The afternoon sun slanted through the narrow window of Zhao Yunsheng's rented room, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. He sat at his small wooden table, reviewing shipping manifests with the mechanical precision that had become second nature over the past weeks. Column after column of cargo weights, departure times, destination ports—the mundane arithmetic of commerce.
But his mind wasn't on the numbers.
It had been more than a week since they'd completed the proposal and presented it to Morrison. That first rush of excitement—the electric feeling of having created something significant—had gradually faded as days passed without word. Life had returned to its normal rhythms: work at CMSNC, evening meals with his mother and sister, the endless cycle of manifests and schedules and routine.
Yet something had changed.
Not in the external circumstances—those remained stubbornly unchanged. But in the seven people who'd built that proposal together. Zhao had noticed it in their faces when they passed each other in the company corridors. Yang Jirong walked with his shoulders a bit straighter, his movements carrying a purposefulness that hadn't been there before. Tan Wei's perpetual worry lines had eased slightly, replaced by something that looked almost like optimism. Even Chen Weiming—cynical, street-smart Chen—had lost some of that defensive edge, as if he'd glimpsed a future worth believing in.
They'd decided to meet once a week. Not to work on anything specific, but simply to gather—to study together, share knowledge from the Western books, translate important passages, and discuss ideas. Seven people from completely different worlds, brought together by four days of intense collaboration, now unwilling to let that connection dissolve back into isolation.
That itself was remarkable. In a society where social boundaries were rigid and cross-class friendships rare, they'd somehow created something that transcended normal divisions. A Manchu, a disgraced naval officer, an accountant, a lawyer, a tailor, and two clerks —meeting weekly to study and learn together.
The hope in their eyes was the most visible change. Not the desperate hope of people grasping at impossible dreams, but something more solid—the confidence of people who'd proven to themselves they could build something worthwhile. That their expertise mattered. That working together, they could—A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.
The door opened before he could respond. Meiling stood there, her face flushed, breathing hard as if she'd run up the stairs.
"Ge ge." Her voice was tense. "There's someone at the door. From the government."
Zhao felt his stomach tighten. Government representatives didn't show up at rented rooms in poor neighborhoods for pleasant reasons. His mind raced through possibilities—had someone reported their meetings? Was there trouble at CMSNC? Had—
"He's asking for you specifically," Meiling continued, her eyes wide. "He looks... official. Important."
Zhao stood, smoothing his plain cotton tunic reflexively. "I'll go down."
At the building entrance, a messenger in formal government livery waited, his posture radiating the authority of someone who served powerful masters. He held a sealed letter.
"Zhao Yunsheng?"
"Yes."
The messenger handed him the letter. Zhao broke the seal with fingers that tried not to tremble. The characters were precise, formal—an official summons, though phrased as an invitation. He was to present himself immediately at the Viceroy's residence.
Li Hongzhang's residence.
Zhao read it twice, his heart hammering. Then he looked up at the messenger. "I need a moment to inform my mother."
"The carriage is waiting. Be quick."
Zhao found his mother in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal. "Ma, I have to go out. Government business. I don't know when I'll return."
Her face tightened with worry, but she simply nodded. "Be careful."
The carriage ride passed in a blur. Tianjin's streets rolled by—familiar lanes and markets transformed by his racing thoughts into abstract patterns of movement. His mind kept circling back to one impossible reality: he was being summoned to meet Li Hongzhang. Li Hongzhang. The most powerful man in China apart from the royal family.
When the carriage entered the Viceroy's compound, Zhao noticed other arrivals ahead of him. His pulse quickened with recognition—Chen Weiming, Xu Mingzhe, Tan Wei, Yang Jirong, Tatara Jinliang. All five looked equally surprised, nervous, and excited.
They gathered in the entrance courtyard, exchanging quick glances but saying little. Words felt inadequate. The main hall doors opened, and a steward gestured them inside.
The hall was impressive—high ceilings, elaborate woodwork, scrolls displaying masterful calligraphy. But Zhao's attention fixed immediately on the figure seated at the hall's center.
Li Hongzhang sat at a low table, absorbed in a game of weiqi, playing both sides himself. The bandage on his face from the Shimonoseki assassination attempt was still visible, a stark reminder of recent events. Behind him stood Fu Weihong, Morrison, and a younger man Zhao didn't recognize but assumed was Li Jingfang—Li's eldest son.
Li seemed entirely focused on the board, studying the position with the concentration of someone for whom even solitary games were serious exercises in strategic thinking. His mood appeared relaxed, almost cheerful—a stark contrast to the tension radiating from the six men who'd just entered.
Zhao studied him with fascination that bordered on the surreal. This was a man he'd read about extensively in history classes. You couldn't study the late Qing dynasty without encountering Li Hongzhang on nearly every page—a figure so pivotal that half a century of Chinese history seemed to revolve around his decisions.
The biographical details ran through Zhao's mind like a familiar litany: A jinshi degree holder who'd studied under Zeng Guofan and transformed from a Confucian scholar into a formidable military commander. When foreigners arrived with cannons and opium, he hadn't clung to traditional texts but embraced new ideas—Western ideas. The main promoter of the Self-Strengthening Movement. Creator of the Beiyang Army, the Beiyang Fleet, and modern enterprises like CMSNC. A man who'd had the military capability to overthrow the Qing but never did—whether from loyalty or pragmatic fear that foreign powers would exploit any internal chaos.
Foreign media called him "the Bismarck of the East." Queen Victoria had presented him with the Royal Victorian Order. The French newspaper Le Siècle described him as "the yellow Bismarck."
Li's own self-evaluation echoed in Zhao's memory: "To know me and judge me is a task for the next millennium." The arrogance of that statement, the absolute conviction that his actions operated on a timescale beyond contemporary judgment—it was both impressive and troubling.
History's verdict on Li Hongzhang remained deeply divided even in Zhao's original timeline. His biographer William J. Hail had argued sympathetically that Li "did perhaps all he could for a land where the conservatism of the people, a reactionary officialdom, and unrestrained international rivalry made each step forward a matter of great difficulty." Even Hu Shih, leader of the New Culture Movement, had remarked that if Li had been given opportunity, his achievements might have equaled those of his Japanese counterpart Itō Hirobumi.
But Chinese nationalists told a different story, condemning the Self-Strengthening Movement as collaboration with European imperialists. By the 1950s, mainland history textbooks labeled Li as a "feudalist" and traitor. It wasn't until the 1980s that serious historical reevaluation began.
The truth, Zhao suspected, was more complex than either narrative could capture. Li Hongzhang was neither traitor nor savior—just a pragmatic statesman trying to navigate impossible circumstances with inadequate tools.
And now Zhao stood before this figure—not a historical character in a textbook but a living man, playing weiqi alone in his private hall.
While Zhao studied Li Hongzhang, the Viceroy was conducting his own assessment.
He'd looked up from the board the moment they entered, his gaze sweeping across the six men with the practiced evaluation of someone who'd spent decades reading people. What he saw clearly pleased him.
They presented a striking contrast to the rest of the assembly. Their clothing was a unique hybrid, distinct from the traditional Chinese robes of the officials and the Western suits worn by the foreigners in the concessions; it appeared to be an ideal attire for the Chinese people. Their posture radiated genuine confidence, not the forced bravado of men concealing failure, but a calm, self-assured certainty. Most notably, their eyes shone with hope and anticipation, a stark difference from the defeated resignation that had become commonplace in Chinese faces since the war's end.
But it was Zhao who drew Li's particular attention.
The boy—and he was just a boy, barely sixteen—stood with a bearing that seemed utterly at odds with his background. There was something almost military in his posture, a straightness to his spine that reminded Li of well-trained officers. More striking was the confidence in his eyes, an almost arrogant self-assurance Li had typically seen only in foreigners backed by powerful nations. No deference, no cowering—just calm, direct attention.
The stark contrast to the defeated, hunched postures Li had been seeing everywhere since the war was remarkable. This dock clerk stood like someone who had every right to be here, who expected to be taken seriously.
Li Hongzhang set down the weiqi stone he'd been contemplating and spoke, his voice carrying easy authority.
"Chen Weiming."
Chen stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Your Excellency."
"Xu Mingzhe."
"Your Excellency."
One by one, Li called each name, receiving their formal greetings. His tone remained neutral, giving no indication of favor or displeasure. When he reached Zhao's name, his voice carried no special inflection—deliberately so.
"Zhao Yunsheng."
"Your Excellency." Zhao bowed, matching the others' formality.
Li gestured toward chairs arranged in a semicircle facing his position. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
Once they were seated, Li wasted no time on pleasantries. He picked up the franchise restructuring document from beside the weiqi board and opened it to a marked page.
Li Hangzhong turned a page in the dossier, then looked up.
"Yang Jirong," he said evenly. "You've served in the CMSNC for several years. Tell me—what have you actually learned in that time?"
Yang straightened, caught off guard by the question. "Your Excellency, I've been responsible for commercial operations, freight scheduling, coordination with—"
Li raised a hand. "Not your duties. Your experience. What have you tried to change? What was rejected?"
The room went still. Yang hesitated before answering. "Your Excellency, three years ago I proposed route consolidation—reducing overlap, cutting waste between our own lines. It was dismissed."
"Why?"
"It disrupted existing arrangements," Yang said carefully. "Certain officials benefited from the inefficiencies."
Li's gaze sharpened. "So reform threatened their profits, not the company's."
Yang inclined his head. "Yes, Your Excellency."
Li nodded for him to continue.
"I also proposed standardized maintenance schedules, performance-based crew evaluations, and transparent pricing. All refused. Each would have reduced... informal profit opportunities."
Li made a small notation, then leaned back. "Now, this franchise model of yours—explain how you classify the vessels."
Yang found his footing again. "By objective criteria, Your Excellency: tonnage, speed, cargo capacity, and age. Every ship would undergo a standardized inspection, results verified and made public to prevent manipulation."
"And if ship owners bribe the surveyors?"
"Surveyors would rotate regularly. No one inspects the same vessels twice in a row. If a ship underperforms its class rating, it's automatically re-inspected by a new team."
Li nodded slightly, approving but unsmiling. "Foreign lines still dominate. How does this model compete with them?"
Yang leaned forward. "Foreign companies win because of subsidies and newer vessels. Our model gives Chinese owners an incentive to upgrade—they profit directly from better ships. And by sharing infrastructure—ports, warehouses, coordination services—we cut costs without demanding government subsidy."
Li's pen paused. "These infrastructure services. Who manages them?"
"Professionals, Your Excellency. Merit-based appointments, transparent accounting, standardized procedures. If we rely on political connections, we'll end up with the same rot under a new name."
For the first time, Li's expression softened. "You've thought this through," he said quietly. Then, almost to himself, "Experience is easy to find. Understanding is not."
Li asked several more detailed questions about route coordination, pricing structures, and dispute resolution before finally nodding and turning to Tan Wei.
Li Hangzhong adjusted his spectacles and turned a page in the dossier.
"Tan Wei," he said. "Your financial projections assume thirty percent participation in the first year. Explain the basis for that figure."
Tan glanced up, startled by being addressed so soon. His voice came out thin. "Your Excellency, that percentage reflects expected buy-in from private ship owners, based on—"
Li raised a hand, cutting him off. "We'll return to the numbers. First, tell me about the company itself. What's the atmosphere like these days?"
Tan hesitated. His fingers tightened around the folder. "Your Excellency… morale is poor. Many workers have lost faith in the leadership. They see corruption everywhere and feel powerless to act. The capable ones leave for foreign firms; those who remain are either connected or have no other choice."
Li nodded slightly, his gaze steady. "And before CMSNC ? Where did you work?"
Tan blinked, uncertain why that mattered. "At a silver house in Guangzhou, Your Excellency. I joined when I was sixteen. I handled exchange rates, accounts, and cash flows."
Li's tone softened a degree. "Silver houses teach precision. But they also breed caution. What happened to that one?"
Tan hesitated, then said quietly, "It collapsed. The owner speculated on rice futures. I balanced every book correctly, but in the end, all the numbers meant nothing."
Li's pen paused above the page. "And after that?"
"I worked at several trading houses," Tan said. "They valued my accuracy but… I wasn't good at asserting myself. I saw patterns in the accounts—signs of overextension—but I didn't speak loudly enough. When those companies failed, I blamed myself for not trying harder."
Li studied him. "And now you're here. At least the state can't go bankrupt so easily."
Tan managed a faint, nervous smile. "No, Your Excellency. But it can still be mismanaged."
Li inclined his head. "Then let's talk about that. The naval rebuilding plan—explain your loan structures and profit projections for the steel mills and shipyards."
Relieved to return to figures, Tan straightened slightly. "Yes, Your Excellency. The loans are structured to ease fiscal strain—payments spread along the construction timeline. The steel mills and shipyards should become profit centers within six to eight years as domestic demand rises. Initial losses will be offset by removing the foreign purchase premiums we currently pay."
Li nodded once. "Now—fraud prevention. The current system fails at the simplest checks. How do you catch discrepancies?"
Tan steadied his voice. "Multiple audit streams, rotating personnel, and cross-verification. No single official controls verification. Automated ledgers flag unusual patterns—missing entries, sudden surpluses. To conceal fraud, several offices would have to collude."
Li pressed further, his questions sharp but measured. "Contingencies. Currency exposure. Industrial delays."
Tan answered each point with quiet precision, quoting figures, intervals, and risk thresholds. His earlier nervousness faded as he spoke the language he trusted most—numbers.
At last, Li set down his pen. "You think like a man who's spent years watching others ruin good accounts."
Tan lowered his eyes. "I have, Your Excellency."
Li regarded him for a moment, then said, "Let's hope this time, the numbers stay honest."
Li pressed him on specific financial details—cost overrun contingencies, currency exchange risk management, the commercialization timeline for new industries. Tan answered each question with mathematical precision, occasionally referencing specific pages in the proposal documents.
Li Hangzhong closed the previous file and looked to the next man at the table.
"Xu Mingzhe," he said. "Your proposal on contractual frameworks—Western-style legal structures for the franchise agreements. Before we discuss specifics, I want to understand your philosophy. What do you believe law should serve first?"
Xu straightened. "The public interest, Your Excellency. Especially the protection of the weak. A system's legitimacy depends on how it safeguards those without influence."
Li's eyes narrowed slightly. "A moral answer. Not the usual one from a lawyer."
Xu hesitated, then allowed himself a brief glance toward Zhao Yunsheng. "I received some enlightenment on that point from a good friend," he said quietly.
Li followed his gaze. Zhao met it briefly, offering nothing but a faint, unreadable smile. Then Li turned back to Xu. "Then let's see how this enlightenment translates into law. Explain your framework."
"Your Excellency, I propose clear, written contracts rather than relationship-based understandings. Ambiguity breeds conflict; transparency prevents it. Each party's rights, obligations, and remedies are defined in advance. Enforcement must be impartial and predictable."
Li leaned back slightly. "Your father would disagree. He practiced traditional law, did he not?"
Xu's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. "He did, Your Excellency. He was an excellent traditional lawyer." A pause, sharper than before. "But the world he knew is changing. Traditional methods falter when faced with commercial complexity—and collapse entirely when confronted by foreign legal challenges."
Li studied him for a moment, his tone mild but probing. "You plan to meet foreign legal attacks with your hybrid system. Explain how it works."
"We operate under Chinese jurisdiction for domestic matters," Xu said, his voice steady now, "but franchise contracts with foreign participants include international arbitration clauses. That reassures them of fairness without conceding our sovereignty over domestic law. It balances trust and control."
Li made a small note. "And joint ventures—with foreign shipyards, engineers, technical advisors?"
"All carefully structured, Your Excellency," Xu replied. "Technology transfer requirements written explicitly into the contracts. Performance bonds to guarantee delivery. Sunset clauses limiting foreign participation to defined periods. We've learned from past mistakes—agreements that were vague, open-ended, and exploited at our expense."
Li set down his pen and looked at him for a long moment. "You speak like a man who's rewriting not just the law, but his inheritance."
Xu's jaw tightened. "Perhaps, Your Excellency. Some inheritances need revising."
A faint silence lingered before Li turned the page.
Li asked several pointed questions about specific contractual mechanisms before moving to Chen Weiming.
Li Hangzhong turned to the last man at the table.
"Chen Weiming" he said. "You understand dock operations—the ground-level reality. Before we speak of reforms, tell me how you came to know these markets so well."
Chen straightened, his hands resting lightly on the table. "Your Excellency, I came to Tianjin at fifteen, carrying my father's tailoring tools and a few letters of introduction from his old clients. I apprenticed under a Chinese tailor who worked for foreign residents—learning Western suit construction while keeping traditional techniques alive."
Li raised an eyebrow. "Tailoring to shipping. That's quite a distance."
Chen allowed himself a faint smile. "Not as far as it seems, Your Excellency. Tailoring teaches precision, patience, and how to listen. When Henderson & Company advertised for an apprentice skilled in Chinese needlework, I joined them. Three years without pay—just training and scraps of leftover fabric. But the shop served Tianjin's British elite. Through them, I met merchants, ship owners, and brokers. When my apprenticeship ended, I made my living through independent commissions—measuring, delivering, listening. A tailor hears more about a man's business than most clerks ever do."
Li nodded slowly, intrigued. "So that's how you built your understanding of the docks—through the merchants themselves."
"Yes, Your Excellency. Many of my former clients were shipping men. When talk began of reforming operations, I reached out to them again. They told me what the paperwork never shows—the daily obstacles they face."
Li gestured for him to continue. "Then tell me. What are those obstacles?"
Chen's voice grew firmer, more direct—the tone of someone speaking from lived experience. "Unpredictability, Your Excellency. Merchants never know what costs they'll face. Fees change depending on which official they encounter. Loading schedules shift by bribe, not by order. Warehouse space is allocated through favors, not contracts. Everything depends on personal relationships and unofficial payments."
Li's brow furrowed slightly. "And the franchise model solves this how?"
"By replacing uncertainty with rules everyone can see," Chen said. "All fees published. Loading is handled first-come-first-served, unless merchants pay for priority—and that payment goes to the company treasury, not private pockets. Warehouse space allocated by contract, not connection. When merchants know the costs and schedules, they can plan. The market stabilizes itself."
Li leaned back slightly, tapping his pen. "And implementation? You know the docks better than anyone here—how much resistance will there be?"
Chen thought before answering. "Some workers will fight the change. The old system feeds too many pockets. But if wages are fair, if promotion is based on skill, not bribes, the honest majority will adapt. The hardest part isn't the rules, Your Excellency—it's convincing people the rules will actually hold."
Li gave a faint nod. "A reasonable concern."
He questioned Chen further—about logistics during transition, how to maintain service quality while phasing out old practices, and how to retrain dock foremen accustomed to buying influence instead of earning authority. Chen answered each question in the same steady, plain-spoken tone of someone who had lived the system from the ground up, his words practical, not theoretical.
When the discussion ended, Li set down his pen and regarded him quietly. "A tailor who learned commerce by listening to his clients. Not a common path, Mr. Chen—but perhaps the most instructive kind."
Chen bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Excellency. Tailors and merchants both measure value carefully. Only the units differ."
Then he turned to Tatara Jinliang.
"You proposed convincing Manchu nobles to convert their deposits into franchise investments. Explain that thinking."
Jinliang spoke carefully, aware he was addressing delicate political territory. "Your Excellency, Manchu nobles have significant wealth but declining political influence. The franchise model offers them profitable investment opportunities that also serve imperial interests. When nobles own merchant vessels, they have a personal stake in naval protection—making them natural supporters of naval reconstruction."
Li's eyes narrowed with interest. "You're suggesting their merchant interests would compel them to support military spending they might otherwise oppose?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. If their commercial investments depend on safe shipping lanes, they need a navy to protect those lanes. Their self-interest aligns with strategic necessity."
"Clever. But also risky—you're essentially arguing that Manchu nobles should become merchants. Conservative factions will call that degrading."
"We frame it as a strategic investment in imperial commercial strength, Your Excellency. Not personal trade, but capitalization of enterprises serving state interests. The distinction matters politically."
Li questioned him about specific nobles who might be approached, the diplomatic language needed, the potential conservative resistance and how to navigate it.
Finally he turned to the man who had been standing silently behind his chair.
"Captain Fu," Li said, not unkindly. "Come forward."
Fu Weihong stepped out from the shadow of the chair, his uniform neat despite the afternoon heat. He bowed once, then planted both hands on the back of a chair and looked at the table as if collecting his thoughts.
Li inclined his head. "Tell us about the Naval Academy," he said. "Why retrain the officers we already have instead of bringing in a clean slate?"
Fu didn't hurry his answer. When he spoke it was with a steady plainness that made the words land harder than any flourish. "Because experience isn't the enemy, Your Excellency. Ignorance is. These men know our coasts, our ports, the politics that strangle every decision. They failed at command, not because they were strangers to the sea, but because they were taught to look the part rather than to do the work. Retraining turns lived knowledge into usable skill. Starting fresh throws away a resource we cannot afford."
Li watched him, fingers steepled. "You emphasize seamanship and gunnery—practical work—over theoretical naval science. That reads almost like an insult to academic study."
Fu gave a faint, rueful smile. "Not an insult—an ordering of priorities. Theory teaches possibilities; seamanship teaches survival. We had officers who could argue tactics over brandy and then panic in a gale or fail to keep discipline under fire. You can teach calculus in three months; you cannot teach a man to steady the deck of a pitching ship in a single lesson. If a gunner cannot maintain aim, all the theory in the world is only talk."
Li, who had been listening with a knitted brow, leaned forward. "Funding," he said. "And practical training—how do you marry the navy with civilian industry? How do merchant ships fit into your plan?"
Fu's posture softened. He looked as though he were laying out a map. "Merchant vessels are our classrooms and our ledger. Cadets sail six months aboard commercial ships—learn seamanship, navigation, the routine and the emergencies that books cannot duplicate. The merchants pay service fees. They, in turn, gain a steady stream of trained hands and recommendations for employment. It's win-win—if we craft the contracts fairly. The academy collects fees and recommendation payments to stay afloat."
There was a pause; Li's face took on that slow, considering the look he reserved for answers that mattered.
He returned to a point that had clearly been bothering him. "Your naval doctrine—many know it runs against Mahan. He taught fleet concentration and decisive battle. You speak of dispersed squadrons, coastal defense. That is a large divergence. Explain it to me."
Fu met his gaze without flinching. For a moment he let the silence do part of the work. "Mahan wrote for a navy that could pick time and place," he said finally. "That navy could assume parity or superiority. We never had that luxury. The war showed us something stark: if you build your plans around being the stronger fleet, then when you are not, those plans become a trap. A doctrine that expects a decisive battle guarantees a decisive defeat when your enemy is better prepared."
Li's fingers tapped once on the table—impatience, curiosity, something like relief.
"Our reality is different," Fu continued, his voice firming. "Long coastlines, shallow approaches, limited industry. We cannot, at present, project power to distant waters. But we can make an approach prohibitively costly. That requires dispersion, mobility, and the ability to threaten an invader at many points—not a single glittering prize to be hunted."
"Then why did the Beiyang Fleet collapse?" Li asked, softer now—less an accusation than a demand for truth.
Fu's face tightened; the memory of it still stung. "Practical failures piled into institutional rot. Ammunition ran short. Guns hadn't been test-fired in years. Corrosion ate away at metal while the ledgers said everything was fine. Ships were in dock when the drums sounded. Divisions failed to coordinate—the Beiyang fought, the others did not. But beneath that was something worse."
He let his hand fall to the rail of the chair. "We built a navy to impress visitors, not to fight. Ships bought for their lines and paint, officers advanced for who they knew rather than what they could do. Prestige was the measure. Function came later, if at all."
A whisper of reproach passed the table; Li's jaw worked.
Fu's tone sharpened, and he glanced up as if addressing a memory as much as a present council. "The Japanese taught us which things actually work—speed over armor, volume of fire over a few great guns, concentrating force when it matters. We must learn from defeat, not romanticize it."
He moved to the folder and sketched—quick lines, economical shapes. "What we need is, in French parlance, the Jeune École—small, fast torpedo craft for coastal defense; rapid-fire cruisers to control local sea lanes; numbers of cheap, effective boats instead of a handful of expensive showpieces."
Li Jingfang, who had been silent until now, exchanged a look with Fu and said simply, "Practicality."
"Exactly," Fu said. "There's another reason: industry. We lack a modern manufacturing base. Big guns and the shells they eat require precision factories we do not yet possess. But smaller pieces—120mm, 152mm rapid-fire guns—are within our reach. Ammunition is less complex and easier to produce. We can make those. We can learn to make them better."
Li sat back, digesting the sketches as if each line represented years and ledgers. "So—less spectacle, more work. Not more ships, but the right ships."
Fu inclined his head. There was no swagger in it, only resolve. "Yes. A fleet shaped by our geography, our industry, our purpose. If we cannot match another navy everywhere, we can make it so costly to attack us that they hesitate."
Silence settled for a breath, then Li's hand went to another sheet. "Your shipbuilding relies on local yards. How do you make them able to build modern warships?"
"Carefully," Fu said. "Technology transfer, but on terms. We pay for blueprints, training, and staged capability transfer. Foreign yards build while our workers learn; engineers study abroad and return to teach. If we hold to the plan, destroyer-class construction is attainable in a decade; capital ships will come much later. It's incremental—pay more now for knowledge, and less later when we can do it ourselves."
Li's expression did not soften, only sharpened. "And the engineers to staff those yards?"
"Three tiers," Fu replied without hesitation, his earlier cadence returning. "Skilled technical schools for artisans, engineering colleges for designers and managers, and research facilities for advanced work. Students move up as they prove themselves. In twenty years, if the plan is not betrayed by corruption or vanity, we will have a functioning technical ecosystem."
Li's eyes searched Fu's face as if looking for a sales pitch. Instead he found only a plain account—no impossible promises, no comforting lies.
"Can we ever catch the Japanese?" Li asked, voice low.
Fu's answer was honest enough to be almost brutal. "Catch them completely? No—perhaps not in my lifetime. But we need not. We need to make a cost-benefit problem for any would-be attacker: more danger, fewer easy gains. That is achievable within a dozen years if we avoid the old mistakes—prestige, shortcuts, and patronage."
The table fell quiet; the honesty in his voice was its own argument. Li's fingers tapped once more, then stilled. Whatever decision he would make, it would be with the weight of those words.
After a long moment Li looked to the others and then back at Fu. "That is a doctrine," he said, almost to himself, "worth building upon."
Fu allowed himself the smallest of smiles—not triumph, but relief—and stepped back, the pen still smudged on his fingertips like a small promise.
Notably through all this interrogation, Li asked Zhao nothing.
The omission was conspicuous. Li addressed every other person multiple times, diving deep into their areas of expertise. But Zhao—the person Morrison and Fu had identified as the strategic architect, whom Li himself had compared to Zeng Guofan—received no questions, no acknowledgment beyond the initial greeting.
After nearly ninety minutes of detailed interrogation, Li set down the franchise document and picked up the naval program. He flipped to a marked section and looked up, his expression hardening."The naval program projects the first combat-ready fleet within eight years," Li Hongzhang said, his tone deceptively calm. Then his voice hardened. "But you also included an emergency squadron in the plan—proof that you understand the urgency. Yet you still proposed an eight-year timeline for the first proper fleet. Why?"
The bluntness startled the room. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Fu Weihong looked uncertain whether to answer—but before he could speak, every gaze shifted, almost instinctively, toward Zhao Yunsheng.
The motion was unspoken, collective. Six pairs of eyes turning to the youngest man among them, as if drawn by some silent gravity.
Li noticed. His gaze followed theirs, and something flickered in his expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of a suspicion he'd quietly harbored.
"Interesting," he murmured. "When pressed with a hard question, you all look to him."
He turned fully toward Zhao.
"Tell me, Zhao Yunsheng—when you designed this timeline, what was your reasoning? You understood the urgency, yet you proposed eight years."
Zhao met Li's gaze steadily. "Your Excellency, during our planning sessions I argued for five years. The others convinced me that eight was the minimum realistic timeframe for complete readiness—training, industry, logistics, everything properly integrated."
Li arched a brow. "So you compromised?"
"I accepted technical reality," Zhao said evenly. "But I also understood that political timelines don't wait for perfect conditions. That's why I added the emergency squadron— operational within Five years. It's a stopgap: something tangible to show quickly, buying political time for full development."
Li leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But an emergency squadron isn't a combat-ready fleet. I need a proper fighting force within five years. Is that achievable?"
Zhao hesitated—thinking, not stalling.
"Yes, Your Excellency. But only with tradeoffs."
Li's tone was sharp. "Which tradeoffs?"
"Prioritizing fleet readiness over full industrial self-sufficiency," Zhao said carefully. "We'd need to rely on foreign yards for some vessels—purchasing rather than building domestically. Some of the educational and industrial programs would be delayed until after the fleet proves itself. Essentially, we compress the emergency squadron schedule, doubling its scope"
Li regarded him with cool scrutiny. "You had this scenario prepared already."
Zhao didn't flinch. "I considered it likely, Your Excellency. I expected you would demand faster, visible results. Five years gives you political cover—something to defend in the court. Eight years, without proof of progress, leaves the entire program vulnerable to cancellation."
The silence that followed was heavy. Everyone in the room understood what Zhao had just admitted: he had designed the plan knowing this confrontation would come—and had written his response into the proposal itself.
Li's lips curved slightly—not in amusement, but in intrigue.
"Tell me about your Theory of Contradiction," he said. "How does it apply here?"
Zhao drew a slow breath. "The principal contradiction in naval reconstruction isn't between technology and cost, Your Excellency. It's between political survival and long-term perfection."
He spoke more firmly now, each word deliberate. "If the program collapses before it shows results, perfect planning means nothing. So we must first resolve the political contradiction—deliver results fast enough to ensure the program's survival. Once that foundation holds, the secondary contradictions—industrial capability, training, efficiency—can be solved over time."
Li studied him for a long moment, the weight of the words settling. Then he turned to the group.
"The naval program will proceed with a modified timeline," he said at last. "First fleet combat-ready within five years, as Zhao suggests. We accept the tradeoffs—immediate capability over perfect planning."
He paused, then shifted gears abruptly, his attention landing on another document.
"Second point," he said. "Education."
His gaze was fixed on Tatara Jinliang.
"Jinliang, you understand Manchu politics—and reform necessities—better than most. You know how fiercely the scholar-official class resists change. Yet you supported a proposal to establish parallel educational tracks—Western technical schools alongside the imperial examinations. You knew this would ignite massive resistance. Why didn't you stop them?"
Jinliang straightened but hesitated, visibly uneasy. "Your Excellency, I believe the reforms are necessary despite the difficulties—"
Li cut him off, voice still calm but with an edge of steel. "That's not what I asked. I'm questioning your judgment in allowing it to proceed, knowing the political cost."
Before Jinliang could respond, Zhao spoke quietly.
"Your Excellency, may I offer a perspective?"
Li turned toward him with a faint, almost sardonic smile. "Please do. You seem to have one for everything else."
Zhao didn't waver. "The real danger to the dynasty isn't educational reform," he said. "It's the growing movement for constitutional monarchy. If that movement succeeds, the Qing rulers—and the Manchu elite—lose nearly all political power. That's the true existential threat."
He let the words hang for a beat before continuing.
"But Your Excellency can use that threat. Present a clear choice to the conservative scholars and nobles: either support gradual educational modernization that keeps the imperial structure intact, or resist it and face revolutionary forces demanding a full constitutional system that abolishes their power entirely."
Li's expression sharpened with interest as Zhao pressed on.
"If the court appears to support educational reform—even reluctantly—it gives reformists a partial victory. They can tell their followers, 'The government is changing; progress is happening.' That defuses revolutionary energy. But if the court resists all change, it corners itself, forcing radicals to escalate. Moderate reform becomes your shield against extreme reform."
By now, the room was utterly silent. The implications were staggering—Zhao was openly describing a strategy to manipulate both conservatives and reformers at once, using one threat to neutralize the other.
Li Hongzhang looked at him for a long time, an unreadable mixture of astonishment and admiration crossing his face.
Then, suddenly, he smiled—the deep, genuine smile Fu and Morrison had seen once before in his study.
"What a gutsy fellow," Li said, eyes bright. "I haven't even decided if I can trust you with execution, and you're already outlining how to manipulate the entire imperial court. Remarkable nerve."
He shook his head, still smiling. "Turning constitutional reformers into leverage for educational modernization—using the empire's greatest threat as its own protection. Dangerous, but brilliant."
Then, just as abruptly, his smile faded. His tone grew colder, more analytical.
"You used your Theory of Contradiction on me—timed your proposal for when I was most vulnerable to radical ideas. And now you calmly propose to use the same logic against the throne itself. I should be questioning the wisdom of trusting someone whose ambition is as vast as their ability to calculate the Viceroy of Zhili and the entire Qing court.
Zhao didn't respond.
Li leaned back slowly, eyes never leaving him. "But I'm not questioning it," he said at last. "Do you know why?"
"No, Your Excellency."
"Because manipulation isn't evil in itself. It's a tool. What matters is what you're manipulating for. And you—" he pointed lightly with the pen in his hand, "—you're not chasing wealth or office. You're trying to make things work. That's rare enough that I'll forgive the audacity."
Li drew both documents closer—the franchise plan and the naval program—and began writing in the margins, his movements brisk and decisive.
The others exchanged glances, aware they had just witnessed the moment Li Hongzhang made up his mind.
"Complete implementation of the franchise restructuring plan," Li Hongzhang said aloud as he wrote, the brush gliding smoothly over the document. "Approved without modification. Yang Jirong, you and Captain Morrison will coordinate implementation with Xu Run's merchant faction and Tang Shaoyi."
He turned the page. "Naval program—modified implementation. Focus on completing the first fleet within five years. Full expansion deferred, not cancelled. We'll scale after proving initial success. Fu Weihong, you'll lead naval planning with Yan Fu and the surviving Beiyang officers."
More rapid strokes of the brush.
"Shipyard modernization at Tianjin and Shanghai—approved. Arsenal upgrades—approved. Tianjin Naval Academy expansion—approved."
He paused as he reached the educational section. "Tianjin Engineering School—approved with increased funding. Shanghai and Fuzhou programs are on hold for now. We'll use Tianjin as the proof of concept before expanding."
Li looked up, eyes sweeping across the table.
"Fu Weihong," he said first. "You command naval reconstruction. Work with Yan Fu, coordinate with foreign technical advisors. Your job is to build a fleet that actually works this time."
He turned to the next. "Yang Jirong—you and Captain Morrison will implement the franchise system. Xu Run and his merchants will assist, but you're accountable for making this profitable within eighteen months. Tang Shaoyi handles government coordination."
"Xu Mingzhe—you'll support Captain Fu in foreign negotiations. Ship purchases, technical contracts, advisor agreements. I'm also assigning Zhang Yinhuan—just returned from ambassador duties—to assist with foreign relations."
He moved down the line.
"Tatara Jinliang—you'll join my office as political advisor. Your job is managing factional balance and softening conservative resistance. Make sure this doesn't trigger the explosion Zhao just warned us about."
"Tan Wei—you'll also join my office to establish an audit department. You'll control accounts and finances for the entire program. Direct reporting to me, independent verification of all expenditures."
Then Li's expression lightened slightly as he looked toward Chen Weiming. "Chen—I need new formal attire. You'll tailor several suits for me. Consider that a consolation prize for being the only one here without an official appointment." A faint smile crossed his face. "I'll also write a calligraphy plaque for your shop. That should bring you more customers than you can handle."
Finally, Li's gaze settled on Zhao Yunsheng.
The boy stood at attention, calm but tense. Li studied him for a moment before speaking.
"Zhao Yunsheng," he said, his tone carrying an unusual warmth. "You once told Captain Fu you wanted to be a brick—a useful part of whatever structure was being built." Li's mouth curved faintly. "Very well. I'll make you a brick. You'll go where you're needed, handle what others can't, and make yourself indispensable."
He added, voice lowering so only Zhao could hear, "You will work for me. You will report to me directly." Li leaned in almost conspiratorially and, half to himself, half as a test, muttered, "I want to see what gives you the courage to manipulate everyone at the palm of your hand. Let's see how bold you can be under me."
Zhao blinked, startled. "Your Excellency, I…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I had hoped to study at university in Shanghai. To continue my education properly."
Li raised an eyebrow. "Refuse an imperial appointment to attend university?"
"Not refuse, Your Excellency—merely request deferment until—"
"No." Li's tone was firm but not unkind. "You can study at Tianjin University when it's established. Until then, you'll work for me. Consider this your real education—practical training in administration, politics, and implementation. Far more valuable than any classroom."
The others exchanged glances. They could all sense it—Li's trust. To be kept this close, given such flexible authority, was extraordinary for a sixteen-year-old former dock worker.
Zhao looked as if he might protest again, but Li was already writing final notes.
"Implementation begins immediately," Li said. "Official appointments and funding authorizations will be processed within the week. Initial payments released in ten days. Fu Weihong, coordinate with naval officers and Yan fu starting tomorrow. Yang Jirong, Morrison—franchise rollout planning begins the day after."
He set down his brush, the red seal glinting faintly in the afternoon light.
"You've done something remarkable," Li said, his voice quieter now but weighted with sincerity. "You built a comprehensive solution to interconnected problems in four days. Now you'll spend the next several years proving it works. Don't disappoint me."
His gaze hardened. "And don't disappoint China. We don't have room for more failures."
With two bold signatures and the heavy press of his seal, the meeting ended. The red ink gleamed against the paper like fresh blood.
"Dismissed," Li said. "You'll receive detailed instructions within two days."
They rose, bowed, and began to file toward the door. But as Zhao passed, Li's voice called out again.
"Zhao Yunsheng."
Zhao turned back. "Your Excellency?"
"Your Theory of Contradiction is powerful," he said. "But remember—tools that can manipulate others can also manipulate you. Don't become so clever that you confuse strategic thinking with self-deception."
Zhao bowed deeply. "I'll remember, Your Excellency."
Outside, the afternoon had deepened into amber light. The six of them stood in the courtyard, still half-stunned by what had transpired. The ornate eaves cast long, fractured shadows across the stone.
Tatara Jinliang was the first to find his voice. "Did that really just happen? Did we just get official appointments—from Li Hongzhang?"
"He signed both documents," Tan Wei said faintly. "This is real."
Yang Jirong turned toward Zhao, eyes wide. "You knew, didn't you? When he asked about the timeline—you'd already calculated his reaction."
Zhao shook his head. "I guessed. There's a difference."
"Guessed well enough to make him laugh," Xu Mingzhe said. "That's more than guessing."
Tatara Jinliang exhaled slowly, still staring at him. "That political move you proposed—using constitutional monarchy pressure to force reform acceptance—that's the kind of thinking men in their fifties spend their careers learning. And you're sixteen."
Zhao looked uncomfortable. "It was just applying the Theory of Contradiction—identifying the principal political conflict and—"
"Stop being modest," Chen interrupted. "Li Hongzhang saw exactly what you did. That's why he's keeping you close. You're dangerous—in a good way."
They began walking toward the gate, their voices a mix of disbelief and excitement. The air seemed charged, alive with possibility. Everything had changed—new roles, new futures, the weight of real responsibility pressing down on them like sunlight turning to gold.
As they reached the compound gates, Fu Weihong and Captain Morrison caught up.
"Congratulations," Fu said, smiling. "You're now officially part of the most ambitious reconstruction program China has attempted since the Self-Strengthening Movement began."
"No pressure," Morrison added dryly. "Just the future of Chinese naval power, commerce, and education resting on your collective shoulders."
Yang Jirong laughed—a strained, disbelieving sound. "When you put it that way…"
"Don't think about the scale," Fu advised. "Focus on your part. That's how big projects succeed—each person executing their share excellently."
They nodded, some laughing, some still dazed
.
Then, one by one, they turned down different streets—toward homes, boarding houses, and uncertain futures that suddenly felt much larger than before.
Zhao walked alone toward his rented house.
The city was quiet now, the light softening into dusk.
He felt the weight of what had begun—not just an appointment, but a turning point.