The last guest finally departed, bowing with exaggerated deference that barely masked his nervousness. Sheng Xuanhuai maintained his polite smile until the courtyard gate closed, then let the mask drop like a stone into water.
The smile vanished. His face turned grave, almost stone-like in the lamplight.
It hadn't even been twenty-four hours, and already the vultures were circling. People who'd fawned over him yesterday now kept careful distance. Former allies who'd built careers on his patronage suddenly discovered urgent business elsewhere. The message was clear: Li Hongzhang was moving against him, and no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.
Sheng walked through his residence's corridors, each step measured, controlled. His study door closed with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silence.
He poured himself tea with hands that didn't quite tremble. The porcelain cup was exquisite—imported, expensive, a symbol of his success. He'd built this. The wealth, the influence, the network that made the Beiyang Group function. While Li Hongzhang played statesman, Sheng had done the dirty work—the political maneuvering, the money-making, the compromises that kept the machine running.
And now? Now Li wanted to discard him like a broken tool.
The irony was bitter. Without Sheng's economic support, there would be no Beiyang Group. Without his political connections, Li's grand reforms would have died in committee years ago. The old man had always needed Sheng's pragmatism to balance his idealism.
But Sheng wasn't naive. He understood the calculation. Li had found new toys—young men with fresh ideas and dangerous competence. Men who hadn't yet learned that idealism breaks against the rocks of political reality.
Let them learn the hard way.
Sheng set down his cup, mind already working through the landscape of power. Li couldn't actually remove him—not completely. Sheng's men were woven through every level of the Beiyang administration. To purge Sheng's influence would require cutting away at least thirty percent of the group's strength. At the Beiyang Group's current weakest point, after the war's devastation, such self-inflicted damage would be suicide.
Li Hongzhang understood this. Which meant this wasn't about removal—it was about dominance. A power struggle disguised as reform.
Very well.
If the old man wanted war, he'd give him war. Not the crude frontal assault that would unite opposition against him, but the kind of warfare Sheng excelled at—bureaucratic obstruction, financial pressure, the death of a thousand administrative cuts.
These boys with their franchise plans and naval dreams? They'd discover that in the real China, good ideas meant nothing without the patience and connections to implement them. They'd drown in paperwork, choke on procedural requirements, watch their timelines slip away while officials discovered endless reasons for delay.
And when they failed—as they inevitably would—Li Hongzhang would have no choice but to return to the people who actually understood how the system worked.
Sheng's expression was grim but determined. He'd survived worse than this. The young men would be the weapons that destroyed themselves, and Li would learn—again—why Sheng Xuanhuai was indispensable.
__________
Li Hongzhang sat in his study, reviewing the day's events with an expression that shifted between amusement and gravity. When he thought of those young men—their determination, their confidence bordering on arrogance—he couldn't help but chuckle. The way Zhao had calmly outlined manipulating the entire imperial court, as if political maneuvering were as simple as solving a mathematical equation...
The audacity was refreshing.
But his face turned grim when his thoughts shifted to the morning's meeting with the Beiyang Group's senior officials. That had been less amusing. The old guard's resistance, the barely concealed hostility, the sense of a structure under enormous strain...
A knock at the door. "Father?"
Li Jingfang entered carrying a tea tray, his expression showing concern. "You should rest. It's been a long day."
"Sit," Li said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk.
Li Jingfang poured tea for both of them, then settled into the chair. After a moment's hesitation: "Father, I've been thinking about that boy—Zhao Yunsheng."
"Have you?" Li's tone was neutral.
"You're bringing him into your office directly. At sixteen. That's... unusual. Perhaps dangerous. You're putting a child in front of wolves who want to tear apart everything you've built."
Li was silent for a long moment, sipping his tea. Then: "That boy is a monster."
Jingfang blinked, startled. "Father?"
"Not in the conventional sense," Li clarified. "But in terms of capability, intelligence, danger—yes. A monster." He set down his cup. "Consider the legal frameworks in their proposal. Xu Mingzhe wrote them, technically. But I asked Xu about the philosophy behind them. He said he'd been 'enlightened by a friend.' And when he said it, he glanced at Zhao."
"What's unusual about the legal frameworks?"
"They're different from standard Western commercial law," Li said. "Western law protects property rights, enforces contracts, maintains order—but fundamentally, it protects those with power and resources. The laws in this proposal do something else. They prioritize protecting the weak—the small ship owners, the cargo merchants, the workers. The company's interests are secondary to preventing exploitation of those with less bargaining power."
Li leaned back. "That's not standard legal thinking for a sixteen-year-old former dock worker to develop. Its sophisticated political philosophy disguised as commercial regulation."
Jingfang frowned. "But isn't that... good? If the system protects the weak?"
"It's excellent if the person designing it wants to improve society," Li said. "It's terrifying if that same person becomes disillusioned and decides the entire system must be destroyed to improve the society. Someone with Zhao's intelligence, his ability to coordinate others, his gift for strategic thinking—if he turns that against the existing order, he wouldn't just be a rebel. He'd be a rebel leader capable of building an organization that could actually threaten the dynasty."
The study was quiet except for the soft crackle of the lamp.
"That's why you're keeping him close?" Jingfang asked slowly. "To watch him?"
"To shape him," Li corrected. "For people like Zhao, you have two choices: eliminate them before they become dangerous, or harness them for your purposes. I'm attempting the latter." He paused. "I'm pushing him into the bureaucratic swamp and letting him navigate it himself. Let reality smooth his rough edges. Let him learn that clever theories meet messy implementation. Let him develop the patience and pragmatism he currently lacks."
"And if he breaks instead of bending?"
"Then I'll have learned something important about his character," Li said calmly. "But I don't think he'll break. He has that quality I saw in Zeng Guofan—the ability to hold firm principles while adapting tactics. The question is whether his principles align with preserving the dynasty or transforming it beyond recognition."
Jingfang absorbed this, then asked: "What about the proposal itself? The franchise plan, the naval reconstruction—you're really going to let them implement it?"
"Without substantial support from me, yes," Li said firmly. "I've given them authority and initial funding. Now they'll discover whether they have substance or just talk. They're all quite confident right now—almost arrogant. Facing real opposition will either prove their competence or expose their naivety."
"That seems harsh, Father."
"It's necessary." Li's voice hardened. "If they can't handle Sheng Xuanhuai's bureaucratic obstruction, they're not ready for larger challenges. If they can't navigate middle-manager resistance, they won't survive foreign competition. If they collapse under the first wave of difficulty, better to learn that now before I commit serious resources."
He stood, walking to the window overlooking the dark courtyard. "And there's another consideration. If I shield them from every obstacle, they'll become dependent on my protection. That makes them weak—and makes me responsible for their every failure. But if they succeed despite obstacles, their authority becomes real. They'll have earned their positions rather than received them as gifts."
"You're testing them."
"I'm educating them," Li corrected. "The hard way, because it's the only way that produces lasting competence." He turned back to his son. "You asked if putting them in front of wolves was dangerous. It is. But keeping them away from wolves doesn't eliminate danger—it just delays the moment when they're devoured."
After a long silence, Jingfang asked quietly: "Do you think they'll succeed?"
"I think they have a chance," Li said. "Which is more than I can say for most reform proposals that cross my desk. Whether they seize that chance..." He shrugged. "We'll see."
___________________
Zhao climbed to the roof of his rented house, moving carefully in the darkness. The tiles were cool under his hands as he settled into his usual spot, back against the chimney, looking up at the stars.
The moon hung low and bright, painting Tianjin's rooftops in silver. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Closer, the soft sounds of families settling in for the night—muffled conversations, a baby crying, the clatter of dishes being washed.
Ordinary sounds. The soundtrack of normal life that he'd nearly forgotten he could have.
Zhao closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion and regret wash over him in equal measure.
He'd shown too much today. Far too much.
His experience—he came from the 21st century, had been a university graduate in that other life, had seen and experienced things these people couldn't imagine. Even his most casual observations carried implications he couldn't fully control. The way he framed problems, the connections he made between seemingly unrelated issues, the frameworks he used for analysis—all of it marked him as fundamentally different.
The "genius" label he'd carefully cultivated as protective camouflage had become a trap. Because now people were watching him with the kind of attention that made hiding increasingly difficult.
He'd had such clear plans. Simple, achievable, safe: Get a foothold in Tianjin. Earn enough money to be comfortable. Attend university—Tianjin first, then maybe overseas. Keep his head down, observe, wait for the right moment. Come back when the situation clarified, when he understood this timeline better, when he could make informed choices about what to do with his foreknowledge.
Patient. Cautious. Smart.
Instead? Youthful exuberance and the inherent arrogance of a time traveler had led him straight into the center of the storm. He was now working directly for Li Hongzhang, trying to save the sinking ship of the Qing dynasty—exactly what he'd wanted to avoid.
Zhao laughed quietly, bitterly. "Father," he said to the stars, addressing his father from that other timeline, that other life. "I messed up. You always told me to think three steps ahead. I thought I was. Turns out I'm still impulsive."
The stars offered no response, as stars tend not to.
But speaking to them helped. Helped him organize his thoughts, helped him process the impossible situation of being trapped between two lives, two sets of memories, two conflicting sets of loyalties.
"At least... At least even if we don't save the Qing dynasty, maybe we can make some institutional changes. Give people better lives." His voice was soft, almost pleading. "Prepare the country for a peaceful change in leadership when it comes. Because it will come—dynasties always end. But how they end matters."
That was the crucial point his university professors in that other life had emphasized. Revolutionary transitions could be orderly or catastrophic. China's 20th-century experience had been... mixed. Some periods of orderly change. Long stretches of chaos.
"We need strength," Zhao continued. "Not military strength alone, but institutional strength. Legal frameworks that protect people even when leadership changes. Economic systems that can survive political upheaval. Education that creates competent administrators regardless of what political philosophy they serve. If we can build that foundation, then when the dynasty falls—and it will—maybe the country doesn't fragment. Maybe foreign powers can't carve it up because the institutions are strong enough to maintain coherence."
He opened his eyes, looking at the moon. "Reform and save what we can. Prolong stability as long as possible. Buy time for modernization. Is that naive? Maybe. But it's what I can try."
The deeper reason sat unspoken in his chest like a stone. His father from that other timeline—his real father, not the one in this life—had been killed by people who called themselves revolutionaries. People who followed the same ideals his grandfather had championed.
Zhao couldn't practice those ideals. Couldn't follow that path. Couldn't become the kind of person who justified violence as necessary for the greater good. Not because the logic was wrong—he understood the utilitarian arguments—but because he'd lived through the consequences. Had held his dying father while revolutionary justice played out in the streets.
"I can't take the same road and turn into people I hated," he said quietly. "At least not now. I'm not in a position where I have to make that choice. I still have options. I can frame my own ideology, develop my own path. Maybe it fails. But I'm young enough to try once. Fight the historical trend and see if anything changes."
Was this rationalization? Probably. Was he avoiding the hard revolutionary path because he was scared? Maybe.
But he'd watched his father die for ideology. He wasn't eager to repeat the experience—as either victim or perpetrator.
"So we try to reform," Zhao told the stars. "We give the dynasty a chance. We build institutional strength regardless of who's in charge. And if it fails, if the revolution comes anyway... at least we'll have built something worth preserving. Legal protections for the weak. Economic systems that function. Education that produces competent people instead of examination memorizers."
He stood, brushing roof dust from his clothes. The moon continued its slow arc across the sky, indifferent to human struggles.
Tomorrow will bring the real test. Today they'd received approval and authority. Tomorrow they'd face the machinery of bureaucracy, the weight of tradition, the resistance of people whose power depended on nothing changing.
Four months, Zhao had calculated. Four months to show visible results before conservative opposition convinced Li Hongzhang the experiment had failed.
Four months to prove that reform could work.
"Well, Father," Zhao said, looking one last time at the stars. "Wish me luck. Because I'm going to need it."
He climbed back down into his room, where shipping manifests still sat on his desk beside Morrison's borrowed books on Western political economy. Tomorrow he'd start navigating the bureaucratic swamp. Tonight, he needed sleep.
Behind him, the stars continued their ancient patterns, marking time with indifferent precision while below, one young man tried to change the future by changing the past.