Zhao arrived at CMSNC headquarters early, before the full rush of clerks and managers descended on the offices. The building felt different in the morning quiet—less chaotic, but no less tense. Word had spread about yesterday's appointments, and the air practically hummed with anxiety and speculation.
He made his way to Deputy Director Huang's office. Whatever his new position under Li Hongzhang, he still technically worked for CMSNC, and proper procedure demanded a formal handover of his current responsibilities.
Huang's door was open. The Deputy Director sat behind his desk, reviewing documents with the same meticulous attention Zhao had observed before. But when Zhao knocked on the doorframe, Huang's expression was far from welcoming.
"Zhao Yunsheng." His tone was flat, offering neither congratulation nor curiosity. "I suppose you're here about your... reassignment."
"Yes, Deputy Director. I wanted to ensure a proper handover of my current work and—"
"There's nothing to hand over." Huang set down his brush with deliberate precision. "Your work consisted of reviewing manifests and filing reports. Any clerk can do that. In fact, I've already reassigned your duties."
The dismissiveness stung, though Zhao kept his face neutral. "I understand. Then I'll—"
"Do you understand?" Huang interrupted, his voice sharpening. "You and your friends—you think you've won something. Li Hongzhang's approval, fancy titles, authority to 'restructure' the company." He leaned forward. "But you're playing with fire. This company has operated for decades using established methods. Methods that work, that maintain stability, that keep powerful interests satisfied. You think you can overturn all that with clever plans and foreign ideas?"
Zhao met his gaze steadily. "We think we can make the company profitable again while serving China's interests."
"Profitable." Huang's laugh was bitter. "You children understand nothing about how power actually works in this country. Li Hongzhang won't protect you forever. Sheng Xuanhuai has connections you can't even imagine. And when you fail—and you will fail—everyone who supported you will discover just how unforgiving those connections can be."
"Is that a threat, Deputy Director?"
"It's a warning." Huang's expression was almost pitiful. "I've seen reformers come and go for twenty years. They all have the same confident expressions at the start. They all believe their intelligence and good intentions will triumph over entrenched interests. And they all end up broken or disappeared. I'm telling you this because despite your arrogance, you seem capable. Don't waste yourself on a doomed cause."
Zhao was silent for a moment. Then: "Thank you for the warning, Deputy Director. I'll keep it in mind."
"No, you won't." Huang returned to his documents. "Your generation never does. Dismissed."
Zhao left Huang's office, the warning echoing in his mind. The Deputy Director wasn't wrong about the dangers. But what he didn't understand—what he couldn't understand—was that some causes were worth the risk.
When Zhao arrived at Morrison's office, he found Yang Jirong already there, looking increasingly overwhelmed. The desk—Morrison's usually tidy desk—had disappeared beneath an avalanche of paperwork.
"Good morning," Zhao said.
Yang looked up, his expression somewhere between panic and exhaustion. "Morning? Is it still morning? It feels like I've been here for days."
Morrison was sorting through documents with characteristic British efficiency, creating organized piles. "Yang's discovering what 'Operations Director' actually means in practice. Every decision that was previously made informally through patronage networks now flows through him formally."
As if to emphasize the point, a clerk appeared at the door carrying another stack of papers. "Director Yang? These are the port scheduling requests for next week. They need your approval."
"Just... put them with the others," Yang said weakly.
The clerk did so, adding to one of several precarious stacks, then departed. Moments later, another clerk arrived with maintenance requisitions. Then another with crew assignment requests. Then another with cargo allocation disputes.
Zhao watched the parade of paperwork with growing understanding. This wasn't normal operational flow—this was deliberate obstruction. Every minor decision that could have been handled at lower levels was being pushed to Yang's desk, creating an impossible bottleneck.
"They're drowning you," Zhao observed.
"They're succeeding," Yang muttered. "I can't possibly review all of this. But if I approve things without reviewing them, I'm signing blank checks for corruption. And if I don't approve them, operations grind to a halt and I get blamed for incompetence."
Morrison set down the document he'd been reading. "It's a classic bureaucratic trap. Appear to cooperate while ensuring the reformer fails under the weight of procedures. Sheng's people are quite good at this."
"What do I do?" Yang asked. "I can't—" He gestured helplessly at the paper-covered desk. "This is just day one. If this continues for three months, I'll die buried under requisition forms."
Zhao opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He had ideas—delegate authority, establish clear approval thresholds, create streamlined procedures—but now wasn't the time. Yang needed to survive today before they could fix tomorrow's problems.
"I need to go," Zhao said instead. "Li Hongzhang expects me to report this morning."
"Of course," Morrison said. "Give His Excellency our regards."
As Zhao left, another clerk was arriving with more paperwork. Yang's groan followed him into the corridor.
_________
When Zhao arrived at the Viceroy's residence, he was informed by a secretary that Li Hongzhang was currently in a meeting with the British government representative in Tianjin. Captain Fu Weihong was also present. Zhao should wait.
So Zhao waited.
The residence's reception room was elegant but austere—calligraphy scrolls on the walls, simple but expensive furniture, the quiet sense of power that didn't need to announce itself. Zhao sat, watching servants move through with tea and documents, officials arriving and departing on various errands.
One hour passed. Then another. Then a third.
Finally, the study door opened. A British man in formal diplomatic attire emerged—late fifties, carrying himself with the particular confidence of someone representing an empire at its zenith. He nodded politely to the secretary, ignored Zhao completely, and departed.
Fu Weihong followed moments later, looking frustrated and tired. He spotted Zhao immediately and gestured him toward a corner of the room, away from servants and other officials.
"How long have you been waiting?" Fu asked quietly.
"Three hours."
"Sorry. That meeting..." Fu shook his head. "That was supposed to be about British support for naval reconstruction. It didn't go well."
Zhao kept his voice low. "What happened?"
Fu glanced around to ensure no one was listening, then spoke quickly: "Li Hongzhang was trying to gauge British attitudes toward warship orders and shipyard modernization. He wanted to know if we could count on British support for our naval program." He paused. "What we received instead was arrogance barely disguised as diplomatic courtesy."
"They refused?"
"Not refused—ignored. The minister made it clear that Britain doesn't believe the Qing government has credibility for major naval projects. Not after what happened with the Beiyang Fleet." Fu's voice carried bitter frustration. "But there's more. The minister mentioned—off the record, as a courtesy to Li Hongzhang based on their personal relationship—that Japan has been approaching Britain about an alliance."
Zhao felt his stomach tighten. "An alliance?"
"Preliminary talks, nothing formal yet. But the Japanese offer is straightforward: counter Russian expansion in Asia, provide naval support in Asian waters against British enemies, in exchange for British support of Japanese interests in China. The minister said Whitehall and Downing Street have shown interest."
Fu continued: "And here's the part that makes it real—Japan has already started placing orders with British shipyards. Large orders. They're using the indemnity money from the treaty to expand their navy with British-built warships. The minister was quite proud of the contracts British yards were securing."
Zhao's mind raced. The Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902—he knew it was coming, had always known. But knowing it historically and hearing about its preliminary negotiations as they happened were different experiences. The alliance had reshaped Asian power dynamics, essentially giving Japan a free hand in Korea and later facilitating their victory over Russia in 1905.
But it was 1895. He'd assumed the alliance negotiations would begin later, closer to 1900. The fact that they were starting now...
"Why were you at the meeting?" Zhao asked.
"Li Hongzhang wanted me to present preliminary plans for naval reconstruction to the British minister. To demonstrate we had serious technical thinking, not just political aspirations. He hoped that might convince Britain we were worth supporting." Fu's expression was grim. "The minister listened politely and made no commitments. I don't think he took us seriously at all."
Before Zhao could respond, the secretary approached. "Zhao Yunsheng? His Excellency will see you now."
Fu gripped Zhao's shoulder briefly. "Good luck. He's... not in a good mood."
Li Hongzhang's study looked the same as it had two days ago, but the man himself seemed older, more tired. The meeting with the British minister had clearly drained him.
"Sit," Li said without preamble.
Zhao sat.
"Captain Fu told you about our British friends' attitude?" Li's tone was sardonic.
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Then you understand the situation. The British see us as a dying dynasty, not a potential partner. The Japanese are offering them something we cannot—credibility, competence, a modernizing nation that actually executes its plans." Li leaned back. "What do you propose we do now that British support is unlikely?"
Zhao chose his words carefully. "I'll need to discuss it with the team, Your Excellency. But we should explore other partners—Germany, France, possibly America. Each has different advantages."
"Germany," Li repeated thoughtfully. "Interesting choice. They're ambitious, technologically advanced, and increasingly antagonistic toward Britain. But can we trust them?"
"Can we trust anyone?" Zhao countered. "Every foreign power pursues its own interests. The question is whether our interests align enough to create mutually beneficial arrangements."
Li smiled slightly. "Pragmatic answer. Good." He pulled out a sealed letter. "I'm leaving for Beijing in two days. I'll be gone at least a week, possibly longer. While I'm away, you have two assignments."
"Your Excellency?"
"First: Work with your team on implementation. You have four months to show results. I don't need you reporting to me every day with minor problems. Handle them yourself. I want to see what you can accomplish without constant supervision. If you can't function independently, you're not useful to me."
Zhao nodded. The message was clear—sink or swim.
"Second assignment." Li handed Zhao the sealed letter. "After I return from Beijing, you'll travel to Nanjing to meet with Zhang Zhidong, Viceroy of Liangjiang."
Zhao tried to keep surprise off his face. Zhang Zhidong—another towering figure of late Qing politics. A fierce advocate of the Self-Strengthening Movement, but also Li Hongzhang's bitter political rival.
"Zhang Zhidong?" Zhao kept his tone neutral.
"My allies in Beijing inform me he'll be appointed Viceroy of Huguang next year. He's someone who can be brought into this plan. If we can convince him to coordinate on industrial development—especially steel production and shipyard construction—he becomes a valuable ally rather than an obstacle." Li's expression hardened. "Zhang and I have... differences. But we both want China to survive foreign pressure. That shared goal is enough foundation for cooperation."
"What should I tell him?"
"Show him the industrial development plans. Emphasize the steel mills and arsenals—those are areas he cares deeply about. Don't mention the political complications with conservatives. Focus on technical capability and economic benefits." Li paused. "Zhang respects competence. If you demonstrate genuine understanding of industrial requirements, he'll listen. If you waste his time with vague aspirations, he'll dismiss you instantly."
Zhao accepted the letter, feeling its weight—both physical and symbolic. This was a test. Send the sixteen-year-old former dock worker to negotiate with one of the most powerful officials in the empire. If Zhao succeeded, it proved Li's judgment was sound. If he failed, Li could write it off as an experiment with minimal loss.
"I understand, Your Excellency."
"Do you?" Li's gaze was sharp. "Zhang Zhidong will see you as Li Hongzhang's proxy—and therefore someone to manipulate or undermine. He'll probe for weaknesses, test your knowledge, look for ways to use this collaboration against me politically. You need to be smarter than that."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
Li waved a hand. "Dismissed. I expect results in four months. Don't disappoint me."
Zhao bowed and left, the sealed letter heavy in his inner pocket.
___________________
In Shanghai, in a modern office overlooking the Bund, Japanese executives of Nippon Yūsen Kaisha studied reports about CMSNC's restructuring with interest.
The atmosphere was businesslike, efficient—the office of a successful commercial enterprise. Which, on the surface, it was.
"The reports from Tianjin?" Tanaka asked, setting down his teacup with precise movements.
His deputy consulted his notes. "Li Hongzhang has made several appointments—young men, mostly. There's talk of restructuring at China Merchants' Steam Navigation Company, though details are unclear. The Beiyang Group is mobilizing, but in what direction..." He shrugged. "Chinese politics remains opaque."
"It doesn't matter," Tanaka said calmly. "Whatever they're attempting will fail. Chinese reform projects always do. Too much corruption, too little coordination, too many competing interests pulling in different directions."
He stood, walking to the large map of China mounted on the wall behind his desk. His finger traced the coastline from Shanghai northward through the Shandong Peninsula to Tianjin, then continued to the northeast.
"Still," Tanaka continued thoughtfully, "we should respond proactively. Here—" he tapped the map at several points along the northern shipping routes "—increase our presence. Shanghai to Tianjin, Shanghai to Dalian, the coastal trade routes where Chinese operators are weakest."
"Expand operations?" his deputy asked.
"Carefully. Add vessels, improve service quality, maintain competitive pricing. Not a price war yet—just steady commercial pressure. Chinese shipping companies are already struggling with aging fleets and inefficient management. We simply need to accelerate their natural decline."
His deputy made notes. "Additional vessels will require substantial investment."
"We have the resources," Tanaka replied. "The indemnity funds are being put to good use. The Naval Ministry has placed significant orders with British shipyards—warships, of course, but that also means our commercial fleet can expand using the diplomatic and financial relationships those orders create."
"And the intelligence gathering?"
"Continues as planned." Tanaka returned to his desk, pulling out a folder. "We've established contacts in six major Chinese ports. Our 'commercial representatives' are mapping infrastructure, identifying military installations, and documenting administrative structures. When the time comes, we'll have comprehensive knowledge of Chinese coastal defenses and logistics."
He opened the folder, revealing detailed reports and sketched maps. "The Chinese are so focused on their internal political struggles that they barely notice foreign merchants operating in their midst. We're not even being subtle, and still they don't see us."
His deputy smiled. "Commercial access makes intelligence work remarkably easy."
"Indeed." Tanaka closed the folder. "Now, send updated instructions to our Tianjin office. I want weekly reports on any changes in shipping operations, port administration, or military movements. If Li Hongzhang's reforms actually produce anything substantive—unlikely, but possible—I want to know immediately."
After his deputy left, Tanaka stood alone in his office, looking at the map again. His finger moved to the three northeastern provinces—Manchuria—and rested there.
"In order to take over the world, you need to take over Asia," he recited quietly, words he'd memorized years ago during his training. "In order to take over Asia, you need to take over China. In order to take over China, you need to take over Manchuria and Mongolia."
The words were not poetry—they were strategy, doctrine, the guiding principle of certain elements within Japan's military and political leadership who saw continental expansion as inevitable, necessary, Japan's destiny.
Tanaka's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper: "If we succeed in conquering China, the rest of the Asiatic countries and the South Sea countries will fear us and surrender to us. Then the world will realize that Eastern Asia is ours."
He traced the railway lines extending into Manchuria, the ports along the Liaodong Peninsula, the vast resources of land and minerals that waited there. The region that had been contested between Russia and Japan during recent diplomatic maneuvering. The territory that would inevitably become the flashpoint for Japan's expansion.
But that was years away. For now, his role was simpler: establish commercial networks that could serve as intelligence infrastructure, map Chinese weaknesses, position Japanese interests to exploit future opportunities.
The shipping company was perfect cover. Who would suspect that a successful merchant manager was actually a military intelligence officer? Who would question a businessman documenting ports and shipping routes—information any trader would naturally collect?
Tanaka smiled slightly, turning back to his desk. His official title was Branch Manager, Nippon Yūsen Kaisha, Shanghai Operations. His actual role was quite different.
But the Chinese didn't need to know that. Let them struggle with their internal reforms and political battles. Let them exhaust themselves fighting corruption and bureaucratic inertia.
Japan would watch, wait, and prepare. And when the moment came—whether in five years or ten or twenty—they would be ready.
Tanaka sat down and began drafting his weekly intelligence report. Routine commercial information on the surface. But coded within the shipping statistics and port observations were details about Chinese military readiness, administrative capacity, and strategic vulnerabilities.
Information that would be filed away in Tokyo, added to growing dossiers, waiting for the day when commercial intelligence became military planning.
Outside his window, Shanghai's bustling port continued its endless activity—Chinese sailing shipw alongside Western steamships, Japanese vessels mixing seamlessly with the international traffic. All perfectly normal, perfectly innocent.
Just business.
By evening, exhaustion and frustration had settled over the team like fog. They gathered at Zhao's rented house—crowded, uncomfortable, but private. His mother and sister had discreetly withdrawn to their room, leaving the main space for the meeting.
Yang Jirong looked like he'd aged a decade in one day. Tan Wei's normally meticulous appearance had frayed at the edges. Even Morrison's British composure seemed strained.
"Let's start with problems," Morrison said, pulling out his notebook. "What did everyone discover today?"
The floodgates opened.
Yang spoke first: "I can't process the paperwork volume. Every minor decision is being pushed to my desk—things that should be handled at lower management levels. It's deliberate obstruction. If I approve everything quickly, I'm enabling corruption. If I review everything carefully, operations halt and I'll be blamed for incompetence."
Tan continued: "The Finance Ministry is demanding expanded budget justifications. They want line-item explanations for every projected expense, cross-referenced with historical precedents, certified by three separate department heads. It could take weeks to compile."
Xu Mingzhe spoke up: "I received three separate requests this morning for 'additional documentation' on the franchise legal frameworks. Each request was technically legitimate but clearly designed to delay implementation. Sheng Xuanhuai's people are already starting bureaucratic warfare."
"That's the strategy," Jinliang said quietly. "They're not refusing our requests. That would be too obvious. They're just making each step take longer, require more documentation, and depend on more approvals. Death by procedure."
Chen Weiming added: "Middle and lower management won't cooperate. They're not openly refusing—that would be too obvious—but they're moving at glacial speed. Everything requires 'additional review' or 'coordination with other departments.' Simple tasks that should take hours are taking days. And based on what I'm hearing from my merchant contacts, foreign competition is about to get much more aggressive. The Japanese are planning something."
Fu Weihong's frustration was visible: "I received notification about the naval academy. Approval to recruit instructors and begin curriculum development. But there's resistance. Senior Beiyang officers are not happy about my appointment. They're questioning whether someone who was dismissed from service should be training the next generation.I spoke with Yan Fu—he's interested and supportive, but he alone can't push this forward against senior officer resistance."
"Of course they are," Morrison said. "You represent everything they failed at. Your success makes their failure more obvious. They'll obstruct you however they can."
"I'm prepared for that. I think." Fu didn't sound entirely certain.
Fu and Xu exchanged glances. "And we're probably not getting British support," Fu continued. "The meeting today made that clear. Britain doesn't think we're credible. We'll need to find alternative partners—Germany, France, possibly America—but that means redesigning our naval vessel models and partnership structures."
Jinliang spoke again: "I can potentially convince Manchu middle-class nobles to invest, but I face two problems. First, they need proof of concept—they want to see existing ship owners succeeding under the franchise model before committing their own money. Second, even if they invest, it takes years to build and launch new ships. That doesn't solve our immediate timeline pressure."
"Wonderful," Yang muttered. "Anything else? Plagues? Floods? Foreign invasion?"
"Don't tempt fate," Morrison said. "But yes—we're facing opposition from every direction. Which means we need to prioritize ruthlessly. We can't fight every battle simultaneously. So: what are the absolutely critical things we must accomplish in three months?"
Silence as everyone thought.
Zhao spoke first: "The franchise system needs at least ten active participants showing measurable operational improvement. That proves the concept works."
"Naval academy needs to open with the first class of students," Fu added. "Even if it's small—thirty students. We need to demonstrate it's real, not just planning documents."
"Budget transparency," Tan said. "If we can show clean books and clear expense tracking, that undermines accusations of corruption before they gain traction."
"Legal frameworks need to survive their first challenge," Xu said. "When someone disputes a franchise agreement or claims unfair treatment, our resolution process needs to work correctly. One successful case establishes precedent."
"We need visible Chinese success stories," Chen said. "Not just foreign advisors telling us what to do, but Chinese workers and operators succeeding under the new system. That's what changes public perception."
Anything else?"
"Survive Sheng's sabotage without compromising our principles," Yang said. "If we descend to his level—corruption, favoritism, backroom deals—we become what we're trying to replace. We have to stay clean while fighting dirty opponents."
"That's going to be the hardest part," Jinliang said. "Because staying clean in the Chinese bureaucracy is like staying dry in a monsoon. The system is designed to make corruption necessary."
"Then we change the system," Zhao said.
"In four months?" Tan's skepticism was palpable.
"We will start changing it in four months," Zhao corrected. "We show it's possible to operate differently. We demonstrate that merit-based hiring works, that transparent accounting prevents fraud, that standardized procedures reduce arbitrariness. One successful example doesn't transform China—but it proves transformation is possible."
There was a long silence. Then Morrison spoke:
"Right. We're attempting something that hasn't succeeded in China for... ever, really. Everyone knows we'll probably fail. Most expect us to fail. Some are actively trying to make us fail. But we're going to try anyway because the alternative is accepting that nothing can ever improve."
He raised his teacup. "To attempt the impossible."
"To attempt the impossible," the others echoed, raising their cups.
After they drank, the moment of solidarity faded, replaced by the weight of impossible odds. The room settled into heavy silence.
Fu said quietly: "Li Hongzhang isn't going to help us, is he?"
"No," Morrison confirmed. "He's going to watch us struggle. Let us face the bureaucracy, the opposition, the foreign competition—all of it. If we survive, we've proven ourselves. If we don't..."
"Then he learns we weren't worth the investment," Zhao finished. "It's actually a good strategy from his perspective. He's risking minimal resources on an experiment. If it succeeds, he gets a functioning franchise system and the beginning of naval reconstruction. If it fails, he cuts losses and tries something else."
"That's not encouraging," Yang said.
"It's honest," Zhao replied. "Which means we understand our situation clearly. No false hopes about cavalry riding to our rescue. We succeed on our own merits or not at all."
The negativity spread like contagion. Even Morrison's usual pragmatism seemed exhausted. They'd been confident yesterday, energized by approval and authority. Twenty-four hours of reality had crushed that confidence.
Yang's voice was quiet, almost defeated: "Maybe Huang was right. Maybe we're playing with fire. Maybe this is doomed."
"We haven't even implemented the plan yet," Tan said. "And already we're stuck. How do we move forward when every direction is blocked?"
Zhao had been watching faces throughout, observing body language, noting who spoke and who remained quiet. The defeat in the room was palpable—these capable people were reduced to despair by a single day of bureaucratic warfare.
He let the silence stretch for another moment, then stood and walked to the small blackboard Yang had brought from his office.
"Li Hongzhang will only give us four months," Zhao said, picking up chalk.
"We know," Yang replied tiredly. "That's the problem."
"No." Zhao began writing on the board. "The problem is you think you're alone. You think you have no allies, no resources, no way forward. You're wrong."
That got their attention. Heads came up, exhaustion giving way to curiosity.
Zhao divided the board into two columns: ALLIES and ENEMIES.
"Whenever there are reforms or changes," Zhao said, still writing, "you cannot succeed by fighting old interest groups alone. You need to support new interest groups who benefit from reform. Counter the old interests with new ones."
He turned to face them. "During the Warring States period, Shang Yang reformed Qin through exactly this strategy. He allied with the king, giving him centralized power. He supported new nobles who gained status through the new laws, creating a faction that benefited from reform and would defend it against old nobility. He didn't just fight the old system—he built a new coalition that was stronger."
Fu and Jinliang were leaning forward now, understanding beginning to show on their faces.
Zhao drew a line dividing the board further: FRANCHISE PROBLEMS | NAVAL PROBLEMS
"Let's solve these systematically." He looked at Yang. "Who were the biggest losers when bureaucrats controlled the company?"
Yang blinked, processing the question. "The... the former merchant faction. Xu Run's group. They lost control when the company was bureaucratized."
Zhao wrote FORMER MERCHANTS under ALLIES. "Who else?"
"Foreign-educated Chinese who came back with technical skills but were ignored in favor of well-connected incompetents," Morrison added.
FOREIGN-TRAINED TECHNICAL STAFF joined the allies column.
"Who else?" Zhao pressed. "In the middle and lower ranks—are there people like you? Capable but sidelined due to nepotism and lack of connections?"
Yang nodded slowly. "Yes. Quite a few actually. I've worked with several clerks and junior managers who are competent but have no advancement prospects because they lack patronage."
UNDERAPPRECIATED CAPABLE STAFF went on the board.
Zhao turned back to Yang. "There's your solution. You're not alone. Xu Run's merchant faction knows how to handle bureaucrats—they've been fighting that battle for years. Give them the paperwork obstruction problems. Let them use their established relationships and slippery commercial expertise to navigate bureaucratic warfare. They're good at it."
He pointed to the second group. "Foreign-trained staff understand Western operational methods. Put them in charge of modernizing procedures, implementing new systems, and bringing technical expertise to operations. They'll be motivated because you're finally giving them roles that use their training."
Then the third group: "The underappreciated clerks and junior managers—promote them. Give them authority they've never had. Make it clear their advancement depends on reform succeeding, not on building patronage networks. They'll work harder than anyone because you're offering them something the old system never would."
Yang was staring at the board, expression transforming from defeated to thoughtful.
"But how do we get current staff to cooperate?" Tan asked.
Zhao looked at Xu. "New employment contracts. Draft them for everyone—upper management to dock workers. Everything legal, based on performance standards clearly outlined in the franchise plan. Include non-performance clauses that allow termination for obstruction or corruption."
"No one will sign contracts that threaten their positions," Chen objected.
"Make it attractive," Zhao countered. "Offer five percent salary increases to everyone who signs. Frame it as modernization—updated contracts, clear expectations, better compensation. Most people will sign because they need the money and don't expect the performance standards to actually be enforced."
He smiled slightly. "But once they've signed, you have legitimate grounds to remove people who actively sabotage reform. Not political persecution—just enforcing the contracts they agreed to. Legal, transparent, defensible."
Xu was already taking notes. "That... that could work. It would take a week to draft comprehensive contracts, but it's achievable."
Zhao moved to the NAVAL PROBLEMS section. "Same strategy. Fu, who in the navy wants reform but can't advance under the current system?"
Fu thought. "Officers who studied abroad but can't get senior positions because they lack patronage. Mid-level officers with competence but no connections. Lower-ranking sailors who want training and advancement opportunities the current system doesn't provide."
Zhao wrote those groups in the naval allies column. "The academy is their opportunity. Frame it that way. This isn't about replacing the old guard—it's about creating paths for people who would never have chances otherwise. The first batch of students should come from the existing navy. Share the future with the current establishment to build allies inside the system."
He turned to Jinliang. "Manchu nobles need proof of concept before investing. We can't provide that immediately. But we can provide something else—an opportunity to get in early on what might become very profitable. The ones who invest first get the best terms, the most advantageous positions."
"They're still going to want some evidence of viability," Jinliang said.
Zhao pulled a newspaper from the desk—that day's edition of a British paper published in Tianjin. He found the article he'd noticed earlier and held it up.
"Second Boer War tensions," he said. "The article mentions that the German Emperor supports the Boer claim to an independent republic. He's providing military aid. He's also planning naval armaments to build Germany's colonial empire."
He set down the paper. "Germany wants to challenge British global dominance. They need opportunities to demonstrate their technical superiority, to undermine British influence. We give them that opportunity."
Everyone was listening intently now.
"If Britain won't support us," Zhao continued, "we will turn to Germany. They're the leading power in technology, machinery, and scientific rigor. They want to prove themselves on the world stage. We offer them a chance: help modernize China's navy and industry, and they get a showcase for German superiority over British systems."
He looked at Jinliang. "But to convince Germany we're serious, we need to show market demand. Start gathering letters of intention from Manchu nobles for new vessels. Not guarantees, not immediate purchases—just formal interest. Get as many as possible. Show the Germans there's a real market for their shipyards."
"Letters of intention might not be enough—" Jinliang began.
"Target Han Chinese nobles too," Zhao interrupted. "Wealthy merchants, landowners, anyone with capital who might invest. Convince who can be convinced. And for those who need... stronger encouragement..." He paused delicately. "Mention that this is a policy pushed by Prince Gong, who's positioning for a political comeback. Some nobles will sign just to curry favor with a potentially resurgent faction."
"That's manipulative," Jinliang said, but he was smiling slightly.
"It's practical," Zhao corrected. "Get the letters of intention by any means necessary. The more, the better."
He turned to Fu and Xu. "Start preparing for German negotiations. Fu, will work with Yan Fu and Fujian shipyard designers on vessel specifications that match German construction capabilities. Xu, build negotiation frameworks—what we're willing to concede, what we must retain, how we structure technology transfer to ensure we're not permanently dependent."
Zhao looked at everyone and said, "Public opinion is the sea in which we sail. We can't command it—but we can shape the current. Every article, every rumor, every success story moves it a little closer to our side."
Finally, he looked at Chen and Yang. "For the next week, publish the complete franchise plan in every major Chinese and foreign newspaper. Every day for seven days. Explain the benefits for merchants, the competitive advantages, the transparent fee structures. Make it impossible for ship owners not to know about this opportunity."
"We need visible Chinese success stories, as Chen said. Not just foreign advisors telling us what to do, but Chinese workers and operators succeeding under the new system. That's what changes public perception."
"That's expensive," Tan objected.
"It's necessary," Zhao replied. "We need volume. Ten franchise participants in three months? We're not going to get there through individual outreach. We need mass awareness."
He continued: "Also publish hiring advertisements. Fresh blood—people not connected to old patronage networks. And Xu, see if you can recruit someone from newspaper offices who understands editing and publishing. We need professional presentations, not amateur announcements."
Zhao was thinking what else can be done, and finally added
"Complaint boxes," Zhao said. "Physical boxes at every major port office. Anonymous submissions welcome. Workers, merchants, anyone can describe real problems they face. That tells us what actually needs to change at ground level, not what we assume needs changing."
He stepped back from the board, which was now covered in writing—problems broken down, allies identified, concrete action steps assigned.
The room was silent. But it was a different silence from before—not defeat, but calculation. People were thinking, evaluating, beginning to see paths forward where moments ago they'd seen only obstacles.
Morrison spoke first: "That's... comprehensive. You just solved problems in ten minutes that we thought were insurmountable."
"I didn't solve them," Zhao corrected. "I identified allies and strategies. You still have to execute. But you're not alone. You never were. You just weren't seeing the people who need this to succeed as much as you do."
Fu was studying the board with professional interest. "This is essentially political coalition-building applied to commercial and military reform. Support those who benefit from change, isolate those who lose from it, make the coalition stronger than the opposition."
"Exactly," Zhao confirmed.
"Where did you learn this?" Jinliang asked quietly. "This kind of strategic thinking—most officials spend decades developing it. You're sixteen."
Zhao chose his words carefully. "I read history. I pay attention to what worked and what failed. The principles are consistent—it's just applying them to current circumstances."
There was more to it than that, obviously. But that answer would suffice.
Yang stood, moving closer to examine the board. "This could actually work. If we execute correctly—if we build these coalitions, implement these strategies—we might actually break through the obstacles."
"It won't be easy," Zhao warned. "Every step will face resistance. But now you have a framework. You know who your allies are, how to leverage them, what concrete actions to take."
Tan was already making calculations. "The newspaper campaign will cost approximately two hundred taels for a week of advertisements across major publications. The salary increases for contract signing—that's affordable if we limit it to current staff and don't extend to new hires immediately. The German negotiation trip—"
"Will wait until we have the letters of intention," Xu finished. "No point traveling to negotiate until we can demonstrate serious market demand."
Morrison stood, stretching tired muscles. "Right. We have a plan. Actual, concrete steps forward. Now we just need to execute before Sheng figures out what we're doing and adapts his obstruction tactics."
"He will adapt," Zhao said. "But by then we'll have built momentum. The key is moving fast enough that we're always two steps ahead of his countermeasures."
As the meeting broke up, assignments distributed, people began filing out. The mood was dramatically different from when they'd arrived—still tired, but no longer defeated. There was purpose now, direction, the sense that obstacles were just problems waiting for solutions.
Fu paused at the door, looking back at Zhao. "You're leaving for Nanjing when Li Hongzhang returns?"
"Yes. Meeting with Zhang Zhidong."
"That's going to be difficult. He's not someone who's easily impressed."
"I know." Zhao smiled slightly. "But that's a problem for next week. This week, we have enough to handle."
After everyone left, Zhao sat alone in the quiet room, looking at the blackboard covered in his writing. The allies column was longer than the enemies column. That was encouraging.
But he knew what the others didn't: they had four months to prove reform could work, but the broader historical trend was running against them. The Qing dynasty was declining. The Anglo-Japanese Alliance would form. The Boxer Rebellion would erupt. The dynasty would fall within sixteen years.
Could reform change any of that? Zhao honestly didn't know.
But tonight, watching defeated people transform into determined people, seeing concrete strategies replace vague despair—tonight, he allowed himself to believe it might be possible.
"One step at a time," he muttered to himself. "Solve today's problems. Build today's coalitions. Tomorrow can wait."
He erased the board carefully, preserving the notes in his memory. Tomorrow the real work began.
Tomorrow, they'd start building something new.