The morning sun streamed through the windows of Zhao's study, casting long shadows across the assembled group. They arrived one by one, each carrying a different energy than the night before—more focused, more determined, yet also visibly moved by something profound.
Yang Jirong had shared Zhao's words with them that morning. Each man had read the transcription, and each had been transformed by it in his own way.
Chen Weiming clutched the pages, his hands shaking. He was an artisan who had long witnessed the poverty and neglect faced by his class. For him, the Western factory model offered a path for millions of craftsmen like his family and neighbors to apply their specialized skills and strengthen the nation. His quiet dream of building a Chinese-led textile industry now felt urgent. Zhao's words—We have been beaten, but we rise—validated his hope. His people needed a hero to lead them out of destitution, and that statement gave his colossal ambition the form it needed.
Tatara Jinliang had read it standing by the window, his jaw tight. For him, it crystallized a singular purpose: to build his family name not through empty court titles but through military service that mattered. To carve out a path for impoverished bannermen like himself—men exploited by Manchu princes and nobles who treated them as decorative pawns. Again and again, through every age, heroes rise in every time. He could be one of those heroes. His sons could be.
Fu Weihong had wept. Quietly, privately, but the pages were damp when he set them down. His naval dreams—dismissed by bureaucrats, mocked by the complacent, crushed by war—suddenly felt not foolish but necessary. Part of an eternal pattern. We have been divided, but we unite. China would rebuild its navy. He would help make it happen.
Xu Mingzhe had read it with clenched fists, his mother's face vivid in his memory. The feudalistic traditions that had killed her—that made some lives matter less than others—these were not eternal laws but temporary conditions. That is why I tell you: no matter how weak we seem now, China cannot be ended. He would use law to break those traditions, brick by brick, case by case.
Tan Wei didn't have grand plans for national revival. He didn't dream of industries or military glory or legal reform. But Zhao and Yang were the only people who'd ever understood him, who'd made him feel like he belonged. If they believed this—if they were willing to fight for this—then he would stand beside them. That was enough.
Later, historians would call Zhao's speech "The Declaration of Eternal Return" —the first articulation of his philosophy that China's weakness was temporary, that revival was inevitable, that every generation bore responsibility to be the heroes their age demanded.
It became the ideological foundation for a movement that would reshape how an entire generation understood their historical duty.This manifesto attracted a new generation of educated youth, drawn by its promise of competence and purpose, establishing a modern nationalism rooted in cultural confidence.
Following the 1911 Revolution, the clarity of the Declaration cemented Zhao's status as the movement's Ideological Architect, providing the political roadmap needed to move from uprising to sustained national rebirth.
But that morning, it was simply words on paper that had set five men's hearts on fire.
They gathered in Zhao's study to find him seated at a blackboard, Fu's naval academy documents spread across the desk. He looked up as they entered, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Each man saw something different in that moment:
Yang saw the young man who'd given him purpose after the destruction of his dreams to join navy—now orchestrating something far larger than a shipping franchise.
Fu saw the strategic mind that understood what he'd spent years trying to articulate—a path forward for Chinese naval power.
Xu saw the Proponent of Legalism who'd shown him that law could protect the weak—now preparing to challenge an entire system.
Jinliang saw the conductor who'd harmonized their talents—about to reveal the larger composition.
Chen saw the believer who'd validated his grassroots knowledge and background—and made it matter.
Tan saw his friend—the only person who'd ever made him feel valuable.
They had come expecting a follow-up to last night's passionate declaration.
Instead, Zhao pulled them firmly back to earth.
"I need to apologize to everyone," Zhao said quietly.
The room stilled. This was not what they'd expected.
"We've taken the wrong approach from the beginning. I've taken the wrong approach."
Zhao gestured to the papers around him. "No matter how brilliant our franchise plan is, no matter how many hours we work—it will fail if we present it as merely a commercial proposal."
He stood, moving to the blackboard. "After reading Captain Fu's plans last night, I realized we've failed to address the core contradiction. Even if the company asks low-level clerks for advice, nothing will change unless we solve the main problem."
"What problem?" Yang asked carefully.
"We're trying to convince the wrong people," Zhao said bluntly. "Sheng Xuanhuai and his entrenched clique will never approve anything that threatens their positions. We must recognize that the franchise system is designed to do exactly that: it strips the central bureaucracy of its direct control, transferring the final say on routes and quality of service to the competitive ship owners who run them. Therefore, we need to bypass them entirely and present directly to Viceroy Li Hongzhang, but to do that, we need to give him something he simply cannot refuse."
Zhao picked up chalk and began writing on the blackboard. "I added the naval academy and ship building to the plan thinking it would exploit certain contradictions. But I underestimated the sheer size of those contradictions. Now we need to understand them, resolve them, and refine our entire plan to address them directly."
He turned to face them. "Let me share with you a framework for thinking about complex problems. I call it the Theory of Contradiction."
Zhao drew a large circle on the blackboard, then filled it with smaller circles of varying sizes.
"Every situation contains multiple contradictions—conflicts between opposing forces or interests. Small contradictions, large contradictions, internal contradictions, external contradictions. They exist everywhere."
He tapped the largest circle with his chalk. "But in any complex situation, only one contradiction is primary. This is the Principal Contradiction. It governs all the others. Think of a duel: One man is facing his opponent with a rusty sword, a flimsy shield, and he hasn't slept in two days—those are side contradictions, the leaks. But if his opponent is currently holding the man's wife and children hostage, the safety of his family is the Principal Contradiction. He can't worry about his shield or his lack of sleep until that central, immediate threat to his family is addressed. Solve the hostage situation, and then you can fight the duel."
Yang leaned forward, immediately grasping the concept. "So if you solve the principal contradiction..."
"The subordinate contradictions either resolve themselves or become manageable," Zhao finished.
"But if you waste energy on minor contradictions while ignoring the principal one, you accomplish nothing. The system remains unstable."
Fu was nodding slowly. "This is similar to naval strategy doctrine. Identify the enemy's center of gravity and concentrate force there."
"Exactly." Zhao turned back to the board.
"So what is the Principal Contradiction we must address?"
He wrote in bold characters: Li Hongzhang's Crisis
"The Sino-Japanese War didn't just defeat China's navy. It destroyed Li Hongzhang's political position. Everything he built his career on—the Westernization Movement, the Beiyang Fleet, China's military modernization—all of it collapsed. His enemies now have a weapon to destroy him. His allies are questioning his competence. The Emperor himself is vulnerable to criticism for backing Li's policies."
Zhao drew three interconnected circles within the large one labeled "Li Hongzhang."
"The crisis has three components.
First: Political Humiliation. The Beiyang navy was in his control , and he signed that treaty. The defeat is now his personal burden. Every failure of the war is attributed to him, fairly or not."
"Second: Financial Ruin. The war indemnities are catastrophic—200 million taels of silver. The CMSNC is nearly bankrupt. Taxes from Northern China and company profits were Li's financial engines. Without them, his political machine loses fuel."
"Third: Strategic Vacuum. China has no naval doctrine, no rebuilding plan, no clear path forward. Li is strategically exposed. Foreign powers are circling. The British and The Japanese are dictating terms. And Li has no answers."
The room was utterly silent. Each man recognized the brutal accuracy of this assessment.
"This," Zhao said, tapping the board firmly, "is our Principal Contradiction.
Li Hongzhang's desperate, immediate need for political survival and strategic redemption."
Jinliang spoke first, his voice tight with understanding. "So we're not selling him a franchise plan..."
"We're selling him his political future," Zhao agreed. "The franchise plan is merely the lever—the commercial mask for a military and political solution."
He began writing again, this time in two columns:
Financial Solvency:
- Rapid cash infusion to CMSNC
- Stable revenue stream
- Demonstrates competent management
- Proves Li can still deliver results
Strategic Redemption:
- Complete naval reform package
- Ready-made modernization plan
- Demonstrates forward thinking
- Allows Li to control the narrative
"We give Li Hongzhang a solution he cannot refuse because refusing it means accepting political death," Zhao said.
"The franchise plan generates immediate revenue. But more importantly, it funds a comprehensive naval rebuilding program that makes Li look like a visionary responding to defeat with bold reform."
Fu's hands were shaking slightly as he gripped his notes. This was everything he'd hoped for but never thought possible—his naval dreams suddenly connected to raw political necessity.
"But to make this work," Zhao continued, "we must address the subordinate contradictions. Captain Fu, you studied the war. Tell us: why did the Beiyang Fleet lose?"
Fu stood, moving to join Zhao at the blackboard. His voice was steady now, the voice of a professional analyst.
"Four main reasons. Four subordinate contradictions that must be resolved."
He began writing:
Command Failure
"There was no unified naval command. The Beiyang, Nanyang, Fujian, and Guangdong fleets operated independently. When Beiyang needed support, the other fleets refused to come. This is unacceptable. A nation must have one navy, not four regional militias."
Logistics and Funding Failure
"Funds were diverted—most famously to the Summer Palace. But even available funds were poorly used. Maintenance was neglected. Ammunition was inadequate—we went into battle with solid shot instead of high-explosive shells. Guns that hadn't been test-fired in years. This wasn't just corruption; it was systemic incompetence."
Armament Doctrine Failure
"The Dingyuan and Zhenyuan were dinosaurs. Massive, slow, armed with huge guns that fired once every few minutes. The Japanese used smaller, faster ships with rapid-fire cannons—120mm and 152mm quick-firing guns that could fire fifteen rounds per minute. They overwhelmed us with volume, started fires, and killed our gun crews. We learned this lesson the hard way."
Training Failure
"Our training was antiquated. Parade-ground formations. Limited live-fire exercises. Officers promoted through connections rather than competence. The Japanese trained constantly, realistically, professionally. We didn't."
Fu set down his chalk. "These are the immediate, tactical failures. But there's a deeper problem."
"Go on," Zhao prompted.
"The core naval philosophy of the Qing dynasty is wrong," Fu said, his voice gaining passion.
"We cannot follow Britain. Britain has global trade routes to protect, colonies to supply, a naval tradition centuries old. We don't need—and cannot afford—a blue-water navy."
He turned to face the group. "What the country needs is coastal defense. Fast, deadly, concentrated power in our own waters. Not expensive ironclads trying to rule the oceans, but a fleet designed specifically to make our coasts too dangerous to attack."
Zhao smiled. "Captain Fu, I believe you've just articulated the foundation of our naval doctrine. Would you care to elaborate?"
Fu's eyes lit up. This was the moment he'd been preparing for his entire professional life.
"The Japanese taught us what works," he said.
"Speed over armor. Volume of fire over gun size. Concentrated force over dispersed presence. We should learn from our defeat."
He began sketching on the board:
"What country needs is what the French call the Jeune École—the 'Young School' of naval warfare. Small, fast vessels armed with torpedoes for coastal defense. Rapid-fire cruisers for local sea control. Overwhelming numbers of cheap, effective boats rather than a few expensive showpieces."
"Practicality," Zhao said. "We must build what we can actually afford, maintain, and use effectively."
"Exactly. And there's another consideration." Fu's expression became serious.
"Country has almost no modern industrial base. Large guns and shells are technically complex and expensive. They require precision manufacturing we don't have. But smaller guns—120mm, 152mm rapid-fire weapons—these are simpler. The ammunition is easier to produce. We can actually make them, or at least learn to make them."
Yang was taking notes rapidly. "So the entire philosophy shifts from 'compete with foreign navies' to 'make our coast impregnable.'"
"Yes. And here's why it works strategically."
Fu's voice grew more confident. "Any foreign fleet trying to blockade Shanghai or attack Tanggu faces a nightmare. Shallow waters filled with torpedo boats. Fast destroyers that can strike and retreat. Cruisers providing fire support. It's an asymmetric defense—we make the cost of attacking us too high to justify."
"And training?" Xu asked.
"That's actually the most important part," Fu said.
"Everything I just described requires competent crews. Not parade-ground sailors but professional naval personnel. Which brings us to the academy."
Zhao stepped forward. "This is where everything connects. Captain Fu, would you walk everyone through your complete restructuring and rebuilding plan?"
Fu took a deep breath. This was his life's work condensed into a single presentation.
"The goal is to create two fully functional Regional Coastal Defense Squadrons—North and South—within five to six years. Built around speed and overwhelming rapid-fire capability."
"The naval plan is founded on Asymmetric Warfare, a doctrine that uses smaller, cheaper forces to inflict disproportionate damage on a larger, technologically superior enemy. The fleet consists primarily of small, fast Torpedo Boats and Destroyers (the Mosquito Fleet) and high-speed Cruisers armed with Quick-Firing (QF) guns. The strategy dictates that the tiny Mosquito Fleet operates by night or in fog, relying on its speed to dash in close to an enemy's slow, massive battleship, launch a few devastating torpedoes, and vanish back into the shallow coastline where the larger ships cannot follow. Meanwhile, the Cruisers engage during the day, using their superior speed and QF guns to dictate the range, overwhelming the opponent with a high volume of medium-caliber shells before breaking off the engagement if the enemy attempts a powerful counter-strike. This hit-and-run approach makes a naval invasion financially ruinous for the opponent, forcing them to risk a one million pound capital ship against a fifty thousand pound torpedo boat."
"All ships under 10,000 tons," Zhao observed.
"Staying below the threshold that would alarm foreign powers."
"Precisely. And the doctrine is clear: the Protected Cruisers and Armored Cruisers use speed to outflank enemies while overwhelming them with rapid-fire volume. The Destroyers and Torpedo Boats operate in coordinated attacks—swarming tactics that make larger ships vulnerable."
Jinliang was studying the numbers. "The training requirements..."
"Massive," Fu agreed.
"Which is why the first three years focus entirely on gunnery and torpedo deployment. Live-fire exercises constantly. Realistic combat conditions. And—this is critical—we must centralize naval command immediately. One unified navy. No more regional fleets refusing to cooperate."
"The cost?" Tan asked quietly.
Fu looked at Zhao. "That's where the commercial framework becomes essential."
Zhao moved to a clear section of the blackboard. "Captain Fu's plan requires industrial capacity China doesn't currently have. So we must build it—disguised as commercial development."
He began drawing a diagram:
"Three shipyards: Tianjin, Shanghai, Fujian.
All placed under naval administration but operating commercially. They take orders for cargo ships from our franchise network. The profits from those commercial orders fund the naval construction."
"Would foreign powers allow this, especially the Japanese and the Russians?" Xu asked.
"They will, because we have stronger partners," Zhao said. "Each shipyard forms a joint venture with a foreign partner—British, American, German. The foreign companies get 35% equity, cannot exceed that amount, and commit to a 15-year partnership."
Yang's eyes widened. "The foreign stake in chinese shipyard?"
"The foreign stake protects the shipyards...From foreign aggression," Zhao finished.
"The Fujian Shipyard was destroyed in the Sino-French War because it was purely Chinese. But if British, American, and German companies own shares in our yards? Attacking them becomes diplomatically complicated. We use their greed to protect our strategic assets."
Fu was nodding vigorously. "And in exchange for their investment and shares, they provide..."
"Technical transfer," Zhao said.
"They build cargo ship building capacity first—Integrated Steel Mills (Steel Works), Engine and Boiler Works, Large Dry Docks and Shipyard teaching our workers modern methods. Then they construct a small number of the naval vessels in our shipyards, training our engineers and workers in the process. By the end of the 15-year agreement, we have shipyards capable of building modern warships independently."
"The foreign firms get paid fees for every warship built," Fu added, seeing the full picture.
"So they have financial incentive to transfer knowledge."
"Exactly. They profit from both the commercial cargo ship orders and the naval construction fees. We get trained workers, modern facilities, and protected strategic assets."
Chen spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "And the steel for all these ships?"
"Steel plants on the coast," Zhao said. "Also joint ventures, funded by foreign loans secured against CMSNC revenue. Located near the shipyards to minimize transport costs. The raw materials can be sourced domestically or imported based on proximity and cost."
"You're building an integrated industrial complex," Jinliang said slowly. "Disguised as commercial development but creating the foundation for sustained naval production."
"Yes. And there's one more critical component." Zhao turned to Fu. "The universities."
Fu stepped forward again. "Three specialized engineering universities, one near each shipyard. Modeled after MIT. Teaching marine engineering, mechanical engineering, metallurgy, industrial chemistry."
"Training the next generation of engineers for naval purpose?" Yang said.
"Not just for naval purposes," Zhao clarified.
"These universities serve commercial needs too—training engineers for the merchant marine, for industrial development, for infrastructure projects. But every graduate understands modern shipbuilding, modern engines, modern weapons systems."
"And the naval academy itself?" Xu asked.
"One central academy, like the one in Annapolis," Fu said.
"But officially designated as a Merchant Marine Academy to protect it from Foreign aggression and interference. We train officers for the commercial fleet who can seamlessly transition to naval service if needed."
"The cargo ships in our franchise network become training grounds," Zhao added.
"Officers practice navigation in Chinese waters, learn coastal conditions, gain experience with the very routes they'd need to defend in wartime."
The room fell silent as everyone absorbed the full scope of what they were proposing.
It wasn't just a franchise plan.
It wasn't just naval rebuilding.
It was a complete reimagining of Chinese maritime power—commercial, military, industrial, and educational systems all integrated into a self-sustaining whole.
Yang looked at Zhao with something close to awe. "You orchestrated all of this. Every piece. Captain Fu provided the naval expertise, but you gave him the right direction—the theory of contradiction led him to these conclusions."
"No," Zhao said firmly. "Captain Fu conceived this plan. His strategic vision, his understanding of what China needs. I simply helped him see a way out."
Fu shook his head slowly. "You did more than that. You showed me how to think about the problem differently. Every question you asked pushed me toward practical solutions instead of theoretical perfection. This plan exists because you understood both what was strategically necessary and what was politically achievable."
"We all contributed," Zhao insisted. "Tan's financial models show us what revenue the franchise generates—and therefore what we can afford to build. Yang's operational knowledge tells us what cargo routes need protecting—and therefore where our naval presence must concentrate. Xu's legal framework protects our joint ventures from both foreign exploitation and domestic corruption. Jinliang's political instincts guide us in how to present this to Li Hongzhang."
Chen spoke quietly. "But you wove us all together. You saw how each piece connected before any of us did."
Zhao smiled slightly. "Perhaps I simply see the pattern because I'm not trapped by assumptions about what's possible. But the plan itself—the actual substance—that came from all of you."
Jinliang leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "So we've solved the Principal Contradiction. We're giving Li Hongzhang his political survival: immediate revenue from the franchise, long-term strategic redemption through naval rebuilding, and industrial development that makes the country less dependent on foreign technology."
"All disguised as commercial enterprise," Xu added. "Which protects it from bureaucratic interference and factional politics."
"There's one more component we haven't detailed yet," Fu said. "The actual warship specifications—what exactly we're ordering, from whom, on what timeline. That's next work."
"Agreed," Zhao said. "We've established the framework, the philosophy, and the industrial foundation. Next we need fill in the technical details. Then we present the complete package to Morrison, convince him to take us directly to Li Hongzhang."
Yang stood, stretching. "I need food and tea. My mind is exhausted from following all of this."
As the others filed out, discussing various aspects of the plan, Jinliang lingered beside Zhao.
"The Declaration of Eternal Return," Jinliang said quietly. "That's what Yang is calling your speech. He thinks it will inspire our generation."
Zhao looked uncomfortable. "I wasn't trying to make declarations. I was just... expressing what I believe."
"That's what makes it powerful," Jinliang said. "You weren't performing. You were revealing. And what you revealed—that vision of China's destiny, that certainty that we will rise again—people need that. Especially now."
He paused. "But you also brought us back to earth today. Showed us that belief without strategy is useless. We can't just have faith in China's destiny—we have to build it, piece by piece, compromise by compromise, step by step."
"That's the only way forward," Zhao agreed. "Grand visions give us direction. But achieving them requires grinding, unglamorous work. Building shipyards. Training engineers. Negotiating joint ventures. Filing paperwork."
"Heroes doing bureaucracy," Jinliang said with a slight smile.
"The most important kind of heroism," Zhao replied seriously. "Anyone can fight when the battle is dramatic. It takes real dedication to fight when the battle is boring."
As Jinliang left, Zhao remained alone in the study, looking at the blackboard covered with their plans.
Li Ming's consciousness stirred, recognizing patterns from the PLA Navy's own development after 1949. The focus on coastal defense, the torpedo boats and destroyers, the emphasis on asymmetric warfare—all of these echoed strategies China would eventually adopt out of necessity.
But this was 1895. They were trying to compress decades of development into years. Trying to build industrial foundations while fighting political battles. Trying to train a generation of professionals while working within a corrupt system.
Could it actually work?
He didn't know. Even with historical hindsight, this specific plan was unprecedented. They were creating something new—not copying the historical path but forging a different one.
Next they would detail the warships. Then Morrison. Then Li Hongzhang. Then the real test of whether brilliance on paper could survive contact with reality.
But for now, the framework was solid. The team was unified. The Principal Contradiction had been identified and addressed.
They had given themselves a chance.