The British government's decision to increase the number of stationed troops in China was precise, calculated, and necessary.
The Far East, riddled with constant military conflicts, mirrored Europe in its relentless struggle for dominance.
Alliances shifted like shadows, each power testing the waters cautiously, preparing for the inevitable clash.
"A division of 500 soldiers... I'll have to tell my father about this," Ming mused, his thoughts racing.
Brian, ever skeptical, interjected. "But can a Chinaman really secure a supply contract with the military? Why would the commander choose a Chinese ship over our country's vessels?"
Ordinarily, Brian's doubt would have been valid.
Yet, Lyman, ever the strategist, saw the situation differently.
"No, precisely because he's not aligned with our nation, the commander might favor him."
Fang Ming's brow furrowed at the familiar mislabeling. "Wait a moment—Chinaman? I am not, nor will I ever be, Chinese! I'm Korean! If you can't manage that, just call me Korean.
I'd rather die than be mistaken for a Chinaman!"
Though Fang Ming spoke with fiery indignation, his frustration was less personal and more about necessity.
Being associated with China, especially given the atrocities the nation would soon commit, was a liability. Drawing a clear line now was essential to avoid being perceived as pro-China in the turbulent future.
"Oh, right," Brian said, laughing awkwardly. "You're from Korea, aren't you? Lyman, this kid's from that country I told you about—the one shaped like, well... my winter-shriveled—"
"Brian," Lyman interrupted sharply, "your crass analogies never fail to disgust me."
Fang Ming sighed inwardly. Koreans had always likened their homeland to the majestic tiger, yet here it was reduced to a vulgar jest.
"Regardless," Lyman continued, brushing aside the remark, "this commander won't use British ships for everything. How much has already been skimmed off the supply budget? He'll prioritize military transport for essential goods, but for general supplies and provisions, he'll look for the cheapest option—likely local Chinese ships. The official report will just claim it was an economical choice."
Brian glanced at his pocket watch and groaned. "It's nearly lunchtime! Lyman, we're going to be late. Time flies when you're talking with this kid. He's got that annoying Yankee charm but is still far more amusing than the gloomy folk back home!"
Lyman smirked. "Indeed. He's more engaging than one might expect from a boy his age. If your father truly qualifies, Fang Ming, tell him to apply for the supply contract. It might turn into a significant opportunity."
Fang Ming bowed slightly, his voice tinged with practiced gratitude. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be sure to inform my father. He'll be pleased to hear it involves the British military."
"Ah, there he goes again with the flattery," Brian laughed. "We're off, kid!"
As the two soldiers departed, Fang Ming leaned back against his shoeshine station, his thoughts whirring like a well-oiled machine. This was precisely why he couldn't abandon his humble trade. Every handshake, every casual conversation was a thread in the web he was weaving.
One day, he would delegate such networking tasks to trusted employees. But for now, it was his burden alone. Relationships, after all, were built on the exchange of equal value, and Fang Ming had yet to rise to a station where he could offer more than his ambition and charm. Lyman's suggestion wasn't a promise—it was a favor, an opening to act before others could.
By late afternoon, Fang Ming had visited the laundry workshop, the bakery, and the slaughterhouse that supplied their meat. The day slipped by like sand through his fingers, and when he finally returned home, the dim glow of twilight bathed the dining table where his father sat.
"I'm home, Father. Where's Yuna?" Fang Ming asked, setting down his bag.
"She went straight to bed after dinner. She wanted me to play with her all day, and after a bit of fun, she fell fast asleep," his father replied with a warm smile.
Fang Ming nodded, his chest tightening. Yuna must have cherished having Father home—an all-too-rare occurrence. The absence of their mother weighed heavily on her, and the little girl's longing for a complete family was a burden far too heavy for her small shoulders.
"Father," Fang Ming began, his voice steady but resolute, "I meant what I said this morning. There's no need for you to work under the Japanese any longer. In fact, I have something to show you."
He disappeared briefly into his room, returning with a wooden box and a handful of documents. Setting them before his father, he opened the box to reveal its contents—Qing silver ingots and coins, glittering like treasures from a legend. The documents detailed ownership of several plots of land.
"This... What is all this, son?" his father asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"This," Fang Ming said, "is the result of the work I've been doing."
The wealth before them far exceeded what his father had earned in over fifteen years. Fang Ming explained everything, from the businesses he had built to the strategies he employed.
His father listened silently, his expression shifting between awe and disbelief. When Fang Ming finally finished, the elder man exhaled deeply, his eyes glistening with pride.
"You have surpassed me, son. Where I have lived stubbornly, you have thrived intelligently. Your mother would have been proud."
Ming's heart clenched at the mention of his late mother. But he pressed on. "Father, I need your help. Your knowledge, your experience—it's invaluable. I can't do this alone."
His father hesitated. "But what can I offer? I've spent my life at sea, not in commerce. I know little of such things."
Ming shook his head. "You underestimate yourself. You're a scholar at heart, a man who mastered both Chinese and English out of sheer determination. Your understanding of the world is far greater than you give yourself credit for."
The elder man frowned but did not refute Ming's words.
"Father," Ming continued, his voice trembling with urgency, "this isn't just about business. The world is changing. Korea may fall within years, and the great powers are circling like vultures. We won't be welcomed anywhere—not in China, not in Japan, nor in the West. If we want to survive, if we want to protect our own, we must be strong."
His words hung heavy in the room, a chilling truth that could not be ignored.
Finally, his father spoke. "If my son needs my help, how can I refuse? Tell me what you need, and I will do everything I can."
Ming felt a surge of relief and determination. Though he couldn't bring himself to reveal the full scope of his plans—plans shaped by the grim reality of future wars—he knew this was the first step toward the future he envisioned.
In this chaotic world, survival meant embracing the storm. And to do so, Ming would sharpen his thorns, preparing for the battles to come.