The afternoon had deepened into evening. Oil lamps were lit throughout the courtyard as the group took a brief respite—stretching legs, clearing minds. When they reconvened, Zhao noticed the atmosphere had shifted: less theoretical enthusiasm, more sober realization of what they were actually proposing.
After a moment, Zhao broke the silence.
"Two additional provisions. Based on protecting our investments from specific risks."
Fu looked up, grateful for the change of subject.
"First: high penalties for contract breach by foreign partners. Exact delivery dates, performance standards, technology transfer requirements—all specified precisely, with substantial financial penalties for failure. If a foreign yard misses a deadline by three months, they pay a penalty equal to ten percent of the contract value. Six months—twenty-five percent. A year—full contract value plus damages."
"Those are severe penalties," Yang observed.
"They need to be," Zhao replied. "Chinese contracts with foreign firms traditionally use vague language and minimal consequences. Foreigners delay, deliver substandard work, face no real penalties. We write contracts like Western commercial law—specific, measurable, enforceable. Make it more expensive to breach than to perform."
"And the second provision?" Fu asked.
"Joint venture shares cannot be sold to third parties without our explicit approval. If a foreign partner wants to exit, they must offer their equity to Chinese parties first at a predetermined formula. They cannot transfer shares to another foreign company, cannot use the shares as diplomatic leverage or collateral."
Jinliang frowned. "Why? That limits their investment flexibility."
"It prevents hostile acquisition," Zhao explained. "Imagine Britain owns thirty-five percent of Shanghai Shipyard. We have a diplomatic crisis with Britain—maybe over Tibet, maybe over Yangtze navigation rights. Suddenly Britain 'sells' their stake to Japan as part of a broader settlement. Now Japan has oversight of our primary naval shipyard."
Xu's eyes widened. "That's not theoretical—that's exactly how European powers operate. Trading assets as diplomatic currency."
"Or worse," Zhao continued, "Russia offers Britain a trade deal in exchange for the Shanghai Shipyard stake. Or Germany pressures them into sharing access. The moment those shares can be freely traded, they become tools of foreign policy rather than just investments."
"So we lock them in," Yang said, understanding. "Foreign partners can invest and profit, but they can't weaponize their stakes."
"Exactly. The shipyards remain fundamentally Chinese-controlled even with foreign investment. They participate on our terms—or not at all."
Fu nodded decisively. "Add both provisions. We're not doing this to enrich foreign companies—we're using them as temporary bridges to independence."
Yang and Tan had been quietly calculating throughout Fu's presentation. Yang's expression grew increasingly troubled. Finally, he looked up.
"Captain Fu, we need to discuss numbers."
The optimism in the room dimmed.
Yang laid out sheets covered with figures. "Tan and I have been running costs against projected franchise revenues. The sixty-eight ship program, using adjusted prices for local versus foreign construction: roughly fifty-six million taels. Shipyard modernization, steel plants, universities, ammunition works: another nineteen million. Total capital requirement—seventy-five million taels."
He paused, letting that sink in. "Spread over ten to twelve years, given realistic construction timelines. But the first five years will be capital-intensive—probably fifty million of the seventy-five spent just building the industrial base and ordering foreign ships."
"Annual operating costs once everything is running: approximately five million taels for crews, fuel, ammunition, and education."
"Our projected franchise revenue?" Fu asked, though his tone already carried defeat.
"Four million taels annually by year three, growing to five by year eight," Tan said softly. "Commercial shipyard operations might add another million once established. But even optimistically, we're short by millions every year initially, and barely break even long-term."
The room went cold. They had built something magnificent on paper, but the numbers were brutal.
Silence stretched. Chen looked down at his hands. Jinliang's jaw was tight. Xu had stopped writing. Tan looked miserable, as if the financial reality were his fault for merely calculating it.
Fu's voice was barely audible. "So we've spent four days designing something we can't afford."
"Not necessarily," Zhao said. All eyes turned to him. "We're framing this wrong. We're treating seventy-five million taels as a single expense paid from a single source. That's incorrect."
He stood and moved to the board.
"Separate the naval costs from the industrial development. The fifty-six million for ships—that's naval expenditure. The nineteen million for shipyards, steel plants, and universities? That's the national infrastructure that happens to support the navy."
He began writing figures rapidly. "For industrial development, we borrow. Twenty-year bonds, domestic and foreign. That spreads nineteen million taels over two decades—annual debt service roughly 1.2 million taels. Manageable."
"But we're still adding debt service to our costs," Yang pointed out.
"Only temporarily," Zhao said. "Because we run the shipyards and steel plants commercially. They'll build merchant vessels, steel for railways, engines for civilian use. Done right, they generate two to three million taels annually once established. That doesn't just offset debt—it contributes to operations."
Tan's face brightened slightly. "If industrial operations net two million after debt service and franchise revenue reaches five, that's seven against five in operating costs. That works."
"Barely," Yang said. "With no room for overruns, delays, or political interference."
"Which is why we need Li Hongzhang's commitment," Zhao replied. "The franchise and commercial operations provide the foundation. But we need his resources for the first three years especially, before revenues mature."
"So we're still asking Li for millions," Jinliang said dryly.
"We're asking him to invest in infrastructure that will eventually pay for itself," Zhao corrected. "It's not charity—it's a strategic investment with commercial return. But yes, it requires several million taels in initial capital and political courage."
Fu was quiet, absorbing this. "We're betting everything on Li Hongzhang seeing the value and committing serious resources."
"Yes," Zhao said simply. "If he refuses, or provides only token support, we scale down. Ten ships instead of sixty-eight. One engineering school instead of three. The framework survives, but the vision shrinks."
Fu exhaled slowly. "Or it fails completely and we've created an elaborate fantasy."
"There's another problem," Chen said quietly, breaking the heavy silence. "Is the timeline itself realistic?"
Fu looked defensive. "The timeline is aggressive but achievable with proper planning—"
"Is it?" Yang interrupted, unusually sharp. "Captain, be honest. Ten to twelve years assumes we can compress what took Japan fifteen years and Britain decades. We're starting with no industrial base, no experienced workforce, no established shipyards. We're simultaneously trying to build that infrastructure while producing ships."
The room had gone very quiet.
Tan spoke softly, reluctant to add more bad news. "I've been reviewing international construction timelines. Japan's naval modernization—also starting without an industrial base—took twelve years just to field their first complete fleet. And they had advantages we don't: unified government support, consistent funding, fewer political obstacles, and they weren't fighting a war during the build-up."
Fu's jaw tightened. "With better planning, foreign partnerships for technology transfer, and focusing on smaller vessels initially—"
Captain Fu, can you tell us more about the timeline? What was the primary basis for establishing this particular deadline?
The question hung in the air.
Fu hesitated, then sighed. "Zhao insisted on having the first fleet combat-ready by 1900. I designed the program to meet that constraint."
All eyes turned to Zhao.
"Why 1900?" Jinliang asked. "You've been adamant about that date from the beginning. Political considerations, you said. But Li Hongzhang's influence doesn't expire on a specific calendar date. Why that year specifically? Why not 1902 or 1903?"
Zhao felt the weight of their scrutiny. He'd been so careful for four days, so measured, keeping his true knowledge hidden beneath layers of reasonable explanation. But now they were questioning the one thing he absolutely could not compromise on.
"Political instability," he said, keeping his voice level. "Li Hongzhang is seventy-three. The Empress Dowager is sixty-one. The Emperor is twenty-five but politically weak. The factional balance that allows reform—"
"That's not an answer," Yang said quietly. "That's just an ongoing reality. It doesn't explain why specifically 1900. What makes that year critical?"
The careful control Zhao had maintained for four days began to crack.
"Because we don't have time," he said, and his voice had an edge they hadn't heard before.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone. The sound was sharp in the quiet courtyard.
"The Nanyang Fleet was shattered in the Sino-French War—destroyed, never rebuilt. The Beiyang Fleet is gone. Fourteen thousand five hundred kilometers of coastline and we have nothing—nothing—to defend it with."
His hands were starting to shake. Everyone stared.
"Japan watches us like a wolf stalking wounded prey. The Sino-Japanese War proved what we are now—a vast empire without power. After the Opium Wars, after the French humiliation, we at least maintained the pretense of strength. But after losing to Japan?" His voice rose. "We lost even that. Every foreign power knows we're helpless. And you want to know why I'm pushing for speed?"
The words came faster now, passionate and desperate. "Because even though I'm only sixteen years old, I can see what's coming better than men with decades of experience. Because every month we delay, we get weaker while our enemies get stronger. Because—"
He stopped abruptly, realizing he'd said too much. The room was dead silent.
"Because I don't trust that we'll have ten years," Zhao finished quietly, sitting back down heavily. "Perhaps that's foolish. Perhaps I'm wrong. But I'd rather push too hard than wake up one day and find we're too late."
His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "So whatever it takes—even if most ships must come from foreign yards, even if we can only afford a partial fleet—we need something operational. Five years. Five years to prove China still has teeth."
The anger had drained away, leaving only exhaustion. For the first time since they'd met him, Zhao looked his actual age—a frightened teenager trying to prevent disasters he couldn't explain.
No one spoke. Even the oil lamps seemed to flicker more quietly.
Fu finally broke the silence. "We should... take a break. Clear our heads. Reconvene in an hour."
People stood slowly, uncertain. The careful professionalism of the past four days had shattered. They'd seen beneath Zhao's composed exterior to raw fear, and no one quite knew how to respond.
Yang and Fu walked to the far end of the courtyard, speaking in low tones. Jinliang and Xu stepped outside the gate, lighting cigarettes. Chen remained seated, staring at his tea. Tan gathered his papers with nervous precision, organizing and reorganizing the same sheets.
Zhao sat alone at the table, his hands finally still but his mind racing. He'd exposed himself. Revealed too much fear, too much urgency, too much knowledge he shouldn't possess. The careful image he'd constructed—brilliant but measured, strategic but reasonable—had cracked wide open.
Maybe that was inevitable. You couldn't push people toward impossible deadlines without eventually explaining why. But now they'd wonder. What did he know that he wasn't saying? What had he seen that haunted him?
And he had no good answers that wouldn't sound insane.
When they reconvened an hour later, Fu had clearly been thinking. He moved to the blackboard with new purpose.
"Five years," he said without preamble. "Not for the full fleet—Tan and Yang are right, that's impossible. But for an emergency response squadron. Something operational that proves China can defend its waters."
He began writing quickly:
Emergency Northern Squadron - 5 Year Program
20 Torpedo Boats (domestic construction, Tianjin yard)6 Destroyers (British construction, priority delivery)2 Light Cruisers (German construction, priority delivery)1 Protected Cruiser (British construction, priority delivery)
Total: 29 vessels, delivery 1898-1900
"All foreign construction except the torpedo boats, which are simple enough for our workers to build while learning," Fu explained. "We pay premium prices for priority delivery—maybe fifteen to twenty percent over standard rates. Foreign yards take our money and push us to the front of their construction queues."
"That's not a balanced fleet," Jinliang objected.
"It's not meant to be," Fu replied. "It's a concentrated force designed for one specific mission: making any attack on Tianjin, Beijing, and the northern approaches prohibitively expensive. Twenty torpedo boats operating in swarms in the Bohai Gulf. Destroyers to screen them and engage enemy light forces. Cruisers for firepower and command."
He turned to face them. "It's not the navy China needs. But it's the navy China can have by 1900 if we start immediately. And critically—" he emphasized this point "—it doesn't interfere with the main program."
Yang was listening carefully now. "Explain."
"The emergency squadron uses foreign yard capacity we'd be using anyway, just front-loaded and prioritized," Fu said. "The torpedo boat construction in Tianjin actually helps prepare our yards for the larger program—workers learn on simple vessels before tackling complex ones. And most importantly, the industrial modernization—shipyards, steel plants, universities—proceeds on its own timeline regardless of ship orders."
"So the emergency squadron and main fleet program run parallel," Zhao said, understanding. "Not sequential. No delay to the larger vision."
"Exactly. The emergency squadron addresses your sense of urgency—" Fu gestured at Zhao "—while the main program proceeds at a realistic pace that we can actually sustain."
Yang was calculating. "The emergency squadron—how much?"
Tan had already been working the numbers. "Base construction costs: roughly eighteen million taels. With priority delivery premiums and compressed timelines: twenty-one to twenty-two million taels total. Delivery between 1898 and early 1900 if we start immediately and foreign yards cooperate."
"That's... achievable," Yang said slowly. "Expensive, but achievable. We'd need Li Hongzhang to commit at least fifteen million taels directly, with the rest from franchise revenues and commercial bonds."
"And the main program?" Xu asked.
"Proceeds as originally planned," Fu said. "Ten to twelve years, sixty-eight ships total for two complete fleets. First main fleet combat-ready by 1903, second by 1905 or 1906. We build the emergency squadron while preparing for the main construction program."
Jinliang was thinking through implications. "So by 1900 we have one operational squadron in the north—not complete, but functional. By 1903 we have a proper balanced fleet. By 1906 we have two complete fleets."
"That's the timeline," Fu agreed. "Optimistic but not fantasy. Achievable if nothing goes catastrophically wrong."
"Which it probably will," Yang muttered. But he was nodding. "But even with delays and problems, we'd have something operational before... whatever Zhao thinks is coming."
He looked at Zhao carefully. "That's what you're really asking for, isn't it? Not the full vision in five years—you know that's impossible. But proof of concept. Operational capability. Something more than plans on paper before the crisis hits."
Zhao nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His throat was still tight from the earlier outburst.
"Then we write two timelines," Fu said decisively. "Emergency squadron—five years, twenty-two million taels, concentrated on northern defense. Main fleet program—twelve years, seventy-five million taels total, comprehensive naval capability. Both presented to Li Hongzhang as integrated but separable. If he funds both, excellent. If he only funds one, we adjust."
The room was quiet, but the energy had shifted. The panic and desperation had transformed into focused determination.
"We draft the proposal," Yang said. "Two programs, integrated strategy, honest assessment of costs and timelines. Tomorrow we present to Morrison. Next week, maybe Li Hongzhang. Then we find out if this is the beginning of China's naval renaissance or just another failed reform proposal."
They worked through the evening. The process was more difficult than Zhao had expected—consolidating four days of discussion into formal, bureaucratic language that would convince skeptical officials.
The technology transfer provisions sparked debate. Fu wanted absolute requirements: specific technologies transferred on specific timelines with penalties for failure. Xu argued for more flexibility, noting that overly rigid contracts would scare away foreign partners or give them excuses to breach later.
"If we specify 'delivery of complete turbine manufacturing documentation by June 1897' and they deliver in August, do we really want to fight a breach of contract lawsuit?" Xu asked. "Or do we want language that says 'delivery of comprehensive turbine manufacturing documentation within the first year of partnership, with mutual agreement on specific timing'?"
"The second version gives them too much wiggle room," Fu objected.
"The first version gives them grounds to claim impossible standards," Xu countered. "Commercial contracts need both precision and practicality."
They eventually compromised on framework requirements with defined evaluation points, allowing some adaptation while maintaining accountability. Specific technologies would be transferred, but the exact timing and methods would be established through mutual agreement within broader constraints.
The most difficult section remained Fu's parallel education track. They spent an hour trying to find language that would make it palatable without compromising the core concept.
"We can't hide what we're doing," Fu insisted. "Either engineering education is a legitimate alternative to classical scholarship or it isn't. Ambiguous language defeats the purpose."
"But we can frame it as complementary rather than competitive," Jinliang argued. "Both paths serve the state, just in different ways. Emphasize unity of purpose rather than separation of method. We're not attacking the examination system—we're acknowledging that modern technical challenges require specialized training that classical education doesn't provide."
Xu worked through multiple drafts, each trying to thread the needle between Fu's uncompromising vision and Jinliang's political realism. The final version was clear about the separation but emphasized how both tracks contributed to national strength. It positioned engineering education not as a replacement for classical learning but as a necessary complement—China needed both administrators and engineers, poets and scientists, bureaucrats and shipbuilders.
It was, everyone admitted, still going to create enemies. But at least it gave those enemies less ammunition.
By midnight, they had two documents:
Document One: Franchise Reorganization Plan — thirty pages Market analysis, tiered service structures, legal framework, financial projections with sensitivity analysis, operational procedures, performance assessment systems.
Document Two: Naval Rearmament and Industrial Development Program — eighty-four pages Strategic doctrine, emergency squadron specifications, main fleet composition, construction timelines, shipyard modernization plans, technology transfer requirements, educational infrastructure, industrial integration, commercial operations strategy, comprehensive financial structure.
As they prepared to sign, Zhao made a decision he'd been considering all evening.
"Captain Fu's name goes first. As primary author."
Fu looked startled. "That's not accurate. You conceived the strategic framework—"
"You conceived the substance," Zhao interrupted. "The ships, the weapons, the training, the doctrine—all of that came from you. Your expertise, your knowledge, your vision. I just helped organize it."
"You did far more than that," Yang objected. "The Theory of Contradiction, the political strategy, the financial reframing—"
"Which doesn't matter if Li Hongzhang rejects this because he doesn't take a sixteen-year-old dock clerk seriously," Zhao said bluntly. "Captain Fu is a trained naval officer who studied at an American academy. His name gives this credibility. Mine raises questions about whether this is serious work or some kind of precocious student exercise."
The room was silent. They all recognized the truth in what he was saying, even if it felt wrong.
"My ego isn't worth undermining our proposal," Zhao continued. "If putting Fu's name first increases our chances by even five percent, it's the right choice. This isn't about credit—it's about results."
Fu looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll present it to Li Hongzhang. Morrison opens the door, but naval matters need a naval voice. I'll do justice to what we've built here."
They signed in order:
Fu Weihong (Ship Captain CMSNC, Former Beiyang Fleet Staff Officer—primary author)Yang Jirong (CMSNC Senior Operations Manager)Tatara Jinliang (Tianjin Customs Office, representing Manchu investors)Xu Mingzhe (Legal Counsel, Tianjin Customs Office)Chen Weiming (Independent Market Research)Tan Wei (Financial Analysis, CMSNC Accounts Department)Zhao Yunsheng (Coordinating Secretary, CMSNC)
As the ink dried, each man sat with private thoughts:
Chen saw industrial renaissance taking form—shipyards employing thousands of skilled workers, engineering schools training a new generation, steel plants anchoring economic development. But he also saw risks: foreign competition would fight back viciously, traditional craftsmen might be displaced faster than new industries could absorb them, and everything depended on continued political support that could evaporate overnight. Still, after all these years of watching his people trapped in poverty, this was the first genuine hope he'd seen. Worth the gamble.
Jinliang felt his family's future was balanced on these pages. If this succeeded, impoverished bannermen would have paths to genuine service—his sons could become officers in a real navy, not decorative pawns in ceremonial posts. But he'd also seen how deeply this threatened the examination elite. They would fight back with every tool of bureaucratic warfare they possessed. He was betting everything on modernization defeating tradition, and the odds weren't in his favor. Still, doing nothing guaranteed continued decline. At least this offered a chance.
Xu recognized legal frameworks with potential to spread far beyond maritime commerce. Contracts protecting the weak, systems building equity, law as shield rather than weapon. But he'd also seen how courts worked in practice—connections still mattered more than clauses, powerful interests bent clear language to their advantage. These frameworks would face constant erosion unless defended relentlessly. He was creating tools for justice, but tools could be broken or misused. The question was whether he'd have the strength to keep defending them year after year.
Tan felt pride mixed with anxiety. His numbers had shaped critical decisions, his analysis had mattered. People had listened, valued his contribution. But he'd also seen how much depended on optimistic assumptions—growth rates, efficiency gains, political stability. If revenues fell short by twenty percent, if costs overran by thirty percent, if Li Hongzhang provided only half the promised support, the whole financial structure collapsed. They were building on a foundation that looked solid until you examined it closely. He'd done his best to calculate honestly, but he knew: the future refused to be calculated.
Fu fought back tears again, but this time they came from fear as much as hope. This was everything he'd trained for—the chance to rebuild Chinese naval power with competent strategy rather than bureaucratic theater. But it was also possibly his last chance. If Li Hongzhang rejected this, if the plan got approved but never funded, if they built a few ships but the larger vision died in political warfare—he'd likely never get another opportunity. He'd be remembered as the man who almost rebuilt the navy. History would record his ambitious failure rather than his successful vision. The weight of that possibility made his hands shake as he set down the brush.
Yang felt time collapsing around him. In four days they'd created something that could reshape China's trajectory. But he'd spent fifteen years in shipping, long enough to know how many brilliant plans died in implementation. Approved but never funded. Funded but sabotaged. Started enthusiastically but abandoned when obstacles proved difficult. The graveyard of Chinese modernization efforts was full of projects that had looked promising on paper. This might be just another headstone. Or it might actually work. He genuinely didn't know, and that uncertainty was almost worse than certainty of failure would have been.
Zhao felt the impossible weight of knowledge he couldn't share. He knew what was coming—1900, 1911, decades of struggle. But he'd also changed things just by being here, pushing in directions that hadn't existed in his original timeline. Did that make success more likely or less? Were they building something that would help China survive coming crises, or creating new vulnerabilities that enemies would exploit? Historical knowledge became less useful with every choice they made that diverged from the path he remembered. They were in uncharted territory now,
The terror and exhilaration of genuine uncertainty.
The celebration that followed was more subdued than any of them expected. There was relief at finishing, satisfaction at what they'd created, but the weight of what came next pressed down on everyone.
Chen and Jinliang discussed contingency plans—what pieces could survive if the plan was only partly approved? Xu and Tan reviewed financial scenarios again, looking for weak points that needed strengthening. Fu and Yang practiced the Morrison presentation, role-playing difficult questions.
Around one in the morning, Yang found Zhao alone in the courtyard. Most of the lamps had been extinguished.
"You scared people earlier," Yang said quietly, settling onto the bench beside him.
"I know."
"Jinliang thinks you have intelligence contacts in the foreign concessions feeding you information you're not sharing. Xu thinks you've calculated probabilities the rest of us haven't considered—some mathematical pattern in foreign power behavior." Yang paused. "Fu thinks you've seen something that haunts you. A pattern the rest of us are missing."
Zhao said nothing. His hands were folded in his lap, still.
"I'm not asking you to explain," Yang continued. "But that outburst—that wasn't strategic calculation. That was genuine fear. Real terror of something you believe is coming but can't prove. And now everyone knows you're not just some brilliant teenager playing with ideas. You're carrying something heavy that you can't share."
"I'm just trying to help," Zhao said quietly. His voice was hoarse from earlier.
"I know. But help doesn't usually come with that kind of desperation." Yang stood, preparing to leave. "Whatever you think is coming, whether you're right or wrong—you're not alone in trying to stop it. Remember that."
After Yang left, Zhao remained in the darkness.
His carefully constructed image had cracked tonight. They'd seen his fear, his youth, his uncertainty. The composed strategist had given way to a frightened teenager who couldn't explain why he was so desperate for them to hurry.
Maybe that was necessary. Maybe they needed to know that the person pushing them toward the impossible was just as terrified as they were, not some confident genius who had everything figured out.
Or maybe he'd just destroyed the one thing that made them listen to him—the belief that his urgency came from some secret knowledge rather than teenage panic.
His hands were still now, no longer shaking. But the fear remained, cold and heavy in his chest. Tomorrow Morrison would read these documents. Next week Li Hongzhang might approve or reject them. And somewhere in the next few years, the crisis he couldn't explain would come. Whether they'd be ready—whether anything they'd built tonight would matter—he genuinely didn't know.
The stars were invisible through Tianjin's haze, but he looked up anyway, searching for something he couldn't name.
"We're trying," he whispered to the dark sky. "We're terrified and probably making mistakes, but we're trying."
The darkness offered no answer. It never did.
Tomorrow would tell.