The morning sun had barely risen when Morrison arrived at Zhao's house, looking unusually grim. He carried a stack of papers—newsletters, internal memos, reports from various CMSNC offices.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble, spreading the documents across Zhao's small table. "The bureaucrats are winning the information war."
Zhao scanned the papers. Internal company notices described the "restructuring" in the worst possible terms: foreign interference, dismantling of traditional management, untested theories from inexperienced outsiders. One memo warned employees that their positions were at risk. Another suggested the reforms were a plot to sell company assets to foreigners.
"This is from yesterday?" Zhao asked.
"Started circulating late afternoon, after we left." Morrison pointed to another document.
"This one's worse—it's spreading to neutral parties. Middle managers who weren't initially opposed are now questioning whether to support us. The bureaucrats are framing this as reckless experimentation that threatens everyone's livelihood."
Chen Weiming arrived moments later, equally troubled. "The merchant community is hearing similar stories. That we're dismantling profitable operations, that the franchise system is a scheme to extract fees while providing nothing in return. Even merchants who might have been interested are hesitating."
Yang appeared next, looking like he hadn't slept. "Three of my junior managers—people I thought were supportive—requested transfers this morning. They're afraid of being associated with a failing project."
The room fell silent. The propaganda campaign was more effective than any of them had anticipated. Sheng Xuanhuai's people weren't just obstructing—they were actively poisoning the well, making it impossible to build support.
Zhao looked at the documents again, then at the faces around him. "We accelerate. Morrison, you reach out to the old merchant faction today. Xu Run's people, everyone who lost power when the company was bureaucratized. Offer them what they want most—a chance to get back at the bureaucratic group that sidelined them."
"They'll want more than revenge," Morrison said.
"Then give them more. They can invest in franchise licenses, operate ships under the new system, earn legitimate profits while helping us succeed. Frame it as both opportunity and payback." Zhao turned to Xu Mingzhe. "You have friends from your time in Britain—foreign returnees now working in various positions?"
Xu nodded slowly. "Tang Shaoyi's circle, mostly. We studied together before I was called back. They're in the Beiyang setup now—administrative positions, technical roles. Why?"
"Because they came back to change China and found themselves trapped in the same corrupt system they hoped to reform."
Zhao's voice was firm. "Contact them. Remind them of those ideals. Offer them a real chance to make a difference. We need foreign-educated Chinese who understand both Western methods and Chinese realities. And we need them now, before the propaganda convinces everyone we're doomed."
Xu was quiet for a moment. "There's one person in particular. Liang Qichao's student, actually—Shen Dunhe. We were close in London. He returned two years ago with economics and political theory, expected to contribute to modernization. Instead, he's stuck processing paperwork in the Customs Service."
"Will he listen?"
"If anyone will, it's Shen. He's frustrated, idealistic, and smart enough to recognize a real opportunity." Xu straightened. "I'll contact him today. If he agrees, he can help gather others from the foreign returnee circle."
"Good." Zhao looked at Chen.
"We need to counter the propaganda immediately. That means the newspaper campaign starts today, not next week. Can you arrange it?"
"If we can write the advertisements this morning, I can place them by afternoon," Chen said. "But we need someone who understands persuasive writing—not just facts, but emotional appeal. Someone who can make merchants see opportunity instead of risk."
"Jinliang mentioned someone," Zhao said, pulling out a note. "Wu Tingfang—he's an editor at Shenbao. Major newspaper, wide circulation. We need to negotiate advertising rates anyway, and Jinliang said Wu might know professional copywriters who could help us craft the message properly."
The Shenbao offices in Tianjin were modest compared to their Shanghai headquarters, but still impressive—a Western-style building with large windows and the constant sound of printing presses rumbling from below. The smell of ink and paper hung heavy in the air.
Wu Tingfang met them in a small conference room lined with past editions of the newspaper. He was in his late forties, wearing a Western suit with a traditional Chinese collar—a man who understood both audiences his newspaper served. His eyes were sharp, assessing them with the practiced evaluation of someone who dealt with commercial clients daily.
"Jinliang's recommendation carries weight," Wu said after introductions, gesturing for them to sit. "He mentioned you need advertising placement—significant placement, from what I understand. And help with copywriting?"
"Seven consecutive days," Chen said. "Full placement in Shenbao and whatever partner publications you can arrange throughout the major port cities—Tianjin, Shanghai, Guangzhou."
Wu's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's an expensive commitment. And ambitious." He pulled out a rate sheet. "For Shenbao alone, prominent commercial section placement for seven days would run one hundred fifty taels. Our partner network—Shanghai headquarters, Guangzhou affiliate, smaller publications in port cities—could push the total to three hundred taels for full coverage."
Chen nodded without flinching. "Acceptable, provided we get the reach we need."
"You'll get it. Shenbao reaches every merchant who matters." Wu set down the rate sheet. "Now, what are you advertising?"
Zhao and Chen explained the franchise system carefully—the transparent fee structures, the operational support CMSNC would provide, the opportunity for independent ship owners. Wu listened intently, occasionally making notes.
When they finished, Wu tapped his pen thoughtfully. "This is substantial. Not just a simple commercial notice—this is a major policy announcement that needs to persuade skeptical merchants to trust a government-connected company. The copy needs to be professional, persuasive, and credible."
"That's why we need a copywriter," Zhao said. "Someone who understands commercial communication and can frame this properly."
Wu smiled slightly. "You're in luck. I have someone excellent—Zhang Jian. He's been writing commercial copy for us for five years. Before that, he was a juren, passed the provincial examinations but chose journalism over continuing to the metropolitan exams. He understands both classical education and merchant psychology—rare combination."
"Is he available?" Chen asked.
"He works in this building. Let me fetch him." Wu stood and left.
He returned several minutes later with a man in his early thirties. Zhang Jian wore a simple scholar's robe, ink-stained at the cuffs, and carried a worn notebook. His expression was curious but measured—someone who'd learned to evaluate commercial projects skeptically.
"Zhang Jian, these gentlemen need professional copy for a major advertising campaign," Wu explained. "China Merchants' Steam Navigation Company—new franchise system. Seven days, full network placement."
Zhang's eyebrows rose. "The franchise system everyone's talking about?" His tone carried both interest and skepticism. "The one that's supposedly going to revolutionize Chinese shipping?"
"The same," Zhao said calmly. "Though 'revolutionize' might be ambitious. We're aiming for 'significantly improve.'"
That drew a slight smile from Zhang. He sat, opening his notebook. "All right. Tell me what you're actually offering, not what the rumors say."
They spent the next twenty minutes explaining in detail. Zhang's questions were sharp, probing—testing whether they understood their own proposal, whether the terms were realistic, whether merchants would find value. Wu observed quietly, occasionally offering perspective on what had worked in previous commercial campaigns.
"What's the historical precedent?" Zhang asked. "Chinese merchants won't trust something entirely foreign. They need context—proven methods adapted, not untested experiments imported."
Chen and Zhao exchanged glances. "We were hoping there might be something," Zhao said carefully. "Some Chinese commercial tradition that parallels this system."
Zhang was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then his expression brightened. "Ming Dynasty salt administration. The government licensed merchants to transport and sell salt across the country. Merchants bought the rights from the government, operated under government oversight, but kept the profits from their operations. The system worked for over two centuries—it was one of the most successful commercial regulatory frameworks in Chinese history."
"That's perfect," Chen said, leaning forward. "The concept is nearly identical—government oversight with private operation and profit."
"Exactly," Zhang confirmed, making rapid notes. "Most merchants won't know Ming commercial policy in detail, but they'll recognize it as Chinese tradition. And those who do their research will see the legitimate parallel."
He looked up. "If we frame this as reviving successful Chinese practices rather than importing Western innovations, we reduce resistance significantly. It's not radical foreign experimentation—it's returning to proven Chinese methods."
Zhao felt a surge of satisfaction. This was exactly the angle they needed—positioning the franchise system within Chinese historical context, making it familiar rather than threatening.
For the next hour, they drafted together. Zhang's classical education showed in elegant phrasing, but Zhao kept pushing for clearer, more direct language.
"Merchants don't read like scholars," Zhao explained. "They need to understand immediately—what it costs, what they get, why it's better than alternatives. Clarity over elegance."
Zhang found this approach fascinating. "You sound like someone who's actually sold things."
"I've watched merchants work," Zhao said carefully. "The successful ones are very good at explaining value."
Chen added practical details—what merchants worried about, what features attracted them, what objections they'd raise. Wu contributed observations about placement and context—how the advertisement would appear alongside shipping schedules and cargo prices.
"It needs to feel like legitimate commercial opportunity, not political announcement," Wu said. "Merchants will see it during their normal business reading. It should fit naturally there."
The final version emerged through collaborative refinement:
OPPORTUNITY FOR SHIP OWNERS
Following the proven model of Ming Dynasty salt administration, China Merchants' Steam Navigation Company now offers operational franchises for independent vessels.
What you receive:
Access to CMSNC's established shipping routes and customer networks
Standardized cargo handling and port scheduling reducing delays
Insurance coordination and legal support for commercial disputes
Technical maintenance standards improving vessel reliability
Transparent fee structure: 15% of cargo revenue, no hidden charges
What you retain:
Complete ownership of your vessel
Freedom to accept or refuse specific cargo assignments
All profits beyond the franchise fee
Independence from bureaucratic management
This is not foreign innovation—this is Chinese commercial tradition adapted for modern shipping. Proven methods, transparent terms, mutual benefit.
Interested ship owners: Contact CMSNC Operations Office, Tianjin Port, attention Director Yang Jirong.
Zhang read it over one final time, making minor adjustments to balance classical elegance with commercial directness. "This is strong. Historical credibility in the opening, clear terms in the middle, compelling close. It should get attention."
"Will it get actual responses?" Yang asked.
"That depends on whether merchants believe CMSNC will honor these terms,"
Zhang said bluntly. "I can write persuasive copy, but if there's no substance behind it, elegant phrasing won't convince experienced merchants to risk their capital."
"The terms are legally binding," zhao said.
"We are drafting contracts that mirror every promise in this advertisement. Anyone who signs will have legal recourse if CMSNC fails to deliver."
Zhang studied Zhao for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll stand behind this copy."
He turned to Wu. "Placement schedule?"
Wu consulted his notes. "Tomorrow morning's Tianjin edition. I'll wire Shanghai headquarters—they can run it in their afternoon edition same day. Partner publications will take one more day to coordinate. By day after tomorrow, this will be in every major commercial newspaper along the coast."
"Perfect," Chen said. He looked at Wu.
"Terms? Half payment now, half after campaign concludes?"
"Standard for major clients," Wu agreed.
"And gentlemen—" he looked at each of them "—I hope this succeeds. Shenbao supports commercial modernization. China needs successful reform examples."
"We intend to provide one," Zhao said.
Morrison's destination was a tea house in the merchant quarter, one of the establishments where business was actually conducted—not the elegant places where officials pretended to relax, but the practical locations where merchants made deals and exchanged information.
He'd sent word ahead through his contacts. Three men were waiting when he arrived—former associates of Xu Run, the merchant who'd once controlled CMSNC before the government bureaucratized it in the 1870s. Twenty years had passed, but their resentment remained fresh.
The eldest was Fang Dechang, now in his sixties but still sharp-eyed and active in shipping investments. The other two were younger—Zhou Mingshan and Hu Yanqing, both in their forties, both running smaller shipping operations that competed with CMSNC.
"Morrison," Fang said without preamble after tea was served. "Your message mentioned 'rectifying historical injustices.' Interesting phrase from a British merchant."
Morrison smiled slightly. "I've been in China long enough to understand what happened to the merchant faction. You built CMSNC into a profitable operation, then had it taken away by bureaucrats who ran it into the ground. That's not justice. It's theft disguised as government policy."
The three merchants exchanged glances. Zhou spoke next: "We've heard about these reforms. Young men with ambitious plans, foreign ideas, claims about modernization. We've heard these promises before. They always benefit the bureaucrats, never the merchants."
"These aren't bureaucrats," Morrison said.
"Yang Jirong was stuck processing paperwork because he lacked connections. Zhao Yunsheng started as a dock worker. They have no love for the system that sidelined them—just like you have no love for the system that stole your company."
"So they're different," Hu said skeptically.
"That doesn't mean they'll succeed. The bureaucratic faction is entrenched. They've been sabotaging operations for twenty years. What makes you think a few young reformers can change that?"
"Because we're not asking you to trust government promises," Morrison replied.
"We're offering you a chance to profit while making the bureaucrats look incompetent. The franchise system puts operational control back in merchant hands—your hands, if you're willing to invest. You get to run ships the way you know they should be run, keep most of the profits, and watch the bureaucratic faction fail to stop you."
That got their attention. Fang leaned forward. "Explain the terms. Specifically."
Morrison did, pulling out copies of the preliminary franchise agreement Xu had drafted. He walked them through every clause—the fifteen percent fee, the operational support, the independence from bureaucratic management, the legal protections.
The three merchants read carefully, occasionally asking sharp questions. These weren't naive investors—they were experienced operators who'd survived decades of cutthroat commerce.
"This could work," Zhou said finally. "If—and this is critical—if the company actually provides the support you're promising. Access to established routes, cargo coordination, legal backing. If you deliver that, the fifteen percent fee is reasonable."
"We'll deliver it," Morrison said. "Yang Jirong is competent. Xu Mingzhe knows commercial laws inside and out. They're not bureaucrats playing at business—they are binding everything they do with legal support and legal frameworks."
"And the bureaucratic faction?" Fang asked.
"They'll fight this. Obstruct operations, delay approvals, create administrative nightmares. How do you plan to handle that?"
Morrison smiled. "That's where you come in. You've operated in this system for forty years. You know which officials can be reasoned with, which ones need financial encouragement, and which bureaucratic obstacles have workarounds. We need that knowledge. We're trying to stay clean, but we're not naive—we know the system requires certain... accommodations."
"You want us to handle the bribes you can't be seen paying," Hu said bluntly.
"I want you to navigate the bureaucracy the way experienced merchants do," Morrison corrected. "We focus on clean operations and transparent accounting. You focus on making sure bureaucratic delays don't kill us before we can prove the system works. Division of labor."
The three merchants were quiet, considering. Then Fang spoke:
"Xu Run is too old to participate actively, but I've spoken with him. He says if we can hurt the bureaucratic faction while making legitimate profits, we should do it. He wants to see merchants control CMSNC again before he dies—even if it's not direct control, just meaningful participation."
"So you'll invest?" Morrison asked.
"Two franchises," Zhou said. "I have two vessels that could operate under this system. If the terms hold for six months, I'll add more."
"One franchise initially," Hu added. "I need to see it work before committing more capital."
Fang nodded.
"And I'll coordinate with other merchant faction members. There are at least a dozen former associates who'd be interested if the terms are genuine. We can probably bring you eight to ten franchise participants within a month."
Morrison felt satisfaction settle over him. Ten franchises—enough to prove the system worked, enough to demonstrate viability to other potential investors.
"There's one more thing," Fang said. "Your bureaucratic obstruction problems—give us specific examples. We can't fix everything, but we can solve many administrative delays through established relationships.
The bureaucrats may control the formal hierarchy, but we know who actually makes decisions at ground level."
"I'll compile a list," Morrison said. "Yang's drowning in approval requests that should be routine but are being deliberately delayed. If you can unstick even half of them, it would help enormously."
"Consider it done," Zhou said. "We've been waiting twenty years for a chance to get back at the bureaucratic faction. We're not missing this opportunity."
After the meeting concluded and the merchants departed, Morrison sat alone for a moment, allowing himself a rare smile of satisfaction. Three immediate franchise commitments, potential for ten more, and experienced operators who knew how to navigate bureaucratic warfare.
They were building something. Slowly, but genuinely.
Xu Mingzhe found Shen Dunhe exactly where he expected—buried in a back room of the Customs House, surrounded by ledgers and tariff schedules, calculating import duties with the mechanical precision of someone whose mind was vastly underutilized.
"Shen," Xu said from the doorway.
The man looked up, and his expression transformed from bureaucratic blankness to genuine surprise. "Mingzhe? What are you—" He glanced around the empty office, then lowered his voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Rescuing you from tariff calculations," Xu said. "Can you take a break? I need to talk to you about something important."
Shen glanced at the stacks of paperwork, then at Xu's serious expression. "This better be worth it. I'm already behind on my quota."
"Trust me," Xu said. "It is."
They found a quiet corner in a nearby tea house, away from other officials and clerks. Shen looked older than when Xu had last seen him two years ago—not in appearance, but in demeanor. The enthusiastic reformer who'd left for Britain had returned as a tired bureaucrat.
"You look terrible," Xu said bluntly.
Shen laughed bitterly. "Thank you for the assessment. You'd look terrible too if you spent three years studying economics and political economy at the London School of Economics only to return and spend two years calculating tariffs on cotton imports."
"That's why I'm here." Xu leaned forward. "Do you remember what we talked about in London? Late nights in the student lodgings, arguing about how to modernize China, debating whether reform was possible?"
"I remember thinking we'd come back and change things," Shen said quietly. "I remember believing our education would matter, that we'd be given opportunities to apply what we learned. I was naive."
"You weren't naive. You were right about what China needs. You were just wrong about how to achieve it." Xu paused. "What if I told you there's a real opportunity now? Not theoretical reform debates, but actual implementation. A chance to do something meaningful."
Shen's expression was guarded. "I've heard these promises before. 'Great opportunities for talented young men.' They always turn out to be more bureaucratic positions doing work any clerk could handle."
"This is different." Xu pulled out the franchise plan documents. "Li Hongzhang has authorized a complete restructuring of China Merchants' Steam Navigation Company. We're implementing a franchise system, modernizing naval operations, building new administrative structures. It's real, it's funded, and it's happening now."
He spent the next twenty minutes explaining everything—the appointments, the four-month timeline, the opposition they faced, and the desperate need for capable people who understood both Western methods and Chinese realities.
Shen read through the documents, his expression shifting from skepticism to genuine interest. "This is... ambitious. Possibly insane. Who's leading this?"
"Yang Jirong as Operations Director—he's competent, practical, stuck in low-level positions for years because he lacked patronage. I am handling commercial. And there's Zhao Yunsheng..." Xu paused.
"He's sixteen, former dock worker, but he thinks like someone who's studied institutional reform for decades. I don't understand how, but he's the strategic mind behind much of this."
"A sixteen-year-old former dock worker is designing institutional reforms?" Shen's skepticism returned.
"That sounds absurd."
"It is absurd," Xu agreed. "It's also working. He's the one who suggested I contact you, actually. He said we need foreign-educated Chinese who came back with ideals and found themselves trapped in bureaucratic tedium. He said those people would be motivated because we're offering what the current system never will—a chance to actually use their education for something meaningful."
Shen was quiet for a long moment, staring at the documents. "What specifically would I do?"
"Whatever you're best at," Xu said.
"Economics ? Administration? We need systems designers who can create efficient procedures. Political economy? We need people who understand how institutional incentives work and can design structures that reduce corruption."
"And the compensation?"
"Competitive salary, better than the Customs Service. More importantly, actual authority to make decisions and implement changes. You won't be calculating tariffs—you'll be building something new."
Shen's hands were shaking slightly as he held the documents. Not from fear, but from something that looked like desperate hope.
"I thought I'd spend the rest of my career in that back room, watching my education become irrelevant, growing old calculating import duties while China falls further behind. You're telling me there's an alternative?"
"I'm telling you there's an opportunity," Xu corrected. "It might fail—the opposition is substantial, the timeline is brutal, and we're attempting something that hasn't succeeded in China before. But if it works, we'll have proven that reform is possible. That capable people can succeed based on merit rather than connections. That China can modernize."
"And if it fails?"
"Then we'll have tried, which is more than most people can say." Xu's voice was firm. "But I didn't come back from Britain just to watch China stagnate. I came back to change things. I've spent two years stuck in legal paperwork, watching incompetent officials make terrible decisions, feeling my skills atrophy. This is my chance to do something real. I'm taking it. The question is—are you?"
Shen was quiet for another long moment. Then: "Yes. When do I start?"
"Tomorrow, if possible. Come to the CMSNC offices, ask for Yang Jirong. We'll find where you fit best." Xu paused. "And Shen—you know other returnees. People from Tang Shaoyi's circle, foreign-educated Chinese stuck in various bureaucratic positions. Can you contact them? We need as many capable people as possible."
"I can reach out to about twenty people," Shen said. "London graduates mostly, but a few from American universities. They're all frustrated, all underutilized. If you're serious about this opportunity, they'll listen."
"We're serious," Xu confirmed. "Gather whoever's willing. Not everyone will want to take the risk, but those who do—we'll find positions for them."
After they parted, Xu stood outside the tea house for a moment, watching Shen walk away with something like purpose in his stride. Two years of bureaucratic tedium, reversed in a single conversation.
This was what Zhao had meant about building coalitions. These weren't abstract political calculations—these were real people who'd been waiting for exactly this opportunity, who would work harder than anyone because they finally had something worth working for.
Xu felt something he hadn't felt since returning from Britain—hope that reform might actually be possible.
The first edition appeared the next morning in the Tianjin Shenbao, prominently placed in the commercial section where merchants checked shipping rates and cargo availability. By afternoon, it had appeared in Shanghai's edition. By evening, across six more publications in the newspaper's partner network.
Zhao spent the day at CMSNC's offices with Yang and Chen, watching reactions. Employees read the advertisement with varying degrees of skepticism. Some ignored it entirely. Others studied it carefully, though their expressions remained guarded.
But no one came to inquire.
Chen made rounds through the merchant quarter, listening to conversations in tea houses and trading offices. He returned at midday with his report:
"Mixed reactions. Some merchants are intrigued by the Ming Dynasty precedent—Zhang's historical reference is working. Others think the terms are too good to be true. Most are waiting to see if anyone else commits first. Classic merchant caution."
"Any hostile reactions?" Yang asked.
"Some. A few merchants close to Sheng's faction are spreading counter-rumors—that the franchise system is a scheme to extract fees while providing nothing, that CMSNC will change terms after merchants invest. The usual."
Zhao had expected this. "We counter those rumors with visible success. Once we have operating franchises showing actual profits, the rumors become irrelevant."
The afternoon brought Morrison's report on the merchant faction meetings. Three immediate commitments, potential for ten more—exactly the kind of foundation they needed.
Then Xu arrived with Shen Dunhe in tow, looking more energized than Zhao had seen him in weeks. "Zhao, meet Shen Dunhe. London School of Economics, and political economy. He's joining us."
Shen studied Zhao with undisguised curiosity. "Xu says you're sixteen and designing institutional reforms. That seems... improbable."
"It is improbable," Zhao agreed. "But improbable things happen more often than people expect. Welcome to the project. What are you best at?"
The directness seemed to surprise Shen, but he recovered quickly. "Systems design. Creating efficient procedures, understanding how institutional incentives drive behavior, identifying bottlenecks in administrative processes."
"Perfect. Yang's drowning in approval requests that should be routine but are being deliberately delayed. We need someone who can design streamlined procedures that reduce arbitrary bureaucratic delays while maintaining accountability. Think you can do that?"
Shen's expression transformed from curious to determined. "Yes. Absolutely. When do I start?"
"Tomorrow morning. Come to Yang's office, he'll show you the current chaos. Your job is to make it less chaotic."
After Shen left to handle final matters at the Customs House, Xu reported on the broader returnee recruitment: "He can reach about twenty foreign-educated Chinese. Not all will join, but he thinks at least ten will be genuinely interested. Engineers, administrators, technical specialists—exactly what we need."
The pieces were coming together. Merchant faction support, foreign-trained talent, professional advertisements running across the coast. But still no direct franchise applications.
The evening brought more newspaper editions, more placements across different cities. Yang had compiled a list of every publication where their advertisement appeared—seventeen different newspapers in eight cities. Unprecedented visibility for a commercial announcement.
Still, no inquiries.
The second day followed a similar pattern. More advertisements, more conversations in the merchant quarter, more waiting.
Morrison reported two additional merchant faction members expressing interest. Shen returned with three of his returnee contacts, all eager to escape bureaucratic tedium.
But no franchise applications.
By evening, the mood in Yang's office was tense.
"Two days of expensive advertisements," Tan said quietly, reviewing the expenditures. "Three hundred taels spent. Zero direct responses."
"The merchant faction commitments count," Morrison countered. "We have five solid verbal commitments already."
"Verbal commitments aren't the same as outside merchants reading an advertisement and deciding to participate," Yang said. "If the only people who join are those we directly recruit, we're not creating a sustainable system—we're just building a small coalition."
Zhao was reading through the latest newspapers, studying not just their advertisement but the surrounding content. Commercial notices, shipping schedules, cargo prices. Then he saw it—a small article about Japanese shipping companies expanding operations in northern routes, offering competitive rates and reliable service.
"We have competition we haven't discussed," Zhao said, showing them the article. "Japanese companies are actively recruiting cargo during the same period we're trying to attract franchise partners. Merchants are comparing our proposal to other options, not just evaluating it in isolation."
"That's not encouraging," Yang muttered.
"Actually, it is," Zhao countered. "It means merchants are thinking seriously about their shipping arrangements. They're not dismissing us out of hand—they're comparing us to alternatives. That's better than being ignored. It means we're being taken seriously enough to evaluate."
A clerk entered hesitantly. "Director Yang? There's a... telephone call? From Shanghai. Someone asking about the franchise system."
Everyone froze. The telephone was still a novel technology, expensive and rare. Someone calling long-distance from Shanghai about a newspaper advertisement—that was serious interest.
Yang practically ran to the telephone in the main office. The others followed, crowding around as Yang picked up the receiver.
"Hello? Yes, this is Director Yang Jirong... Yes, the franchise system advertisement in the Shenbao... From Shanghai? ... Twenty years in coastal shipping... Three vessels currently operating Shanghai-Ningbo routes... I see... Yes, we can absolutely arrange a meeting... Next week in Tianjin would be excellent... Yes, Director Xu Mingzhecan provide preliminary information if you need it sooner... Thank you for your interest, Mr. Chen."
He set down the receiver slowly, looking stunned.
"That was Chen Shuheng," Yang said. "He operates three medium-sized steamships in Shanghai-Ningbo routes. He read our advertisement in the Shenbao Shanghai edition, found the terms interesting, and wants detailed information. He's coming to Tianjin next week to discuss terms personally."
The room erupted in relieved excitement. One inquiry wasn't a commitment, but it was proof that someone was listening, that the advertisement campaign was working, that merchants outside their immediate recruitment circle were taking them seriously.
Zhao felt tension he hadn't fully acknowledged drain away. They had four months to prove reform could succeed. They'd just spent two days wondering if anyone would even respond to their offers.
Now they had their first serious inquiry from a merchant who'd read a newspaper advertisement and decided the opportunity was worth investigating.
"One," Morrison said, smiling. "Nine more to go for your target."
"We'll get them," Zhao said with more confidence than he'd felt an hour ago. "This is just the beginning. The advertisements run for five more days. If one inquiry came in after two days, more will follow."
Xu Mingzhe was already making notes. "I'll prepare detailed materials for the meeting with Chen Shuheng. Specifications, route access, operational procedures, legal protections—everything a serious merchant would want to review."
"And I'll have contracts ready," Xu added. "Customizable based on his specific needs, but standardized enough to ensure consistency."
As everyone dispersed, energized by the breakthrough, Zhao remained in Yang's office, looking at the map of China's coast on the wall. Shanghai to Tianjin.
Tianjin to Dalian. The shipping routes that connected China's economy, currently dominated by foreign companies and struggling Chinese operators.
They had four months to change that. Two days down. One hundred eighteen to go.
But tonight, with one telephone inquiry from a Shanghai ship owner who'd read their advertisement and decided to investigate, with merchant faction support building, with foreign-trained talent joining the project—tonight, the impossible felt slightly less impossible.
Zhao walked to the window, looking out at Tianjin's port. Ships moved in the harbor, cargo was loaded and unloaded, the endless activity of commerce continued regardless of politics or reform efforts.
Somewhere out there were merchants reading their advertisements, calculating risks and opportunities, deciding whether to trust this new system. Some would dismiss it. Some would wait for others to commit first.
But some—like Chen Shuheng in Shanghai—would see genuine opportunity and act on it.
That was enough. For now, that was enough.
"Day two," Zhao murmured to himself. "One hundred eighteen to go. We're making progress."
He turned from the window and headed home. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new advertisements, hopefully new inquiries. But tonight, they'd proven something important:
People were listening.
And that meant they had a chance.