Fu Weihong stood at the blackboard, chalk in hand, looking more energized than he had in days. Eight hours of sleep had done wonders. Now, with the theoretical framework established, it was time for specifics.
"Before we discuss what ships to build, everyone needs to understand what makes a warship," Fu began. "Naval architecture isn't mysterious—it's engineering applied to specific combat requirements."
He drew a simple ship outline. "Every warship balances four major systems."
He sketched quickly as he spoke: "Hull and Armor provides protection, but weight reduces speed and range. Propulsion delivers power—modern triple-expansion engines are efficient but complex, and they consume coal that takes space from weapons. Armament supplies offensive capability—big guns versus rapid-fire batteries, each with tradeoffs. Finally, Fire Control coordinates everything—the Japanese proved that superior rangefinders and directors can overcome raw firepower advantages."
Tan was taking notes furiously. Even Xu and Jinliang, with no naval background, found themselves absorbed by Fu's systematic explanation.
"Now, warship classification by role," Fu continued, drawing a scale:
"Torpedo Boats: 100-200 tons. Small, fast, cheap. Swarm tactics in coastal waters. Crew of 20-30.
Destroyers: 300-400 tons. Larger, seaworthy escorts. Hunt enemy torpedo boats while protecting larger ships. Crew of 60-80.
Light Cruisers: 3,000-4,000 tons. Fast scouts with rapid-fire guns. Patrol and reconnaissance. Crew of 300-400.
Protected Cruisers: 4,500-5,500 tons. Armored deck, heavier guns. The backbone of any modern fleet. Crew of 400-500.
Armored Cruisers: 7,000-9,000 tons. Belt armor, capital ship firepower, faster than battleships. Fleet flagships. Crew of 600-700."
He set down his chalk and turned to face them. "Here is my proposal for two Coastal Defense Fleets—North and South."
Per Fleet:
20 Torpedo Boats
8 Destroyers
3 Light Cruisers
2 Protected Cruisers
1 Armored Cruiser
Total: 34 vessels per fleet, 68 vessels total. Timeline: 10-12 years. First fleet combat-ready by 1900, second by 1905.
"Only 68 ships?" Jinliang interrupted, frowning. "The Japanese are building a fleet twice that size. The Russians have even more in the Pacific. How does this defend anything?"
"We're not trying to match their numbers," Fu replied. "We can't afford to, and even if we could, it's the wrong strategy. Instead, we make our coastal waters a killing ground."
He sketched quick diagrams. "Twenty torpedo boats per fleet—that's twenty small, fast vessels each carrying enough explosives to cripple a battleship. They operate in swarms in shallow waters where enemy capital ships can't maneuver effectively. At night, in fog, in familiar coastal channels. A battleship worth a million pounds facing boats that cost fifty thousand each—the mathematics favor us."
"And if the enemy brings their own destroyers to screen against torpedo attacks?" Yang challenged.
"Then our destroyers engage theirs while the torpedo boats slip through," Fu said. "It's layered defense. The cruisers provide firepower and command, the destroyers screen and escort, the torpedo boats strike at capital ships. Each type supports the others. We don't need to win fleet battles in open ocean—we just need to make attacking our coast prohibitively expensive."
Chen spoke up quietly. "You're proposing guerrilla warfare at sea."
"Exactly," Fu agreed. "Asymmetric tactics. Hit where they're weak, avoid where they're strong, make every attack cost them more than they're willing to pay."
Yang was studying the numbers skeptically. "And the construction sources? We don't have the capacity to build all this domestically."
"Not yet," Fu agreed, spreading out specifications. "Which is why we split construction strategically."
He pointed to each drawing: "Torpedo Boats—British Yarrow design, 150 tons. All forty built in Chinese yards by 1902-1903. These are simple enough that our workers can master them, but even simple ships take time when you're building capacity from scratch.
Destroyers—Modified British design, roughly 550 tons. First fleet's eight purchased from Britain, delivered 1899-1902. Second fleet's eight built domestically 1903-1905, using knowledge from the first batch.
Light Cruisers—German Gazelle-type, 3,400 tons. Five from German yards, one assembled in China. Delivered 1899-1902.
Protected Cruisers—Elswick-modified design, 5,200 tons. Two from Britain delivered 1900-1901, two built domestically 1903-1904 after our yards complete modernization.
Armored Cruisers—Italian Garibaldi-type, 7,800 tons. One from Italy in 1901, one built at Shanghai Shipyard in 1905 as our flagship."
"Why split between Britain, Germany, and Italy?" Xu asked.
"Risk distribution," Zhao interjected. "If we rely on one nation, they control our timeline. Three partners means no single power can manipulate or sabotage us."
Fu nodded. "Also, each brings different strengths. British naval tradition and proven designs. German engineering robustness and systematic training methods. Italian experience with medium-power navies that face similar constraints to ours. We learn from all three approaches."
Zhao had been studying the timeline carefully. The dates Fu had initially proposed—first fleet by 1900—had been his own insistence. But looking at the reality of what they were attempting, he felt a knot of doubt forming. Had he pushed too hard, too fast, because of knowledge he couldn't share? Had he let his desperation to change history override practical judgment?
He said nothing for now, but the question lingered.
"Ships need ammunition," Fu said, moving to a map of China's coast. "Three shell plants—Tianjin, Shanghai, Fujian. One supporting each major shipyard. Technology licensed from Krupp. By 1902, we produce our own munitions. No dependence on foreign supplies in wartime."
He paused, then continued with intensity. "But ammunition plants are just the foundation. What matters is this: by 1908, we build modern warships independently. Not assembling foreign parts—actual design and construction of vessels under 10,000 tons, stem to stern."
"How?" Chen asked. "You're talking about compressing decades of development into years."
"Technology testing partnerships," Fu replied.
"I propose allowing foreign companies to prove their latest innovations on select vessels in our fleet. The British are developing steam turbines—potentially revolutionary, but unproven in large warships. Let them test on one of our protected cruisers at their expense. If it works, we gain cutting-edge propulsion and our engineers learn by observing. If it fails, they absorb the cost and we learn from the failure."
Yang looked troubled. "That makes our ships experimental platforms. What happens when a turbine fails in combat? What if crew die because we let the British test unproven technology on them?"
"A valid concern," Fu acknowledged. "Which is why we're selective and systematic. One ship tests turbines—others use proven reciprocating engines. One tests new water-tube boilers—others use reliable fire-tube designs. We spread the risk across the fleet, never putting all our ships on the cutting edge simultaneously."
"But there is risk," Yang pressed. "Real risk to real sailors."
"Yes," Fu said bluntly. "There's also risk in falling further behind. Every year we use only proven technology is a year we're learning nothing about what comes next. The British test turbines on their ships—their sailors take that risk. The Germans test new boilers—their crews take that risk. If we only buy proven designs, we're always one generation behind, always dependent, always copying rather than innovating."
"It's not risk-free," Zhao interjected. "But neither is technological stagnation. We have to choose which risk we're willing to accept."
The group was quiet, weighing the tradeoff. Finally Yang nodded reluctantly. "If we're selective about what we test and document everything thoroughly—both successes and failures—then yes. But we're clear with crew that they're on experimental vessels. No hiding the risk."
"Agreed," Fu said. "Transparency about what we're testing and why. And by 1908, we're not just catching up—we're working with frontier technology because our engineers have been exposed to it throughout the development process."
Fu's voice shifted, becoming more intense. "None of this matters without people. The best ships with incompetent crews are floating coffins—the Beiyang Fleet proved that."
He drew a new organizational chart:
"Naval Academy—officially designated Merchant Marine Academy to reduce foreign scrutiny. Located in Tianjin. Four-year program modeled after Annapolis. Navigation, engineering, weapons, tactics. Annual intake of 200 cadets."
"But we can't wait four years for our first graduates," Fu continued. "So here's the immediate measure: every existing naval officer in China who wants to serve in the new fleet must attend a two-year intensive retraining course. Starting immediately. No exceptions."
The room went dead silent.
Jinliang leaned forward, his expression troubled. "You're telling officers with ten, fifteen, twenty years of experience that they're incompetent."
"I'm telling them the old methods failed," Fu replied, his voice hard. "The Beiyang Fleet had experienced officers. Officers from good families with proper connections. We still lost—decisively, humiliatingly. Anyone who wants to serve in the modern navy must prove competency under new standards. Those who refuse or fail retire with full honors and pensions, but they retire. No dead weight."
"Captain Fu," Jinliang said carefully, "those officers have families who placed them in those positions. Families with influence. You're not just challenging the officers—you're insulting their patrons."
"Then their patrons can be insulted," Fu said flatly. "I'm not building a social club. I'm building a navy that can actually fight."
Yang spoke up, his tone cautious. "Jinliang has a point. You'll create powerful enemies. Officials who see your meritocracy as an attack on the patronage system that keeps them in power."
"Good," Fu said. "I'd rather have enemies outside the fleet than incompetents inside it. Every officer who fails retraining and blames his patron is one less person undermining us from within."
Zhao had been listening carefully. "We can mitigate some of this. Frame retraining as 'modernization education' rather than 'remedial instruction.' Emphasize that even Western naval officers constantly update their knowledge. Make it about adaptation to new technology rather than correction of old failures."
"The substance remains the same," Fu said.
"But the framing matters politically," Zhao replied. "We're still requiring retraining. We're still removing those who fail. But we're not publicly calling them incompetent—we're saying warfare has changed and everyone needs to learn new methods. It's a fig leaf, but it might prevent some families from feeling honor-bound to destroy us."
Jinliang nodded slowly. "That could work. Pride protected, standards maintained."
"Whatever the framing," Fu said, "the standards are non-negotiable."
He turned back to the board. "Three Maritime Engineering Universities—Tianjin, Shanghai, Fuzhou. Modeled after MIT. Four-year degrees in naval architecture, marine engineering, metallurgy, industrial chemistry. These are the priority. Engineers matter more than officers. Engineers design ships, build ships, improve ships. Without them, we're just operators of foreign equipment forever."
"Feeding into the universities: preparatory schools teaching mathematics, physics, chemistry, English. Competitive entrance examinations. We identify talent early and create a pipeline from basic education to advanced technical training."
"All schools use elimination-based curriculum," Fu said firmly. "No social promotions. No face-saving passes. Master the material or be removed. Military-style discipline and accountability."
"This will be deeply unpopular," Jinliang warned. "Chinese educational tradition emphasizes collective advancement and social harmony. What you're describing is ruthlessly individualistic."
"Chinese educational tradition produced the officers who lost to Japan," Fu said. "If tradition worked, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Chen spoke up thoughtfully. "You're not just training sailors. You're trying to create an entirely new social class. A technical intelligentsia separate from the scholar-official tradition."
"Yes," Fu agreed. Then he paused, drew a breath, and spoke the words that would change everything: "And here's how we formalize that separation. Students must choose: Imperial Examinations or Engineering Colleges. There is no intersection between the two paths."
The room held its breath.
For a thousand years, the Imperial Examination system had been the sole path to prestige, power, and social advancement in China. Fu was proposing a parallel track—separate, claiming equal status, but completely incompatible with the traditional system.
"You're declaring war on the examination system," Xu said quietly.
"I'm declaring that engineering is a different form of scholarship," Fu corrected. "The Imperial path leads to government service through classical learning. The engineering path leads to technical service through modern science. Both require intelligence and dedication. Both serve the state. But they're fundamentally different disciplines that require different training."
Jinliang's face had gone pale. "Captain Fu, you understand what you're proposing? Every scholar-official in China will see this as an attack on the Confucian tradition. Every family that has built its fortune through examination success will see their status threatened. This isn't making enemies—this is declaring that half the empire's elite are obsolete."
"They are obsolete," Fu said bluntly. "For technical modernization. A man who has memorized the Four Books and Five Classics is not qualified to design a steam engine or calculate structural loads on an iron hull. Those are different skills requiring different knowledge."
"But you're not just saying they're unqualified for technical work," Jinliang pressed. "By creating a parallel track, you're saying engineering scholarship is equally prestigious to classical scholarship. That threatens the entire social hierarchy."
"It should," Fu replied. "Because that hierarchy is killing China. We need engineers as desperately as we need administrators. We need scientists as much as we need poets. The current system says only classical learning matters—meanwhile, we can't build our own ships or produce our own steel or design our own weapons. That has to change."
Yang had been listening, his expression deeply troubled. "Jinliang is right about the resistance. But Fu is also right about the necessity. So the question is: can we actually get this approved? Or are we writing a brilliant proposal that will be rejected immediately because it threatens too many powerful people?"
The group fell silent, the weight of the problem settling over them.
Zhao spoke carefully. "We need Li Hongzhang to see this as his legacy. Not just naval rebuilding, but educational transformation. The man who modernized China's knowledge base, not just its fleet. If he believes this is how history will remember him, he might accept the political cost."
"That's a gamble," Xu said.
"Everything about this plan is a gamble,"
Zhao replied. "But Li Hongzhang is facing political destruction. Men in that position sometimes take risks they'd normally refuse. Our job is to make the risk seem worthwhile."
"And when every examination graduate in the Beiyang administration opposes this?"
Jinliang asked. "When officials sabotage implementation because they see it as threatening their children's futures?"
"Then we build the system well enough that sabotage fails," Fu said. "Clear standards, objective measurements, visible results. Make the new system work so effectively that opposition becomes defending failure against success."
"That's assuming we get it approved in the first place," Yang said quietly.
No one had a response to that.
The uncertainty hung in the air—not just whether the plan would work, but whether it would even get the chance to be tried.