The thirty minutes passed like hours and seconds simultaneously.
Fu and Morrison remained in the main hall, now almost empty except for Li Hongzhang on the platform, speaking quietly with Wang Wenshao and Gustav Detring. Occasional servants moved through, refreshing tea that no one drank.
Through the walls came muffled sounds—raised voices, sharp disagreements, the scrape of furniture being moved. Each faction was discovering what Fu had predicted: thirty minutes wasn't enough time to coordinate comprehensive proposals, especially when participants had competing interests and no shared framework.
Morrison checked his pocket watch. "Twenty-eight minutes. They'll start returning soon."
"Unprepared, defensive, and presenting whatever they managed to cobble together," Fu said. "Watch how they position themselves when they return. Body language will tell you who thinks they succeeded and who knows they failed."
Li Jingfang approached their seats. "Captain Morrison"
Morrison stood respectfully. "Young Master Li."
"I don't believe we've been formally introduced," Li Jingfang said, extending his hand to Fu in the Western style. "Though I know who you are, Captain Fu Weihong. The only man ever to reject an offer from the Beiyang administration."
Fu shook his hand, surprised. "You know of that, Young Master Li?"
"I've read Captain Mahan's work—The Influence of Sea Power Upon History. When I learned one of his students had returned to China and joined our navy, I was quite excited. When I heard you'd left..." Li Jingfang's expression showed genuine regret. "I was disappointed. We need men with your training."
"The circumstances of my departure—"
"I understand them better now than I did then," Li Jingfang said quietly. "My father asks why you haven't joined any discussion group."
"Because we're not preparing a proposal, Young Master Li," Morrison replied calmly. "We're observing."
Li Jingfang's eyes flickered to the document case beside Fu. "You already have a proposal."
"We have documentation of work already completed," Fu corrected carefully. "Which we'll present if and when His Excellency determines existing proposals are insufficient."
Li Jingfang studied them both, his expression thoughtful. "My father suspected as much. He noticed you arrived together, noticed Captain Fu's uniform and the documents. He's wondering what you're waiting for."
"The right moment," Morrison said. "Which isn't now."
"And if he calls on you during the first round of presentations?"
"Then we'll decline respectfully and suggest hearing other proposals first," Fu said. "We're not competing for attention. We're providing an alternative when competition proves inadequate."
Li Jingfang smiled slightly—appreciation for understanding the game his father was playing. "Strategic patience. I'll convey that you're exercising deliberate timing rather than lacking preparation. My father values that quality."
He returned to the platform. Li Hongzhang glanced toward Fu and Morrison, his expression unreadable, then returned to his conversation with the foreign advisors.
"That was risky," Morrison muttered. "What if Li decides strategic patience looks like arrogance?"
"Then we miscalculated," Fu admitted. "But I don't think so. Li Hongzhang didn't survive fifty years of Qing politics by rewarding people who rush forward unprepared. He values timing as much as content."
The side doors began opening. People filtered back into the main hall, their body language exactly as Fu predicted—a mixture of forced confidence and barely suppressed anxiety.
Sheng Xuanhuai and his entourage entered first, moving as a coordinated block. Sheng himself looked composed, but several of his subordinates seemed uncertain. Whatever proposal they'd assembled, not everyone in the group was convinced of its merit.
The merchants followed—Xu Run at their head, looking energized. They'd clearly enjoyed having the opportunity to present their alternative vision. But their confidence seemed more emotional than substantive—the satisfaction of finally having a voice rather than certainty their ideas would persuade.
Yuan Shikai's group entered with military precision, taking their seats efficiently. Yuan himself looked neither confident nor anxious—just professionally ready to present and move forward with whatever decision resulted.
The naval officers and foreign advisors returned together, their grouping itself revealing the problem: they hadn't managed to separate Chinese strategic thinking from foreign technical expertise. Yan Fu looked frustrated. Liu Buchan looked defensive. The foreign advisors looked like men who'd just watched Chinese politics complicate straightforward technical questions.
Tang Shaoyi and his foreign-educated group were last, still arguing among themselves as they took seats. Whatever they'd prepared clearly lacked consensus—multiple competing visions rather than unified proposals.
Li Hongzhang waited until everyone was seated, letting the anticipation build. Then he stood.
"Who's prepared to present first?"
Silence. Everyone wanted to hear others before committing their own ideas.
"Director Sheng," Li said, not asking. "You've managed CMSNC for a decade. Present your proposal for improving its performance."
Sheng stood smoothly, moving to the center space with practiced ease. This was his domain—formal presentations before powerful officials. He'd done this hundreds of times.
"Your Excellency, the fundamental challenge facing CMSNC is external competition rather than internal management. Foreign shipping companies—particularly Japanese firms—operate with substantial government subsidies, allowing them to undercut our rates deliberately. They accept losses in the short term to drive Chinese vessels from profitable routes."
He paused for effect. "Additionally, our fleet is aging. Foreign competitors operate newer, faster vessels. Cargo merchants and passengers naturally prefer modern ships with better amenities and reliability. We cannot compete effectively with outdated equipment."
Li's expression was neutral. "Your solution?"
"Three components, Your Excellency. First, we petition the court for matching subsidies to level the competitive field—approximately two million taels annually. Second, we strengthen political coordination with provincial governments to ensure preferential treatment for Chinese vessels in port access and cargo allocation. Third, we request capital allocation for new ship purchases—six to eight modern vessels over three years, estimated cost of five million taels."
Li's eyebrows rose slightly. "So your solution is seven million taels in subsidies and ship purchases?"
"Spread over three years, Your Excellency. Annually, it's manageable within existing budget structures."
"Except the court has no existing budget surplus," Wang Wenshao interjected from the platform. "The indemnity payments alone strain resources severely. Where do you propose finding seven million taels?"
Sheng had clearly anticipated this. "The indemnities total 200 million taels paid over time, Your Excellency. Annual impact is approximately twenty million. Within that framework, allocating two to three million yearly for strategic shipping infrastructure is reasonable prioritization."
"Reasonable compared to what?" Li asked quietly. "What do you propose cutting to fund CMSNC subsidies?"
Sheng hesitated—the first crack in his polished presentation. "Less strategically vital expenditures, Your Excellency. Ceremonial costs, redundant administrative positions..."
"You're proposing I fight the Empress Dowager's household over ceremonial budgets to fund shipping subsidies?" Li's voice carried dry amusement. "That's your strategic plan?"
Uncomfortable silence. Sheng's face tightened.
Before he could respond, Xu Run stood without being called on. "Your Excellency, may I respond to Director Sheng's proposal?"
Li gestured for permission.
"Director Sheng's proposal is fundamentally conservative," Xu Run said, his voice carrying suppressed anger. "He's asking for more money to continue managing the company the same way he's managed it for ten years—the way that produced the current crisis. Subsidies won't fix corruption. Political coordination won't fix incompetence. Buying new ships while maintaining failed management simply wastes resources on vessels that will be mismanaged like the existing fleet."
"Former merchant management proved incapable of maintaining the political support necessary for state enterprises," Sheng shot back. "Commercial competence means nothing without court backing. I've maintained that backing—which is why the enterprise still exists despite war disruption and foreign competition."
"The enterprise exists," Zhang Jian said from the merchant section, "but barely. You've maintained your political position while the actual company deteriorates. That's not success—that's managing decline while protecting your own status."
"Enough," Li said. "Director Sheng, your proposal is noted. Xu Run, present your alternative."
Xu Run moved forward, less polished than Sheng but more energized. "Your Excellency, the merchant faction proposes returning operational control to commercial management. Not eliminating official oversight—we understand political realities—but separating commercial operations from bureaucratic administration."
"How specifically?"
"Create a management board: three merchants selected for proven competence, two officials representing government interests, two foreign advisors providing technical expertise. Merchants handle daily operations—routes, pricing, hiring, maintenance decisions. Officials handle government relationships and policy compliance. Foreign advisors ensure technical standards. Board votes on major strategic decisions, but day-to-day operations run on commercial principles rather than political considerations."
"That's privatization," Sheng objected. "Surrendering state control to merchants who'll prioritize personal profit over strategic objectives."
"Profit is a strategic objective," Xu Run countered. "A profitable company serves the state far better than a bankrupt one sustained by endless subsidies. And we're not proposing full privatization—officials retain board presence and oversight authority. We're simply separating operational decisions from political interference that has demonstrably failed."
Li absorbed this. "And if merchants on the board prioritize personal profit over company success? If they exploit their positions the same way you accuse Director Sheng of doing?"
Xu Run hesitated—the weakness in his proposal suddenly became visible. "We would implement accountability measures. Regular audits, performance standards, transparent financial reporting..."
"Enforced by whom? The same official structure you're trying to bypass?"
The merchant faction had no good answer. Their proposal addressed one symptom—Sheng's particular corruption—without addressing the systemic problem that enabled such corruption.
"Continue with the rest of your proposal," Li said.
Xu Run outlined additional elements—route optimization, fleet renewal plans, maintenance standards, crew training improvements—but the core weakness had been exposed. The merchant faction wanted control returned to themselves but couldn't explain how they'd prevent similar problems from recurring under their management.
When Xu Run finished and returned to his seat, Li turned to the military contingent. "Yuan Shikai. Your army development proposal."
Yuan stood, moving to center with confidence that bordered on arrogance. Unlike Sheng and Xu Run, who'd been defensive or pleading, Yuan presented as someone stating self-evident facts.
"Your Excellency, the army requires three things: competent officers, modern equipment, and realistic training. Current military structure provides none of these adequately. Officers are selected through examination in classical texts rather than demonstrated military competence. Equipment is outdated or poorly maintained. Training consists of parade drills rather than combat preparation."
"Your solution?"
"Start fresh. I'm already training seven thousand men under German methods. I propose expanding that to thirty thousand over three years—one complete division by 1898. Officer selection based on performance in training and demonstrated tactical ability, not family background or examination scores. Equipment purchased from Krupp and other proven Western suppliers under strict technical specifications, not political relationships. Training emphasizes marksmanship, small-unit tactics, physical conditioning—actual military skills rather than ceremonial movements."
"Cost?"
"Fifteen million taels over three years for the full division. Five million annually."
Someone in the assembly gasped at the amount. Yuan's expression didn't change.
"That's more than naval rebuilding would cost," Liu Buchan protested from the naval section.
"Naval rebuilding should cost more," Yuan replied with brutal honesty. "Ships are expensive. A comprehensive naval program should require forty to fifty million taels minimum. If you're proposing less, you're not proposing seriously—you're proposing failure with lower price tag."
The naval officers looked stung. Yuan wasn't just dismissing their service—he was implying their proposals would be inadequate before hearing them.
Li studied Yuan carefully. "Thirty thousand men. One division. That represents a tiny fraction of China's military needs."
"It's a beginning, Your Excellency. One division trained properly demonstrates the model works. Success breeds expansion—three divisions by 1905, full army corps by 1910. But attempting everything simultaneously produces the current situation: large numbers of poorly trained men with outdated equipment and incompetent leadership eating resources while providing no genuine military capability." Yuan's voice hardened. "I would rather command thirty thousand soldiers who can actually fight than three hundred thousand ceremonial troops. And practically speaking, thirty thousand well-trained, well-equipped soldiers are enough to maintain internal stability and ensure Beiyang's military dominance over other regional forces."
"And the existing army structure?"
"Phase it out gradually as new formations prove superior. Officers who can meet modern standards transfer to the new system and receive retraining. Those who can't are retired with honor or kept in ceremonial positions where they can't damage combat capability."
It was ruthless, dismissive of tradition, and utterly contemptuous of current arrangements. Several older military officials looked outraged. But Yuan's directness clearly resonated with Li Hongzhang's current mood—no more political theater, just brutal assessment of what worked and what didn't.
"Your proposal is noted," Li said. "Naval officers. Your turn."
Liu Buchan and Yan Fu stood together—an awkward pairing revealing the naval faction's internal divisions. Liu represented traditional thinking, Yan Fu the reform wing. That they were presenting jointly suggested compromise rather than consensus.
Yan Fu spoke first. "Your Excellency, naval rebuilding requires addressing three areas: vessels, personnel, and command structure. For vessels, we propose acquiring twelve to fifteen ships over five years—a mix of protected cruisers, destroyers, and torpedo boats. We prioritize smaller, faster vessels rather than expensive capital ships, learning from recent failures. Total estimated cost: twenty-five to thirty million taels."
Li's eyebrows rose. "Yuan Shikai just stated that a serious naval program should cost forty to fifty million minimum. You're proposing half that amount."
"We're proposing what we believe is actually achievable given realistic resource constraints," Liu Buchan said defensively. "Forty million might be ideal in perfect circumstances, but if that funding isn't available, we should plan for what is rather than presenting impossible dreams."
"In other words, you're pre-compromising—lowering your ambitions to match what you assume resources will be rather than stating what's actually needed and letting me determine what's achievable?"
Uncomfortable silence settled over the naval group. Fu, watching from his seat, recognized the trap immediately. The naval officers were trying to be realistic and politically savvy, but Li Hongzhang wanted bold vision backed by genuine requirements—not pre-compromised proposals designed to seem politically palatable.
Yan Fu recovered quickly. "Your Excellency, with adequate funding, we could certainly implement a more comprehensive program. Our caution stems from learning from the previous fleet's failures. The Beiyang Fleet looked impressive on paper—large ships, modern guns, substantial investment. But we lacked adequate maintenance funding, sufficient ammunition, proper training infrastructure, and coordinated command. The result was impressive-looking forces that couldn't fight effectively when tested. We believe building fewer ships with proper support systems is wiser than repeating past mistakes of overbuilding without sustainability."
"That's defensible reasoning," Li acknowledged, his tone softening slightly. "Continue with your personnel and command structure proposals."
They outlined officer retraining programs, Naval Academy reforms emphasizing both theoretical knowledge and practical seamanship, and command integration structures to prevent the four-fleet coordination failures that had plagued the recent war. The ideas were competent, well-reasoned, and clearly drawn from painful lessons of defeat.
But they were also clearly constrained by fear of proposing anything too radical or expensive. The naval officers had survived catastrophic defeat; they were being careful not to overreach or appear unrealistic.
When they finished, Li turned to Tang Shaoyi and the foreign-educated contingent. "Tang Shaoyi. Tell me whether the knowledge you gained abroad helps us in our current situation."
Tang stood, and Fu noticed something interesting: he came forward alone rather than bringing his entire group. That suggested either strong internal consensus or complete disagreement within the faction.
"Your Excellency, my colleagues and I spent thirty minutes debating whether to present a unified proposal or multiple competing ideas. We chose the latter—not because we're disorganized, but because the problems are sufficiently complex that singular solutions seem inadequate to the challenge."
It was an honest admission of failure to coordinate. But Tang's tone suggested he was framing that failure as intellectual sophistication rather than political weakness.
"Three main proposals emerged from our discussions," Tang continued. "First: comprehensive infrastructure integration. Telegraph, railway, and maritime shipping systems coordinated through a single national planning authority. This would address current inefficiencies where each system develops independently without strategic coordination or resource sharing."
"Cost and timeline?"
"Approximately fifty million taels over ten years for the initial integration phase. Full implementation could require twice that amount, depending on expansion scope."
"Second proposal?"
"Industrial modernization focused on defense production capacity. Establish arsenals, shipyards, and steel mills under direct government control, using foreign expertise initially but with contractually mandated technology transfer ensuring Chinese operational independence within twenty years. The goal is self-sufficiency in military production."
"Cost?"
"Sixty to seventy million taels over fifteen years, with ongoing operational costs thereafter."
"Third proposal?"
"Educational reform creating technical universities separate from the traditional examination system. Focus on engineering, applied sciences, modern administration, and commercial management. Graduates would feed into both government service and private enterprises, creating the skilled workforce that currently doesn't exist in sufficient numbers for modernization efforts."
"Cost?"
"Twenty million taels for initial establishment of five universities, three to four million annually for ongoing operations once established."
Li absorbed this in silence, then asked: "These are all ambitious, expensive, long-term proposals. Which do you recommend prioritizing if resources permit only one?"
"That's precisely where we disagreed, Your Excellency," Tang admitted with visible frustration. "Some colleagues argue infrastructure integration enables everything else—you cannot industrialize without railways to move materials, or coordinate defense without telegraph communications. Others insist industrial capacity is fundamental—infrastructure is useless without domestic production capability to support it. A third faction maintains education must come first because skilled people drive all other development, and without them, infrastructure and industry will depend perpetually on foreign expertise."
Tang spread his hands. "We couldn't resolve the priority question in thirty minutes because each argument has merit. They're genuinely interdependent—education produces engineers who design infrastructure and manage industry, infrastructure enables industrial development, industry provides resources for education and infrastructure expansion. Breaking that circular dependency requires either simultaneous investment across all three areas, or accepting that sequential development will be slower and less efficient."
"So you're presenting me with problems rather than solutions," Li said, though his tone wasn't entirely critical.
"We're presenting the reality that comprehensive modernization requires comprehensive, coordinated investment across multiple domains," Tang replied carefully. "Piecemeal approaches—fixing only shipping, or only military, or only industry—produce piecemeal results that don't address fundamental weakness. But comprehensive approaches require resources and political will that may not currently exist. We're honest about that contradiction rather than pretending it doesn't exist."
It was intellectually honest but deeply unsatisfying as a proposal. The foreign-educated officials had identified real issues and proposed genuine solutions—but they'd also revealed they couldn't agree on priorities or implementation sequences, which undermined confidence in their ability to actually execute.
Li Hongzhang surveyed the room, his expression unreadable. "Anyone else prepared to present?"
Silence. The major factions had spoken. No one else wanted to expose themselves without understanding how Li was evaluating what he'd heard.
Li stood slowly, moving to the center of the platform. His bandaged face surveyed the assembly, and several people shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
"I asked for genuine proposals addressing fundamental problems," Li said, his voice carrying quiet intensity. "Let me summarize what I received."
He gestured toward Sheng. "Director Sheng proposes continuing current management with additional subsidies and capital for new ships. Seven million taels to maintain the status quo with newer equipment."
His hand moved to Xu Run. "The merchant faction proposes returning management control to themselves, promising better performance but offering no structural mechanisms to prevent the same corruption and political interference from recurring under their direction."
Yuan Shikai next. "Yuan Shikai proposes building one excellent division while leaving the rest of the army fundamentally unchanged—an elite force floating atop a sea of continued dysfunction."
The naval officers. "Naval leadership proposes modest rebuilding deliberately constrained by pessimistic resource assumptions, with no vision for long-term fleet development or integration with broader strategic needs."
Finally Tang Shaoyi. "And our foreign-educated officials propose multiple ambitious programs while admitting they cannot agree on priorities or execution sequence."
Li's voice hardened. "These aren't comprehensive solutions. These are incremental modifications, pre-compromised half-measures, and admissions of inability to think systematically. You're all protecting your positions, requesting more resources, identifying problems—but none of you have presented plans that actually address root causes structurally."
The room was silent, the criticism landing with devastating precision.
Wang Wenshao leaned forward from his platform seat. "Viceroy Li, perhaps the sheer complexity of interconnected challenges makes comprehensive planning exceptionally difficult—"
"The complexity is exactly why we need integrated thinking rather than factional proposals," Li said, his frustration evident. "Look at what you've all missed. Naval rebuilding requires shipyards. Shipyards require steel production and trained engineers. Steel mills need infrastructure to move materials. All of it needs educated workers who don't currently exist in sufficient numbers. You cannot address one piece successfully while ignoring the others—they're interdependent. Yet every proposal treats challenges in isolation."
He paused, and his gaze swept across the assembly with an intensity that made people look away. "I need solutions that recognize these connections and address them systematically, not more requests for money to perpetuate failing structures."
In the silence that followed, Morrison recognized his opportunity. He caught Fu's eye, nodded slightly, then stood.
"Your Excellency," Morrison said clearly. "If I may?"
Every head in the hall turned toward him—the foreign merchant captain who'd been conspicuously silent throughout the presentations.
Li Hongzhang's eyes fixed on Morrison with an intensity that was almost physical. "Captain Morrison. You've been remarkably quiet. Do you have something comprehensive to present, or just another incomplete perspective from the foreign contingent?"
Morrison moved forward, Fu rising to join him. "Your Excellency, before sharing any proposal, I need you to understand its origin—because that context explains why the people you've just heard from couldn't provide what you need."
Li gestured for him to continue
"Fifteen days ago, Deputy Director Xu Run announced that the company would accept improvement proposals from all employees." Morrison's tone was carefully neutral. "It was meant as morale-building—making workers feel their opinions mattered. Commendable intent, but Mr. Xu didn't actually expect substantive results."
"What Mr. Xu didn't expect was that two young men would take the invitation seriously"
A ripple of curiosity moved through the hall.
"These two—honestly, I'd call them fools, but determined fools—one a passenger services clerk, the other a dock operations assistant—would take the announcement seriously. They heard about Western commercial practices in shipping somehow and cobbled together a proposal. It was incomplete, poorly structured, half-baked. But the core idea was sound, and more importantly, their intention to make a genuine difference was sincere."
Li's expression remained neutral, but his attention was absolute.
"I saw potential," Morrison continued. "The core concept was sound, even if the details needed work. So I recommended they consult with Captain Fu Weihong, who had both naval and commercial expertise. I provided some books on Western shipping practices to help them refine their thinking. What happened next..." He shook his head with something between amusement and disbelief. "I don't know how these two convinced Captain Fu and several other professionals from different fields to join their effort, but somehow they assembled a team. Over four days, they not only revised the original proposal—they expanded it dramatically."
He paused, letting that sink in. "I suspect they shared your frustration, Your Excellency. Your sense that current approaches are inadequate and that comprehensive solutions require comprehensive thinking. So here we are. There are actually two proposals—one addressing CMSNC's immediate commercial crisis with minimal required investment, and a second..." Morrison hesitated. "I honestly don't know how to describe it. It's either the foolish dream of optimistic amateurs, or it's a visionary plan that requires a visionary like yourself to implement. I'll let Captain Fu introduce it properly." Morrison finished.
Li studied them both, his expression inscrutable. Then his gaze settled on Fu.
"Captain Fu. Show me what two foolish young men and their unlikely team of professionals created in four days."
Fu and Morrison walked to the center space together, feeling dozens of eyes tracking their movement—hostile, curious, calculating.
Fu opened the document case and withdrew both documents—the thirty-page franchise restructuring plan and the eighty-four-page naval rearmament and industrial development program.
"Your Excellency, what Captain Morrison describes as the work of 'determined fools' is actually systematic planning that addresses the integrated nature of the challenges you just identified. We have documentation attempting to solve not just one problem, but the connections between all of them."
"Two documents, Your Excellency," Fu said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "The first addresses CMSNC's immediate commercial crisis through franchise restructuring—a proven Western model adapted for Chinese circumstances. The second proposes comprehensive naval rebuilding integrated with industrial development and educational reform. They're designed to work together—the commercial restructuring generates sustainable revenue streams that partially fund the larger strategic program."
Li Hongzhang took the franchise plan first, his fingers moving across the opening pages with practiced speed. His expression remained neutral, but Fu noticed his eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed content—the sign of someone engaging deeply rather than skimming.
After several minutes, Li looked up.
"Franchise model. Independent ship owners license routes and pay fees for infrastructure access. Tiered service levels with differential pricing based on vessel capability. You're essentially privatizing operations while maintaining strategic control of infrastructure."
"Yes, Your Excellency. It preserves government oversight of the strategic asset—the ports, warehouses, coordination systems—while eliminating operational corruption by making success dependent on performance rather than political connections and need to invest money in buying new vessels."
Li continued reading, occasionally pausing at specific sections. His annotations began appearing in the margins—questions, calculations, connections to other issues.
Gustav Detring, the foreign advisor, had moved closer during this exchange. He glanced at the document over Li's shoulder, then spoke up.
"Your Excellency, if I may—the franchise model described here is standard commercial practice throughout Western shipping industries. The British East India Company used similar structures. Modern European shipping firms employ these methods routinely. There's nothing experimental or risky about the fundamental approach—it's proven effective across multiple markets and decades of operation."
Li glanced at Detring. "You're endorsing this?"
"I'm confirming it's not radical innovation—it's established best practice being applied to Chinese circumstances. The adaptation details would require careful implementation, but the core model is sound and well-tested."
Li returned to the document, reading more rapidly now. After another few minutes, he set it down and looked at Fu with new intensity.
"This is commercially viable, politically implementable, and addresses core problems without requiring massive subsidies," Li said slowly.
He glanced toward Sheng with an expression that made the Director visibly stiffen. "Unlike certain proposals that merely request more money while changing nothing fundamental."
Then Li picked up the naval rearmament program. His eyes widened slightly at the thickness. "Eighty-four pages."
"Yes, Your Excellency. Comprehensive coverage of fleet composition, construction timelines, industrial development requirements, educational infrastructure, and financial structures."
Li opened it, reading the title page and executive summary. Then he began working through the opening sections methodically. The hall waited in absolute silence as the old statesman absorbed fleet specifications, cost projections, shipyard modernization plans, educational frameworks.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.
People began shifting uncomfortably—this was taking far longer than the cursory reviews other proposals had received. But Li showed no awareness of the time passing, his attention completely captured by the document.
He flipped to the financial section, studied it closely, and made annotations. Moved to the timeline charts, traced construction sequences with his finger. Read the education section twice.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five.
Finally, Li looked up. His expression was complex—surprise, calculation, and something that might have been cautious hope.
"Seventy-five million taels over twelve years," Li said quietly. "Captain Fu, Captain Morrison—I must commend the courage and audacity of whoever conceived this plan. The Japanese negotiators were the only other people who've asked me for such enormous sums, and they were extracting war indemnity."
His tone carried dry amusement. "But at least you're proposing to build something rather than merely taking money."
"Your Excellency—" Sheng began, his voice tight.
"Be silent, Xuanhuai." Li didn't look away from Fu and Morrison.
"Captain Fu, Captain Morrison—wait in the adjoining eastern chamber. Everyone else is dismissed. I'm reviewing these documents in detail before making any decisions."
"Your Excellency," Sheng tried again, his composure cracking. "Surely such a proposal requires broader consultation before—"
"Dismissed means leave, Xuanhuai. Now." Li's voice was cold steel.
The hall erupted in motion—surprised, confused, some angry.
Sheng's faction moved as a coordinated group, their expressions dark with barely suppressed fury. The merchant faction looked cautiously hopeful, exchanging glances that suggested they saw opportunity. Yuan Shikai studied Fu with professional assessment as he passed, his expression unreadable but interested.
Yan Fu caught Fu Weihong's eye briefly and nodded—acknowledging that whatever Fu had presented, it was substantial enough to command serious consideration.
Tang Shaoyi paused as he passed, speaking quietly to Fu: "Whatever you've proposed, it must be comprehensive enough to address what he was criticizing us for missing. I look forward to learning what integrated thinking actually looks like."
Within minutes, the hall emptied except for Fu, Morrison, Li Hongzhang, and the senior officials on the platform.
Li turned to his son. "Jingfang, escort them to the eastern chamber. See that they have tea and whatever else they need. This will take considerable time."
"Father, should I remain to assist with analysis—"
"No. I want to read this without interruption or well-meaning assistance. Go."
Li Jingfang bowed and led Fu and Morrison toward a side door. The corridor beyond was quiet, the sounds of the departing assembly fading quickly.
"He's actually reading it," Morrison said quietly, his voice carrying disbelief mixed with hope. "Not just reviewing for summary—genuinely reading every page."
"He's desperate," Fu replied, equally quiet. "Desperate enough to give serious consideration to something that might actually work, even if it comes from completely unexpected sources."
Li Jingfang opened a door to a comfortable chamber—cushioned seats arranged around a low table, windows overlooking a garden courtyard where autumn had stripped trees to skeletal branches. Scrolls on the walls displayed calligraphy emphasizing virtues like patience and wisdom.
"Wait here," Li Jingfang said. "My father will summon you when he's ready to discuss the proposal in detail."
"How long typically?" Morrison asked.
Li Jingfang smiled slightly. "For a thirty-page document, perhaps thirty minutes to an hour. For eighty-four pages of detailed strategic planning..." He shook his head. "I honestly cannot estimate. If he finds it genuinely substantive, he might read for hours. My father doesn't rush important decisions."
After Li Jingfang left, closing the door quietly behind him, Morrison and Fu sat in silence for a long moment.
"We're either about to receive approval that changes everything," Morrison finally said, "or we're about to be politely dismissed as presumptuous foreigners and disgraced naval officers with unrealistic ambitions."
"I know which outcome I'm betting on," Fu replied.
"Based on what evidence? Hope?"
"Based on Li Hongzhang's face when he was reading," Fu said. "He wasn't just reviewing words on paper—he was engaging with ideas. Challenging assumptions, testing logic, evaluating feasibility against his own extensive experience. That's the face of someone who wants this to work, who's looking for reasons to approve rather than reasons to reject."
Morrison stood, moving to the window to stare at the bare garden. "If he approves this, everything changes for both of us. I become more than just a foreign operations manager keeping a failing company barely functional. You become directly responsible for rebuilding Chinese naval power from ruins. Those are..."
"Terrifying responsibilities," Fu finished. "I know. I've been thinking about little else."
They fell silent again. Tea was brought by a servant who departed without speaking. The cups sat untouched, steam rising and fading. Time crawled.
Through the walls came no sounds—wherever Li Hongzhang was reading, it was far enough away that no hint of his reactions reached them.
Fu found himself thinking about the others who'd contributed to this moment: Yang's operational wisdom and commercial expertise, Zhao's strategic coordination that had somehow held the entire effort together, Tan's mathematical precision giving the financial projections credibility, Xu's legal frameworks providing structural integrity, Jinliang's political insights helping navigate bureaucratic realities, Chen's grassroots knowledge grounding everything in practical reality.
Seven people, four days, countless hours of argument and refinement, one comprehensive vision built piece by piece.
Either it had all been worth it—validation that their effort and insight had value—or they'd collectively wasted time on a beautiful theory that reality would reject as impractical dreaming.
An hour passed. Then another.
Morrison had stopped checking his watch. Fu had stopped pacing the room's perimeter. They simply waited, each lost in thoughts about what approval or rejection would mean—for themselves, for China, for the future that hung in the balance.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably closer to two and a half hours, the door opened.
Li Jingfang stood there, his expression serious but not grim. "My father will see you now. In his private study."
They followed him through corridors that led deeper into the residential compound, past guards who nodded them through checkpoints, into spaces few outsiders ever entered. The architecture here was more personal—family scrolls, intimate courtyards, the private spaces where Li Hongzhang actually lived rather than merely conducted official business.
Li Jingfang stopped at a heavy wooden door, knocked once, and opened it without waiting for a response.
"Father, Captain Morrison and Captain Fu Weihong."
"Send them in."
They entered to find Li Hongzhang sitting at a large desk completely covered with papers—both their documents spread out in sections, passages marked with annotations in his precise calligraphy, additional materials pulled from his own extensive files for comparison and cross-reference.
Li looked up. His eyes were tired but intensely focused, and his expression was... complex. Not quite approval, not quite skepticism. Something between the two.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to chairs positioned before the desk. His tone was almost conversational, the formal distance of the earlier meeting set aside.
Fu and Morrison sat, suddenly feeling like students called before a particularly demanding teacher.
Li studied them for a long moment, then spoke with what sounded like genuine curiosity mixed with amusement:
"Now tell me," Li said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion in his eyes, "Now tell me—who gave you the courage to so accurately guess what I was thinking, and the nerve to take advantage of my political weakness to push such an ambitious vision?"
His tone wasn't threatening. It was almost amused—the recognition of skillful timing mixed with genuine curiosity about how they'd read him so well.
Fu and Morrison exchanged a glance. This wasn't rejection. This was engagement.
The real enquiry was about to begin.