World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

December 31, 1909, late at night.

Chen Feng stood in the central plaza of the newly built "Chinatown" No. 3 residential area. Six months ago, this was a wasteland, but now twelve four-story brick-concrete buildings stand, each housing sixty-four families. A flagpole stood in the center of the plaza, and the yellow dragon flag fluttered gently in the night breeze.

Thousands of people gathered in the square. There were workers who had just finished get off work, children returning home from school, vendors selling late-night snacks, and people like Chen Feng who just wanted to soak up the atmosphere.

Today is Lunar New Year's Eve.

It wasn't the Lunar New Year, but the eve of the Gregorian New Year. Lanfang adopted the Gregorian calendar as its official calendar, which was a symbol—they were a modern nation, not belonging to the Qing Dynasty, nor to any old era.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

The crowd began to count down. The voices were initially chaotic, then gradually became more unified. Different accents of Chinese—Fujianese, Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew—ultimately merged into a single word:

"Three! Two! One!"

"Happy New Year!"

(Happy cow!)

Cheers erupted. People threw hats, hugged those around them, and children screamed with excitement. A small band in a corner of the square began to play a modified version of "Jasmine Flower"—the melody was sped up, and harmonies from Western instruments were added, making it sound both familiar and strange.

Chen Feng didn't join in the cheers. He just stood there and watched. Uncle Wang stood half a step behind him. The old man had specially worn a newly made cotton robe today, but he still wore his old mandarin jacket that he had worn for many years over it.

"Young master, another year has passed," said Uncle Wang.

"Yes, another year has passed." Chen Feng looked at the cheering crowd. "In 1909... we delivered eight warships, completed the tenth dock, and the population exceeded 1.5 million."

"There are also 3,700 additional citizens of Arab ethnicity," Wang Bo added.

Chen Feng nodded. He thought of Elder Salman, and the Bedouins who had lived in the desert for hundreds of years, now citizens of Lanfang, holding blue ID cards, working in shipyards and railways, and their children attending school.

This wasn't part of his original plan. But it happened, and it happened well.

"Uncle Wang," he suddenly asked, "do you miss home? Do you miss that little fishing village in Fujian?"

Uncle Wang remained silent for a long time. So long that Chen Feng thought he wouldn't answer.

"I miss it," the old man finally said, his voice very soft. "I miss the big banyan tree at the village entrance, I miss the sunrise I saw every morning when I went out to sea, I miss the shrimp omelets my mother made. But..."

He paused:

"But it's also very good here. The people here come from all over the country; they're all people who have left home. When we're together, we keep each other warm and support each other, and slowly it becomes a new home."

Chen Feng looked at the crowd in the square. He saw a young mother holding her child, pointing at the stars in the sky and saying something; he saw an elderly couple walking hand in hand, the husband tightening his wife's scarf; he saw a group of workers who had just finished get off work eating noodles at a stall, chatting and laughing.

These people, who might have been complete strangers three years ago, came from all over the country. But now, they are neighbors, colleagues, and friends.

They are building a city, and they are also building a new "home".

"Young master," Uncle Wang said again, "look over there."

Chen Feng looked in the direction he was pointing. At the edge of the square, a group of children were playing a game in a circle—one child stood in the middle, counting with his eyes closed, while the other children hid. But when the child in the middle counted to ten and opened his eyes, all the children ran out of their hiding places, shouting, "Found you!"

The game was simple. But Chen Feng noticed that among the children playing were Chinese and two children of Arab descent. They communicated in broken Chinese, sometimes interspersed with gestures, but they were laughing happily.

"Their parents may not speak each other's language very well," said Uncle Wang, "but the children are already playing together."

Chen Feng felt a warm current surge in his chest. It was a sense of satisfaction deeper than delivering warships or building a shipyard.

Because warships may grow old and docks may break down, but the laughter of children will be passed down from generation to generation.

"Let's go," he said. "We're going back to the administration building. There's a New Year's meeting tomorrow."

The two left the square and walked towards their car parked on the street corner. Along the way, they passed a row of newly opened shops—a tailor shop, a general store, a pharmacy, and even a small bookstore. The shops were still lit up, and some shop owners were putting up Spring Festival couplets on their doors; although the Lunar New Year was still a month away, they were already impatient.

"Boss, Happy New Year!" A shop owner greeted Chen Feng. He didn't recognize him as the Grand Commander, taking him for an ordinary passerby.

"Happy New Year," Chen Feng replied with a smile. "How's business?"

"Great! We sold twenty sewing machines this month, all made in our own factory!" the shop owner said proudly. "We used to import them from Germany, but we don't need to anymore!"

Chen Feng nodded. Civilian industry was also beginning. Sewing machines, bicycles, clocks, simple household appliances… these seemingly insignificant products were the ones that truly improved people's lives.

As Chen Feng got into the car, he took one last look at the square. The revelry continued, the music still filled the air, and the children were still running around.

This is the oasis they built in the desert. No, it's more than just an oasis—it's a home, a hope, a seed.

"Let's drive," he said to the driver.

The car slowly started and drove towards the administration building. On the way, Chen Feng suddenly said, "Uncle Wang, next year... 1910. It's time to start preparing for the preliminary work of the 'Nanyang Plan'."

Wang Bo's body trembled slightly. He knew the weight of those four words—the ultimate meaning of Lanfang's existence.

"Young Master, isn't it... too early?"

"It's getting late." Chen Feng looked at the lights flashing past the window. "Three years of preparation, three years of implementation. In 1913, we will take the first step on our journey home."

"Where to go first?"

"Singapore," Chen Feng said with certainty. "There are 300,000 Chinese there, the world's third largest port, and a British base. We're going to establish our first overseas foothold there, not by force, but by trade, culture, and influence."

Wang Bo quickly considered the implications of this plan. Singapore was a British colony, but the majority of its population was Chinese. If they could establish a foothold there, it would be equivalent to setting up the first transit point on their way home.

"How much funding do you need?" he asked.

"At least five million pounds. It will be used to establish trading companies, schools, hospitals, and shipping companies. We want the Chinese in Singapore to know that there is a country called Lanfang waiting for them to come home."

"But the British won't stand idly by."

"So it takes skill," Chen Feng said. "It's not about brute force, it's about infiltration. Under the guise of business cooperation and cultural exchange, we gradually slip in. By the time the British realize what's happening, we've already established ourselves there."

The car stopped in front of the administration building. Chen Feng didn't get out immediately; he sat there, looking at the lights on inside. Many office lights were still on; some people were working overtime, others were preparing for the New Year.

These people trust him, follow him, and bet their future on him.

He cannot betray this trust.

"Uncle Wang," he said finally, "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, young master," said Uncle Wang, his voice slightly choked with emotion. "I will stay with you until the day we go home."

Chen Feng patted the old man's hand, then pushed open the door and got out of the car.

A biting wind swept over him, carrying the chill unique to a desert night. But he didn't feel cold, because a fire burned within him.

A fire that has been burning for three years and will continue to burn.

He walked into the administration building. The elevator went up and stopped at the top floor. The corridor was quiet, with only the echo of his footsteps.

Pushing open the office door, I saw the meeting documents for tomorrow already laid out on the desk. The title of the first document was: "Southeast Asia Expansion Plan (Draft) 1910-1913".

He sat down and opened the document. The first page was a map, stretching from the Persian Gulf to the Strait of Malacca, then to the South China Sea, and finally to Borneo. A red line marked the planned route.

The road is long. But no matter how long it is, we must walk it.

Because at the end of the road is home.

Faint singing drifted from the distant square outside the window. People were singing an old song; the lyrics were indistinct, but the melody was cheerful and full of hope.

Chen Feng put down the documents and walked to the window. He saw the myriad lights of Dubai Port, the searchlight beams in the dock area, and the campfires of Bedouin tribes in the distant desert.

Red ID card, blue ID card.

Chinese, Arab.

Shipbuilders, herders, teachers, and doctors.

Everyone is working towards the same future.

This is enough.

He returned to his desk, picked up his pen, and wrote on the title page of the proposal:

"1910. The seeds have sprouted, waiting for the flowers to bloom."

After finishing writing, he put down his pen and turned off the lamp.

The office was plunged into darkness, but the lights outside the window remained bright.