of the 21st century that colored his own perspectives.
She was thinking originally, making connections he hadn't anticipated.
The door opened and Yang Jirong emerged. He settled beside Zhao Yunsheng.
"You've been like a conductor these past days," Jirong said.
"Each person playing their instrument, you ensure they harmonize."
"They're all talented. I just helped them see how their talents fit together."
"Don't minimize what you've done. Talent without direction is wasted. You provided direction."
They sat in comfortable silence.
"Tomorrow, you and Fu work on the naval academy integration," Yang Jirong said. "That's the last piece."
"Yes. One more intense day, then we present it to Morrison."
"And after Morrison?"
Zhao smiled. "We see if Li Hongzhang and CMSNC actually accept this madness we've constructed."
Yang laughed. "Profitable, practical madness that might transform maritime commerce. If it works."
"It has to work," Zhao said quietly.
"Not just for CMSNC. For what it represents. Proof that Chinese organizations can match Western efficiency."
"And if it fails?"
"Then we learn and try something different. But we don't accept that Chinese enterprise is inherently inferior. That's the only unacceptable outcome."
Yang studied him in the moonlight. "You really believe China can catch up to the foreign powers, don't you?"
"I know it can,"
Zhao's voice deepened, and in the moonlight his face seemed carved in stone.
"National power isn't permanent. Britain rose only with coal and iron. Japan barely stepped into the world just yesterday. Circumstances change.
But this land—this land is no ordinary nation. It is the oldest civilization still alive. When the Greeks were just beginning to carve statues, we already debated the nature of man and Heaven. Confucius taught virtue, Mozi spoke of universal love, Laozi of harmony, Han Feizi of law and order. The Hundred Schools of Thought—an age when ideas themselves seemed to set the world alight.
Then Qin Shihuang rose. He forged unity from centuries of blood and division. He gave us the truth that no matter how many times we split apart, we would always come back together. Unlike Europe, splintered forever, China's destiny was one body.
The Han dynasty carried that destiny forward. We still call ourselves 'Han' because their civilization became our marrow. They built roads and canals, stretched the frontier into deserts and mountains, sent envoys down the Silk Road to carry our name across the world. Huo Qubing's cavalry thundered onto the steppe, cups of wine in the tents of our enemies, declaring whoever offends the mighty Han, however far away, will be punished.
The Three Kingdoms broke us apart, but even then, heroes rose. From blood and chaos, unity returned. The Sui bound north and south with the Grand Canal—an inland artery longer than any in the world, still flowing today. The Tang came after, a dynasty so brilliant that kings from the West and envoys from distant deserts bowed to Li Shimin. Chinese culture, poetry, painting, law, spread like fire across Asia.
When the West sank into its medieval night, we lit the world with light.
The Song brought invention—movable type, fine porcelain, new ships that sailed far across the seas. Commerce thrived, cities grew vast, scholars debated beneath lantern light. The Mongols broke us after—riders from the steppe stormed our land, burned our cities, set themselves upon our throne. But even they could not erase China. They were absorbed, tamed by the very civilization they sought to destroy.
The Ming rose, rebuilding greatness. Zheng He's fleets sailed the oceans in ships larger than cathedrals, carrying the dragon flag to the shores of Africa before Europe even dreamed of an age of discovery. Our walls stretched longer than empires, our cities bustled with wealth.
But power shifts. The Qing came, Manchu conquerors from the north. They too tried to subjugate us, and yet in time even their sons called themselves Chinese. The empire grew vast, multiethnic, bound together under Heaven. For centuries, we were the center of the world.
And then—decline. The opium wars. Foreign cannons on our shores. The burning of our palaces, the carving of concessions, our people treated like dirt in our own cities. A century of humiliation, when we were almost erased, almost enslaved.
Time and time again, we have teetered on the edge of annihilation.
But always—we came back. Always, someone rose. Heroes in every age. We may stumble, we may bleed, but we do not vanish. This land has been broken a hundred times, but never destroyed. Because beneath every dynasty, beneath every invasion, the people remained—their hands sowing rice, their words carrying poetry, their memory refusing to die.
That is why I tell you, Jirong: no matter how weak we seem now, no matter who sneers or pities, China cannot be ended. We have been beaten, but we rise. We have been divided, but we unite. Again and again, through every age, heroes rise in every time. It has always been the same. That is our destiny."
The last words rang out, trembling with conviction, and Zhao's chest heaved with the effort of saying them.
Yang Jirong stood frozen, Yunsheng's words ringing in his ears. His initial surprise had transformed into a profound shock, giving way to a visceral, overwhelming surge of national pride that raised goosebumps on his arms. He realized he was seeing Zhao—not the quirky dock clerk or a smart and resourceful planner—but the real Zhao Yunsheng, a man possessed by a vision of China's soul.
"That's a dangerous belief," Jinliang said softly.
"Dangerous to the established order. Dangerous to foreign powers who prefer us subordinate."
"I know."
"And you pursue it anyway."
"What else would I do? Accept that my country deserves to be weak? I can't accept that. So I work to change it, one practical step at a time."
Yang stepped forward and gripped Zhao's shoulder, his hand shaking slightly. "You can't do this alone, Zhao. This is not just your responsibility. This truth—this memory of our destiny—it's too vast to carry alone."
He looked at Zhao, his eyes blazing with a newfound purpose that surpassed simple friendship.
"We are all in this with you now, Zhao. But you must share this thought, this foundation of fire, with the others—with Tan, with Fu, with Jinliang. They all need that confidence."
Yang's voice dropped, laced with the bitterness of their generation. "Years of losses, of shame, of treaties—it has crumbled the confidence of our entire generation. They need motivation. They need a purpose to push forward. They need to believe that this land and this nation are worth rebuilding."
He gripped Zhao's arm tighter. "Maybe, just maybe, if they grasp this truth, they can rise up and be the heroes of history we've always read about."
Yang released his friend's shoulder, his decision made. "I'm going to write this down. Every word. I will take this truth, and I will share it with the group, and anyone else who is willing to listen. I promise you, Zhao: I will follow you in this endeavor. Until China stands tall again"
Yang Jirong, vibrating with purpose, left the room to transcribe the words. Zhao remained alone, the moonlight catching the high, stark lines of his face. The passion that had driven his speech ebbed, leaving behind a cold, deep exhaustion—the loneliness of carrying a century's worth of history in his mind.
He had spoken of Han, of Tang, of Ming. But as he stood there, the weight of the coming decades settled upon him, and his thoughts turned to the heroes he had never met, the ones who would rise under the womb of this scarred land in the near future.
The future.
He remembered his grandfather's stories—the Old Red veteran who spoke not just of victories, but of the unimaginable human cost of China's rebirth. He thought of the young men and women—eighteen, nineteen years old—who knew they were going to die, but stepped forward with a smile.
He had read about the heroes of that time, Qu Qiubai, captured by the enemy. Zhao remembered his grandfather recounting the scene: Qu, only thirty-six, walking calmly to a small hill in Zhongshan Park, choosing a place on the grass, nodding to the executioner and saying, "Very good here!" before the shots rang out. A scholar, shot dead, meeting his fate with dignity and defiance.
He thought of the Long March—that crucible of spirit. A hundred thousand souls began the retreat, traversing over ten thousand kilometers of mountains, swamps, and enemy lines. They lost 92,000 people to starvation, disease, and combat. Only eight thousand troops ultimately survived to reach Yan'an. That was the caliber of sacrifice. That was the unyielding will that lived in the heart of the Chinese people.
That was the foundation of fire Yang spoke of.
Zhao ran a hand over his tired eyes. He knew that the bleeding would continue. The land would be savaged by warlords, occupied by foreign empires, torn apart by civil war. But he also knew the ending.
He knew that in 1949, after fifty years of relentless struggle, the red flag would finally be raised over Tiananmen Square. He knew that in the 1950s, his father's generation would pour their youth and expertise into rebuilding the industrial skeleton of the nation. He knew that in 1964, China would detonate its first atomic bomb—his mother's symbol of China finally able to "stand tall" against the world. And he knew that the reforms of the 1980s would unleash the sleeping economic dragon, culminating in the dazzling, impossible rapid growth of the 21st century that he had personally witnessed, from the factories of Guangdong to the skyscrapers of Shanghai and the capital's sprawl.
These were not just stories; they were facts. They were the absolute, undeniable proof of his conviction.
We have been beaten, but we rise. We have been divided, but we unite. Again and again, through every age, it has always been the same.
Zhao stood straighter, the weariness replaced by a crystalline resolve. The plan to rebuild the navy, the recruitment of Fu and Tan, the maneuvering with Morrison—these were merely the earliest, faintest ripples of the tide he knew was coming. The heroes were already here, waiting for the purpose Zhao could now give them.
Tomorrow would be challenging—helping Fu synthesize his naval dreams into something commercially viable. But tonight, he could rest knowing the foundation was solid.
The team had come together better than he'd hoped. Not just as collaborators but as believers in a shared vision: that Chinese capability could match any in the world if properly organized. That talent should matter more than birth. That the future could be different from the past.
Those beliefs were revolutionary even when disguised as commercial practicality.
The franchise plan wasn't just about shipping—it was about proving that a different way of organizing could work. More efficient, more just, more capable of mobilizing China's full potential.
Li Ming knew from his other lifetime how the 20th century would unfold. But this moment—building practical alternatives piece by piece, person by person—this felt more real than any historical knowledge.
Because history has been shaped by millions of individual choices, countless small innovations, innumerable moments of courage. He was just adding his own small contribution.
As he headed inside, Zhao glanced back at the courtyard. Tomorrow, the final integration. Then Morrison's judgment and then the real test.
But tonight, cautious optimism. They'd assembled something special—not just a business proposal but a team, a method, a vision of what was possible.
It was just a franchise plan for organizing shipping.
But perhaps it was also the seed of something much larger.