World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

July 14, 1906, noon.

The desert heat distorted the air. Chen Feng stood beside an open-top jeep, gazing at the distant Gobi Desert—the site of the tenth large shipyard. Uncle Wang stood behind him, holding a large black umbrella, its shadow shrinking into a small ball on the sand.

"Young master, they've arrived," Uncle Wang said in a low voice.

A caravan of camels appeared on the horizon. About twenty camels, lined up in a loose column, their bells jingling in the hot wind. The riders wore traditional white robes, red and white checkered headscarves, and scimitars at their waists.

Chen Feng straightened his sweat-soaked collar. Today, he had deliberately worn a simple khaki shirt and trousers, instead of his signature Zhongshan suit. This was a gesture—not as the president, but as a neighbor, as a negotiator.

The camel caravan stopped thirty meters away. Leading the caravan was an elderly man in his sixties, with a white beard and a face etched with wrinkles by the desert winds. He dismounted the camels with surprising agility, landing almost silently.

"Elder Salman," Chen Feng greeted in Arabic, his pronunciation a little stiff, but clear enough.

The old man's deep eyes sized up Chen Feng, then he smiled, revealing a few gold teeth: "Mr. Chen, you are younger than I imagined."

"You are more dignified than I imagined," Chen Feng said, a polite phrase that Wang Wenwu had taught him.

The two shook hands. Salman's palms were rough like sandpaper, but his grip was light, a sign of respect.

"Then let's get straight to the point." Salman pointed to the Gobi Desert. "My people have grazed their livestock in this desert for three hundred years. Now, you want to dig a... huge pool here?"

"It's not a pool, it's a dock," Chen Feng explained. "A place where warships are built."

"Warships," Salman repeated the word, his Arabic uttered with an old Bedouin accent, "those iron ships as big as mountains?"

"Yes."

"Can they help you get home? Back to your homeland across the sea?"

The question was direct. Chen Feng paused for a moment, then nodded: "Yes. Without them, we can't go back."

Salman gazed silently at the vast desert. A hot wind whipped up sand, creating a thin veil between them. His people sat quietly on their camels, waiting. These people had lived in the desert for countless generations, understanding the language of the wind and the whispers of the sand, but now they faced steel, steam engines, and a completely different civilization.

“Mr. Chen,” Salman finally spoke, “my grandson is ten years old. He studies at the school you run, learning math and your language. Yesterday he asked me, ‘Grandpa, why do we live in tents while the people in the city live in stone houses?’”

Chen Feng waited for the next part to be said.

"I can't answer him," Salman said. "Because my father lived in a tent, my grandfather lived in a tent, and we've lived in tents for generations. But times have changed. There are factories that emit smoke in the desert, railway tracks, and electric lights that are brighter than the stars at night."

He turned around and looked at Chen Feng:

"My people discussed it for a long time. Some said we should stay away from you and preserve our traditions. Some said we should ask you for more money and then move to a deeper part of the desert. But I said—no."

"So what do you want to do?" Chen Feng asked.

Salman took a deep breath, the hot desert air filling his parched lungs:

"We want to join you."

The words, spoken in Arabic, had an ancient and somber syllable. Wang Bo's translation was a beat slow, because he needed to confirm that he hadn't misheard.

"Join... Lanfang?" Chen Feng repeated.

"Yes," Salman nodded. "It's not about moving into your houses, not about abandoning our faith and traditions. It's about... becoming part of this new nation. Our children can attend your schools, our patients can receive treatment in your hospitals. And we can help you as guides, as guards, and as doing what's necessary for survival in the desert."

He paused, then added:

"Of course, the land still belongs to us. But we are willing to share it with you—not rent, not sell, but share it."

Chen Feng remained silent. He gazed at the desert elder, at those eyes that had seen through decades of wind and sand. This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a well-considered one. An ancient nomadic people, facing the impact of industrial civilization, chose to embrace it rather than flee from it.

"Elder Salman," Chen Feng said slowly, "Lanfang is a Chinese country. Our laws, language, and culture are all designed with the Chinese as the main body."

“We know,” Salman said. “We are not asking for these things to change. We are only asking to be treated as one of our own. Not as guests, not as outsiders, but as one of our own.”

That means obeying our laws.

"As long as it does not violate God's teachings."

"You have to pay taxes."

"We can use camels, wool, and guide services to offset the cost."

"You must serve in the military—if the country needs you."

Salman laughed, this time revealing all his gold teeth: "Mr. Chen, my people are the best warriors. We grew up in the desert, and everyone knows how to use a knife, a gun, how to track, and how to survive. If you need soldiers, we are more suitable than city dwellers."

The conversation paused here. The hot wind continued to blow, and the camel bells jingled. On the distant construction site, the pile driver had already begun working, its dull thuds like the heartbeat of the earth.

"Uncle Wang," Chen Feng said in Chinese, "what do you think?"

Wang Bo folded his umbrella, letting the desert sun shine directly on his face. The old man squinted and answered Salman directly in Arabic:

"Elder, I am over sixty years old this year. In my hometown, there is an old saying: 'Those who have sweated together are brothers.' Are you willing to sweat with us?"

Salman looked at Uncle Wang, the old man who always stood silently behind Chen Feng. He nodded.

"We're already sweating it out. My three sons work on your railway, ten hours a day, and they earn enough to feed our whole family. This isn't charity; it's what we earn with our sweat."

"Very well." Uncle Wang turned to Chen Feng. "Young Master, I think it's acceptable. But there must be rules."

Chen Feng looked at Salman again: "Elder, if we accept this, we need to establish some rules."

"Please speak."

"First, all tribal members who join Lanfang must register their identity. We will issue ID cards—but for distinction, Chinese ID cards are red, and Arab ID cards are blue. This is not discrimination, but a management necessity. Red and blue are both national colors."

Salman thought for a few seconds: "Okay."

"Second, you must learn basic Chinese. You don't need to be fluent, but you should be able to understand simple instructions and have daily conversations."

"Our children are already learning."

"Third, your religious freedom will be preserved, but religious activities must be conducted within the scope of the law."

"That's natural."

"Fourth," Chen Feng paused, "and most importantly—you are citizens of Lanfang, enjoying all civic rights and bearing all civic obligations. This means that when this country is in danger, we must defend it together. When this country develops, we must build it together."