Morrison and Fu arrived at Li Hongzhang's Tianjin residence as the morning burned off the last of the harbor mist. The compound sprawled across several acres—a maze of traditional courtyards connected by covered walkways, with the main administrative halls rising at the center. The architecture balanced Chinese imperial grandeur with practical functionality: high walls for privacy, multiple courtyards for segregating different types of business, reception halls large enough for major assemblies.
As they approached the entrance, Fu noticed a cluster of men in naval uniforms standing in the outer courtyard. His steps slowed involuntarily.
"Those are Beiyang officers," he said quietly to Morrison. "Remaining ones. And foreign naval advisors."
Morrison's expression sharpened. "That's... significant. Li didn't just summon company management. He's called in the entire maritime infrastructure."
They moved closer, and Fu recognized faces he hadn't seen since leaving the fleet. Liu Buchan, who'd survived the battle at Weihaiwei. Sa Zhenbing, young but already marked as talented. Cheng Biguang, bitter and scarred. And there—Yan Fu, the translator and theorist who'd studied at Greenwich , and shared same ideals as Fu Weihong.
The naval officers noticed Fu simultaneously. Conversations stopped. Eyes tracked him—his confident bearing, the document case under his arm, and most notably, the Beiyang naval uniform he wore.
Liu Buchan's face twisted with barely concealed contempt. "Fu Weihong. I thought you'd left the service. Abandoned ship before the storm, as it were."
Fu met his gaze steadily. "I resigned after my reform proposals were rejected. There's a difference between abandoning ship and refusing to serve on one being deliberately steered toward rocks."
"Easy to criticize from safety," Cheng Biguang said. His voice carried the harshness of someone who'd watched friends die. "We fought. We bled. Where were you?"
"Building experience that might help us avoid the next defeat," Fu replied carefully. "I respect what you endured—truly. But I couldn't serve in a system that rejected every reform proposal. Would you have preferred I stayed and stayed silent while watching the fleet sail toward disaster?"
The question hung in the air, uncomfortable and unanswerable.
Before the confrontation could escalate, Yan Fu stepped forward. He was thinner than Fu Weihong remembered, his face carrying the weight of the war's aftermath. But his eyes were sharp, analytical—the mind that had translated Adam Smith and John Stuart Mill into Chinese was still working behind the exhaustion.
"Weihong," Yan Fu said, extending his hand in the Western style they'd both learned abroad. "It's been too long."
Fu shook his hand gratefully. "Yan Fu. Still at the Naval Academy?"
"What's left of it. We lost half our instructors to the war, and enrollment has collapsed. Families don't want to send sons into a service that just suffered catastrophic defeat." His voice carried resigned bitterness. "But I'm here, which suggests Li Hongzhang hasn't given up entirely. What brings you?"
Before Fu could answer, the atmosphere shifted. A new group entered the compound—unmistakably military but not naval. Army officers in crisp uniforms, moving with the confidence of men whose service branch hadn't just been annihilated.
At their head walked Yuan Shikai, thirty-five years old and already radiating authority. His reputation preceded him: the officer who'd built Korea into a Qing protectorate, who'd nearly prevented the war through sheer force of presence, and who was now being recalled to form a "New Army" using modern training methods.
Yuan's eyes swept across the naval officers with undisguised contempt. He said nothing—didn't need to. His expression made the judgment clear: you lost Korea for us. You lost the war. You're irrelevant now.
His entourage followed his lead, moving past the naval cluster as if they were servants rather than fellow officers. The army men disappeared into the interior courtyards, leaving a wake of humiliated fury.
"They blame us," Yan Fu said quietly. "The army says if the navy had protected troop transports properly, if we'd controlled the sea approaches, they could have reinforced Korea and won. They forget their own failures, but that's politics."
Fu Weihong watched Yuan Shikai's retreating back. "He's building a new army? Outside the existing structure?"
"Li Hongzhang's trying to create something that isn't rotted by the old system. Yuan's known for discipline, meritocracy, and modern training. If anyone can build a genuine force rather than another corruption-riddled ceremonial army, it's him." Yan Fu paused. "Which is why the old army leadership hates him. New systems threaten old arrangements."
"Speaking of which," Yan Fu continued, turning back to Fu, "what are you doing here? You're with CMSNC now, but you're wearing your naval uniform. And you're carrying—" he glanced at the document case "—something that looks official."
Fu opened his mouth to respond when another group arrived, drawing everyone's attention.
These were younger men, most in Western-style suits rather than traditional robes or uniforms. At their head was Tang Shaoyi, thirty-three, Columbia-educated, sharp-eyed and ambitious. Behind him came Zhan Tianyou—the technocrat faction, men who'd studied engineering, economics, and administration abroad and returned believing they could remake China through systematic reform.
Tang spotted Yan Fu immediately and moved toward them. His eyes flickered over Fu Weihong with recognition.
"Yan Fu. And... Fu Weihong, isn't it? We met briefly in New York, though you were heading to the Naval War College while I was at Columbia." Tang's English was flawless, his handshake firm. "Unexpected to see you here. I'd heard you'd left naval service."
"Circumstances change," Fu said noncommittally.
"Indeed they do." Tang glanced around the courtyard, now filled with various factions. "Any idea what this meeting is actually about? The summons were deliberately vague. 'Imediate attendance, all enterprise leaders, no advance agenda.' Li Hongzhang's either very desperate or very calculating."
"Probably both," Morrison interjected. He'd been watching the arrivals with professional interest. "I'm Jack Morrison, CMSNC operations. My experience with the Viceroy is that he doesn't waste people's time. If he called everyone here with no warning, he's looking for something specific."
"Or testing something," Tang said thoughtfully. "Seeing how people react under pressure without time to prepare coordinated responses." He studied Morrison and Fu with renewed interest. "You two arrived together. The British operations manager and a former naval officer now wearing his uniform again. Interesting combination."
Before anyone could pursue that line of questioning, the courtyard suddenly became louder. A large group swept in—dozens of officials in formal robes, moving with the self-assured bearing of men who controlled budgets and appointments.
At their center was Sheng Xuanhuai.
Sheng moved like a man entering his own domain. His entourage included clerks carrying document cases, assistants handling logistics, and middle-ranking officials whose presence signaled his network's reach. He acknowledged no one directly, but his eyes catalogued everything—who was present, who stood with whom, who looked nervous or confident.
"The tyrant arrives," Yan Fu muttered. "Note how he's brought his entire faction. He wants Li Hongzhang to see his institutional strength."
"That's going to play poorly," Morrison observed quietly. "Li just lost a war. He's probably not in the mood for peacock displays."
Another group followed—smaller, less ostentatious but no less significant. Xu Run led this faction, along with other merchants and former managers who'd been displaced when Sheng consolidated control. Their presence signaled opportunity: Li Hongzhang was allowing multiple factions into the room. Old arrangements might be negotiable.
Morrison noticed Xu Run and nodded. The merchant returned the gesture carefully—Morrison had worked with these men before Sheng's takeover, and there was no lost love between the merchant faction and the bureaucratic clique that had sidelined them.
The foreign advisors had clustered together: British, German, American naval and commercial experts whom Li Hongzhang employed to provide technical expertise and, more importantly, international credibility. Morrison moved to join them, leaving Fu with the Chinese naval officers.
Yan Fu turned back to Fu Weihong, his voice low and urgent. "Weihong, whatever you're here for, consider this an invitation. The Naval Academy needs competent instructors. Men who understand modern warfare and aren't afraid to criticize the old system. Li Hongzhang is rebuilding—has to rebuild. If you want back into naval service, this is your moment."
Fu met his old friend's eyes. "I appreciate that. But I might have something different in mind."
"Different how?"
"I'll know in a few hours." Fu glanced toward the interior halls where Li Hongzhang would soon emerge. "If it works, you'll hear about it. If it fails... well, your offer might look very attractive."
Yan Fu studied him. "You've got a plan. Something big enough to bring here personally. Something Morrison is backing." His expression shifted to concern. "Be careful, Weihong. This room is full of people whose positions depend on things not changing. Whatever you're proposing, someone will see it as a threat."
"I know." Fu's hand unconsciously touched the document case. "But someone has to propose something that might actually work, even if it threatens comfortable arrangements."
"Then I'll be watching with interest." Yan Fu extended his hand again. "Good luck, old friend. Whatever this is, I hope it's as bold as you clearly think it is."
They shook, and Yan Fu moved back toward the naval cluster as another senior officer called his name.
Fu stood alone for a moment in the crowded courtyard, surrounded by factions who barely acknowledged each other's existence: Army men who blamed the navy. Navy men who resented the army's judgment. Bureaucrats who controlled funding. Merchants who wanted access. Technocrats who believed they had better ideas than anyone present. Foreign advisors who provided expertise while maintaining careful neutrality.
And somewhere in this mixture, Li Hongzhang would soon appear, looking for something none of them yet understood.
Morrison returned, his expression thoughtful. "The foreign contingent is nervous. No one knows what this meeting is actually about. Half of them think Li's about to resign, the other half think he's preparing a purge."
"Both might be true," Fu said.
"Are you ready?"
Fu touched the document case again. Inside were 114 pages that might reshape Chinese maritime power—or might just be an elaborate fantasy that would get him laughed out of serious consideration.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
A bell sounded from the interior halls. Conversations stopped. Everyone turned toward the entrance.
Li Jingfang appeared first, walking with measured formality. "His Excellency the Viceroy will receive you now. Please proceed to the main hall. All attendees."
The crowd began moving, factions unconsciously maintaining separation even as they flowed together through the doorways. Fu and Morrison moved with the stream, entering the massive main reception hall.
The space was designed to impress: high ceilings, elegant wooden beams, silk banners displaying imperial honors Li Hongzhang had accumulated over fifty years of service. At the far end, a raised platform held chairs for senior officials. Lower seats lined the sides. The center remained open—a space for presentations, confrontations, performances.
Already seated on the platform were three men. Wang Wenshao, the official rumored to be replacing Li as Viceroy of Zhili—his presence signaled the court's loss of confidence. Gustav Detring, Sir Robert Hart's deputy, representing foreign interests. And Li Jingfang, positioned as his father's aide and witness.
The assembled officials, merchants, military officers, and advisors found seats based on unspoken hierarchies. Sheng's faction clustered together, controlling a significant portion of the hall. The merchant group occupied another section. Military officers separated by service branch. Foreign advisors together at one side.
Morrison and Fu found seats near the back—not prominently positioned but with clear sightlines to the platform.
"Fu," Morrison said quietly. "Don't present until I give you the signal. We need to read the room first. Understand what Li's actually looking for before we commit."
"Understood."
The hall fell silent as Li Hongzhang entered.
He looked older than Fu remembered—not just physically, though the bandages on his face from the assassination attempt were a stark reminder of recent trauma. It was the weight in his bearing, the exhaustion visible despite his straight posture. This was a man who'd carried an empire's modernization for fifty years and just watched much of it burn.
Li moved to the central chair slowly, his eyes sweeping the assembly. Everyone present felt the assessment—cold, calculating, taking inventory of who had come, who stood with whom, who looked confident or nervous.
He sat. The hall remained silent.
"I've called you here without preparation time for a reason," Li began, his voice carrying despite evident fatigue. "I don't want rehearsed presentations or carefully coordinated responses. I want an honest assessment of where we are and genuine proposals for where we go from here."
He gestured to the naval officers. "Liu Buchan. Report on the Beiyang Fleet's current status."
Liu stood reluctantly, his face pale. "Your Excellency, of the original fleet of twenty-five vessels, fourteen were destroyed in combat or scuttled to prevent capture. Four were captured by Japanese forces. Seven vessels remain operational, but several require significant repair. Personnel casualties: approximately forty percent of officers and crew, either killed, wounded, or captured."
"Equipment?"
"Ammunition stocks are critically depleted. Most remaining vessels lack full magazines. Maintenance was deferred during combat operations—many ships need dry-dock time we can't currently afford. Morale..." Liu's voice faltered. "Morale is very poor, Your Excellency."
Li's expression didn't change. "Sa Zhenbing. Your assessment of command structure failures."
Sa stood, younger and less burdened by direct combat experience. "Your Excellency, the primary failure was coordination. The Beiyang, Nanyang, Fujian, and Guangdong fleets operated independently. When Beiyang needed support, other fleets didn't respond. This isn't new information—it had been identified as a structural problem for years. We fought essentially as four separate navies rather than one coordinated force."
"And whose responsibility was that coordination?" Li Hongzhang asked.
Silence. Everyone knew the answer: ultimately, Li Hongzhang's. But no one wanted to say it aloud.
"Mine," Li said flatly. "I built a system that looked impressive on paper but failed under pressure because I accepted political compromises instead of demanding functional integration. Next question: why was ammunition inadequate?"
Another uncomfortable silence.
"Funds were diverted," someone finally said—one of the foreign advisors, Philo McGiffin, an American who'd served on the Dingyuan. "Summer Palace renovations, Your Excellency. Everyone knows it. No one wants to say it because it implicates the Empress Dowager."
Li nodded slowly. "Correct. And I didn't fight hard enough against that diversion because I was trying to maintain political relationships. Another failure of leadership."
He turned to Yuan Shikai. "Your new army. Report on progress and requirements."
Yuan stood with confidence that contrasted sharply with the naval officers' defensive postures. "Your Excellency, I've been authorized to train seven thousand men using German methods. Emphasis on discipline, modern weapons, realistic training exercises. Current progress: we've established training facilities near Tianjin, begun officer selection based on competence rather than connections, and contracted with Krupp for rifles and artillery."
"Funding requirements?"
"Three million taels minimum annually for the initial force, five million for proper implementation. Modern weapons are expensive. Proper training takes time and money. If we expand to a full army corps, the costs scale proportionally."
"And if funding is interrupted or insufficient?"
"Then we get another ceremonial force that looks impressive on parade grounds but can't fight." Yuan's bluntness drew sharp glances from older military officials. "Your Excellency, I can build an army that works or an army that looks good. I can't do both on a limited budget."
Li almost smiled. "Honest. Good."
He turned to the assembled enterprise leaders. "Now. China Merchants Steam Navigation Company. Someone explain to me how an enterprise with a monopoly on most northern coastal routes is losing money."
Sheng Xuanhuai stood, his composure carefully maintained. "Your Excellency, the war disrupted all commercial shipping. Routes were closed, vessels were requisitioned for military transport, insurance rates became prohibitive. Our losses are a direct consequence of supporting the war effort."
"And before the war?"
"Competition from foreign firms offering predatory pricing," Sheng said smoothly. "Japanese and British companies operating with government subsidies that we couldn't match. Structural disadvantages in the treaty port system that favor foreign commerce."
Before Li could respond, Xu Run stood abruptly from the merchant faction. "With respect, Director Sheng, that's not accurate."
The hall's attention snapped to him. Xu Run had been pushed aside when Sheng consolidated control—this was an open challenge.
"The company was profitable when merchants managed it," Xu continued, his voice steady despite the risk. "Revenue declined after 1885 when operational control shifted to bureaucratic management. Routes became less efficient. Maintenance suffered. Corruption increased."
Sheng's expression hardened. "Former management was replaced because it failed to maintain adequate political relationships with court officials. Commercial success means nothing without court support."
"Commercial success meant the company served its actual purpose," another merchant interjected—Zhang Jian, who'd invested heavily in the original enterprise. "Now it serves as a funding source for other ventures while the core shipping business deteriorates."
"That's a baseless accusation—" Sheng started.
"Is it?" Tang Shaoyi's voice cut through from the technocrat section. He stood, his Western education evident in his directness. "Director Sheng, public records show the company's capital has been transferred multiple times to fund telegraph expansion, textile ventures, and mining operations. Those may be valuable enterprises, but they're not shipping. The question is legitimate: has CMSNC been managed for its own success or as a capital source for other projects?"
Sheng's face flushed. "Integration of enterprises creates efficiencies. Telegraph coordination improves shipping logistics. Textile production provides cargo. These are complementary developments, not diversion of funds."
"Then why are the shipping operations losing money while your other ventures remain profitable?" Xu Run pressed. "If integration creates efficiencies, shouldn't all components benefit?"
The room was shifting. Other voices joined—officials who'd been marginalized, merchants who'd lost positions, even some of Sheng's own faction members who'd suffered under his management.
Sheng's voice rose, trying to regain control. "This is speculation and resentment from those who couldn't maintain political support. Managing state enterprises requires balancing multiple considerations—commercial performance, political relationships, strategic objectives. Those who focus only on profit demonstrate limited understanding of how these enterprises actually function."
"We understand corruption when we see it," someone called from the back—one of the foreign advisors, speaking more bluntly than any Chinese official dared.
The hall erupted in competing voices—accusations, defenses, old grievances surfacing.
Then Li Jingfang stood.
The noise didn't immediately stop—Li Hongzhang's son didn't command automatic silence the way his father did. But his standing was unusual enough that voices gradually quieted.
"Director Sheng," Li Jingfang said, his voice cold and formal. "You claim the company's losses stem from war disruption and foreign competition. Let me present alternative data."
He pulled out a document—clearly prepared in advance, though claiming otherwise. "Company revenues by route, 1890 through 1895. During years when foreign competition was supposedly most intense, profitable routes remained profitable. The losses concentrate in areas where administrative overhead increased, where maintenance was deferred, where crew quality declined due to favoritism in hiring."
Sheng's jaw tightened. "Those figures require context—"
"The context is corruption," Li Jingfang interrupted, and the hall went completely silent at his bluntness. "Funds diverted to personal ventures. Positions awarded based on political loyalty rather than competence. Maintenance contracts given to connected suppliers at inflated prices. This isn't speculation—these are documented patterns visible in the financial records."
"You dare—" Sheng's composure finally cracked.
"I dare because someone must," Li Jingfang said, his voice rising. "This company was supposed to demonstrate Chinese commercial capability. Instead it demonstrates how official corruption destroys everything it touches. And not just this company—the pattern repeats across every enterprise in the Beiyang portfolio. Success is measured by political favor rather than actual performance, which is why we lose wars and sign humiliating treaties."
He turned to face his father directly. "Your Excellency, you asked for an honest assessment. Here it is: the system is broken. Not just inefficient, not just underperforming—fundamentally broken. Officials exploit state enterprises for personal enrichment while claiming they serve national interests. Competence is secondary to connections. Innovation is suppressed because it threatens established arrangements. We lost to Japan not because they were stronger but because our system makes us weak."
The hall was stunned. This wasn't just confronting Sheng—this was confronting the entire structure of how Qing state enterprises functioned. And coming from Li Hongzhang's son, it carried implicit endorsement from the old statesman himself.
Sheng recovered his composure with visible effort. "These are serious accusations requiring serious evidence. I've served Your Excellency's vision for decades. I've built telegraph networks, textile mills, mining operations—all contributing to modernization. If my management style has been aggressive, it's because timid management achieves nothing in China's current environment."
"Aggressive management or systematic theft?" Zhang Jian asked quietly.
"Prove it," Sheng snapped. "Bring evidence or withdraw the accusation."
"The evidence is in every financial report," Xu Run said. "Capital transfers without clear justification. Expenses that don't match actual operational needs. Contracts awarded to relatives and associates. It's all there for anyone willing to look."
"Interpretation," Sheng said. "You see corruption because you lost positions and want them back. Your interpretation isn't evidence."
Tang Shaoyi spoke again, his tone thoughtful rather than accusatory. "Then perhaps we need an independent audit. Foreign accounting firms examine all Beiyang enterprises objectively. If management is sound, an audit will confirm it. If corruption exists, an audit will reveal it. Either way, we get clarity."
That suggestion drew reactions from multiple directions—some approving, others clearly alarmed at the prospect of foreign scrutiny.
Sheng's expression turned calculating. "Foreign auditors examining state enterprises? That's surrendering sovereign oversight to Western interests. I'm not surprised that someone educated abroad would propose such a thing."
"I'm proposing transparency," Tang replied. "Which apparently threatens those who prefer opacity."
The confrontation might have continued indefinitely, but Li Hongzhang finally spoke, his voice cutting through the tension.
"Enough."
Silence returned instantly.
Li stood slowly, his bandaged face surveying the assembly. "I didn't call you here to watch factions attack each other, though your willingness to do so is informative. You've identified problems—corruption, incompetence, structural dysfunction. Congratulations. Everyone in China knows these problems exist."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"The question isn't what's broken. The question is what to do about it." His eyes moved across the room, challenging everyone present. "We just lost a war. The peace treaty cost us Taiwan and 200 million taels. Foreign powers are circling, waiting to see if we collapse completely. The Empress Dowager's court is frightened for the first time in decades. Which means—for perhaps the only time in my career—radical change might actually be possible."
He moved to the center of the platform, his voice growing stronger.
"But only if someone proposes something worth changing to. Not incremental reforms. Not rearranging who controls what. Not performance theater. Real solutions that address root causes rather than symptoms."
Li's gaze swept the assembly again. "So here's what I want, and I want it now. Everyone in this room represents some aspect of Beiyang administration—military, commercial, industrial, educational. You will give me proposals. You have thirty minutes to consult with your colleagues, form your thoughts, and prepare to present your ideas for fundamental change."
A murmur rippled through the hall—thirty minutes was absurdly short for comprehensive proposals.
"I don't need polished documents," Li continued, cutting off the murmurs. "I need direction. How do we rebuild the navy? How do we make state enterprises actually work? How do we create systems where competence matters more than connections? How do we prevent the next defeat? If you can't articulate at least the outline of a solution in thirty minutes, you don't actually have ideas—you have excuses disguised as complexity."
He gestured toward the side halls. "Adjoining rooms are available for group discussions. Use them. Coordinate, argue, plan—whatever you need. But in thirty minutes, we reconvene here and I start calling on people to present."
Li turned specifically toward Sheng. "Director Sheng, you've managed CMSNC for a decade. Surely you have clear ideas about what reforms would improve performance. Prepare to present them."
Sheng's face was unreadable, but he nodded stiffly. "Of course, Your Excellency."
"The merchant faction as well," Li continued, acknowledging Xu Run's group. "You've claimed superior management ability. Show me what that looks like in practice."
Xu Run nodded, satisfaction barely suppressed.
"Yuan Shikai, prepare army development priorities. Naval officers coordinate with foreign advisors on fleet rebuilding options—focus on what's actually achievable, not wish lists. Technocrats, analyze infrastructure integration opportunities. Everyone with relevant expertise contributes."
Li Jingfang spoke up. "Father, should I coordinate the discussion groups?"
"No. Let them organize themselves. That's also a test—can they work together under pressure, or do they fragment into competing camps?" Li's expression was cold. "Thirty minutes. Starting now."
For a moment, no one moved—the suddenness of the demand left people frozen.
Then Sheng turned to his faction. "Conference room on the east side. Move."
His group followed, already forming a defensive strategy.
The merchant faction clustered immediately around Xu Run, voices urgent and excited—this was their opportunity to reclaim lost ground.
Yuan Shikai's group—army officers and German advisors—moved with military efficiency toward the west hall.
The naval officers looked lost. Liu Buchan tried to organize them: "We should coordinate proposals—"
"We should be honest," Yan Fu interrupted. "We don't have resources to rebuild properly. Our proposals will be constrained by reality, which means they'll sound inadequate compared to others who aren't constrained by honesty."
"Then what do we do?" Sa Zhenbing asked.
"We propose what we actually need, explain what it would cost, and let Li Hongzhang decide if he can afford reality or prefers comforting fiction."
The technocrats—Tang Shaoyi's group—moved quickly, already debating infrastructure integration models as they headed for an empty room.
In the back of the hall, Morrison and Fu remained seated as the room emptied around them.
"Should we join a group?" Morrison asked quietly. "Naval officers would be logical—"
"No." Fu's voice was certain. "Look at them. They're preparing damage control, not solutions. They'll propose what they think Li Hongzhang wants to hear, filtered through their own need to protect what's left of their service."
"And the merchant faction?"
"Will propose returning control to themselves, dressed up as commercial reform. Sheng's faction will propose maintaining current arrangements with cosmetic changes. Yuan Shikai will demand resources for his army. The technocrats will propose ambitious infrastructure plans they can't fund."
Morrison studied the emptying hall. "So everyone's preparing self-serving proposals that ignore larger strategic needs."
"Exactly." Fu touched the document case beside him. "Which means when we present something comprehensive—something that actually addresses the whole problem rather than just one faction's interests—it will stand out."
"But we're not presenting in thirty minutes?"
"We're not presenting today," Fu corrected. "Think about what's going to happen. Thirty minutes isn't enough time to prepare real proposals. People will present rough outlines, contradictory ideas, uncoordinated plans. Li Hongzhang will see exactly what he expected to see—factions protecting their interests, not genuine solutions."
Morrison's eyes widened with understanding. "And after watching that failure..."
"He'll be even more receptive to something that actually works. Something already detailed, already coordinated, already tested for feasibility." Fu's smile was slight but confident. "We don't need to compete with hastily prepared proposals. We need to be the alternative when hastily prepared proposals prove inadequate."
"That's risky. What if someone else presents something similar? What if Li accepts one of the quick proposals just to have something?"
"He won't. He's too smart and too desperate. This meeting isn't about finding solutions—it's about exposing who actually has them and who's just performing." Fu gestured toward where Li Hongzhang stood on the platform, his cold gaze surveying the now nearly empty hall. "He's testing them. When they fail the test, that's when we present."
Morrison absorbed this, then nodded slowly. "You're playing a longer game."
"I'm playing the only game that actually wins."
They sat in the emptying hall, surrounded by the echoes of hurried footsteps and urgent conversations bleeding through walls from adjacent rooms. Around them, factions were desperately trying to assemble proposals that would satisfy an old statesman who'd just made clear he was tired of political theater and hungry for genuine solutions.
And in their silence, carrying a document that represented four days of collaborative brilliance, Fu and Morrison waited for the moment when inadequacy would create the opening for excellence.
Fu felt the weight of the document case. Seventy-five million taels of ambition. A comprehensive vision. Naval rebuilding, commercial restructuring, industrial development, educational transformation—all integrated into a coherent whole.
It was ready. But timing mattered more than readiness.
In thirty minutes, he'd watch proposals fail. And then he'd know exactly how to position their success.
The hall was nearly empty now, just Fu, Morrison, and a few scattered individuals who hadn't aligned with any faction. Li Hongzhang remained on the platform, speaking quietly with his son and the other senior officials. His bandaged face turned occasionally toward the side halls where voices rose and fell in heated debate.
Morrison leaned back, studying the old statesman. "He looks like a man who's already decided what he wants but is letting everyone else prove they can't provide it."
"That's exactly what he's doing," Fu agreed. "This entire meeting is theater—but not the kind Sheng's used to. Li's not performing for the attendees. He's watching them perform for him, measuring who understands the stakes and who's still playing old games."
"And when he's done measuring?"
Fu's hand rested on the document case. "Then we show him what real solutions look like."
Through the walls came the muffled sounds of competing visions being argued, refined, and prepared for presentation. Each faction believed they were seizing opportunity. None realized they were part of a test designed to expose their inadequacy.
In thirty minutes, the real meeting would begin.
And Fu Weihong would be ready.