Chapter 465: Warmth in Winter

Moscow's winter night is like a piece of black velvet soaked in icy water, tightly and solidly wrapping this bewildered megacity.

The minus‑20‑degree chill solidifies the air, even the halos of streetlights appear stiff and dull.

The red star atop the Kremlin's spire still shines, but it has lost its once‑breath‑taking deterrence, looking instead like an outdated medal pinned to an old coat.

The streets are empty, only the snow‑laden cold wind whistles tirelessly, sweeping past the cold façades of the grand buildings, carrying away the last trace of the old era's warmth.

In a Khrushchev‑style apartment block in West City whose outer wall is peeling, a near‑scorching atmosphere emanates, starkly different from the biting cold outside.

On the fifth floor, a cramped two‑room apartment is filled with smoke so dense it seems solid.

On the table, the floor, and even the worn sofa armrests lie sheets of paper of various sizes.

Some are standard blueprint sheets, their lines as precise as spider webs.

Some are yellowed tracing papers, their edges already cracked and curled.

More are draft sheets filled with complex formulas and scrawled Russian, stacked layer upon layer, piled like a mountain.

The air mixes the smell of low‑grade tobacco, stale paper, and a faint sourness from uncleaned human bodies.

Chen Jianghe sits on the only relatively intact wooden chair, his padded coat unbuttoned, a fine sheen of sweat beading on his forehead.

He clutches several sheets just pulled from a file folder, his fingers blanching slightly from the effort.

The drawings depict a complex cooling airflow design for a certain aircraft engine turbine blade, the lines so dense they make the eyes spin, with annotations full of specialized abbreviations and symbols.

Opposite him sit two guests who have just been "invited" here.

One is an elderly man, hair completely white, wearing thick‑lensed glasses: Vasily Petrovich, former senior researcher at the Central Fluid Dynamics Research Institute.

The other is a middle‑aged balding man with deep eye bags, Aleksey, a dismissed laboratory director from a Special Materials Research Institute.

Both wear faded old sweaters, their faces weary, yet their eyes retain the stubborn gleam characteristic of scholars.

"Mr. Vasily, Mr. Aleksey," Chen Jianghe begins, his voice steady and unhurried, ensuring each word passes accurately through the nervous translator beside him, "We mean no offense. Time is tight. We need to verify the completeness of these drawings and… their transferability."

Vasily lifts his clouded eyes, glances at the few sheets in Chen Jianghe's hand, then scans the mountain of paper filling the room.

"Those are draft aerodynamic calibration data for the Phase‑III renovation of TSAGI's (Central Fluid Dynamics Research Institute) Number 7 wind tunnel… at least fifteen years old," the elder's voice is dry, like sandpaper, "Complete? The institute's archive is probably a mouse nest now. Transferable? Hah, they're just a pile of waste paper, like us."

His tone is laced with self‑mockery and melancholy.

Aleksey is more blunt; he rubs his reddened frozen hands: "Sir, the 'compensation' you mention… is it hard currency? Dollars? Or German marks? My wife needs a medicine that only West German pharmacies carry…"

"Both are available," Chen Jianghe interrupts, setting the drawings aside, reaching into an inconspicuous cloth bag at his feet, pulling out two thick kraft‑paper envelopes and placing them before the two.

The envelopes are unsealed, a corner of green‑gray dollar bills peeking from the edges.

"This is the first consulting fee. Please help us, from all this," he gestures at the roomful of papers, "to sift out the truly core‑valuable, relatively complete drawings, experimental data, and process manuals. Set your own standards. For each verified item, there will be additional remuneration."

Vasily and Aleksey exchange a glance, each seeing the tremor and struggle in the other's eyes.

The money would be enough for them and their families to endure this endless harsh winter, even solving some pressing survival problems.

But…

It amounts to personally cataloguing and packaging parts of the motherland's (even if it no longer exists) technological heritage and handing them to outsiders.

"We… need time to consider," Vasily's voice drops further.

"You have no time."

Chen Jianghe's tone remains calm but carries an undeniable chill: "The American‑run 'Eastern Technology Recovery Company' yesterday 'invited' three aerodynamics experts from the Rukovsky Institute for a 'discussion.' The German 'Europa Technology Foundation' is, under the banner of 'protecting cultural heritage,' contacting the administrators of the Lenin Library Science Archive Department."

He pauses, looking at the scientists' faces turn instantly pale.

"I'm not threatening. I'm merely stating facts. This knowledge is like gems fallen on an ice field. If you don't pick them up, someone else will in the next second. The difference is we are willing to pay a reasonable price and promise—these technologies will be used solely for civilian development."

The room falls into dead silence.

Only the endless whine of the wind outside the window persists.

Vasily trembles as he lifts the envelope before him, weighing its heft.

Very heavy.

He closes his eyes, inhales a deep draught of foul air, and when he opens them again, only a hollow fatigue remains in his gaze.

"From which pile shall we start?" he asks, his voice flat.

Aleksey also silently takes the other envelope, stuffing it into his chest as if it were a red‑hot coal.

"Start with the aircraft engines and special materials," Chen Jianghe stands, signaling the assistant nearby to begin work, "Hard work, both of you. Food and water will be delivered. Until completion, for safety, you may not leave."

This is not a request.

The two nod silently, moving toward the mountain of drawings, as if walking toward their own execution ground, yet also toward the only possible redemption.

Almost simultaneously.

Ukraine, Nikolaev, on the edge of the massive Black Sea Shipyard complex, inside an abandoned fire‑equipment warehouse, the atmosphere is equally eerie.

No drawings.

Only people.

Twenty‑some men of varying ages, all gaunt and pale, eyes filled with startled doubt, sit or stand in silence.

Most still wear old work clothes bearing the shipyard's badge, though long since stained beyond repair.

The air carries a heavier scent of sweat and rust.

In the warehouse's center a small fire burns on a pile of scrap wood, orange‑red flames flickering, barely dispelling the chill and casting wavering shadows on each face.

Ivanovich stands by the fire, not wearing his usual respectable wool coat but a bulky local worker's garb, his face even smeared with some engine oil.

Yet his hawk‑like eyes still scan each person present with sharp precision.

"Engineers, technicians, master craftsmen," he begins, speaking accented yet fluent Russian, his voice modest but clearly rising above the crackle of burning wood, "The plant hasn't paid wages for three months. The canteen shut down completely last week. The union chairman ran to Odesa yesterday with the last bit of relief funds."

His words cut like cold knives, splitting the harsh reality.

A suppressed stir and a few painful sighs rise from the crowd.

"The Americans came to the Factory Director's office, saying they want to buy the half‑built hull of the 'Ulyanovsk' aircraft carrier as scrap metal."

Ivanovich continues, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather, "The Germans also arrived, eyeing the few giant gantry cranes in the shipyard. The Japanese are the most cunning; they care only about what's in your heads and hands—special welding techniques for pressure‑resistant submarine hulls, precision machining secrets of large ship gears, installation and debugging experience of aircraft carrier catapult rails…"

With each sentence he spoke, the crowd's commotion grew a little more.

Anger, humiliation, despair.

"Their offers aren't low." Ivanovich shifted his tone, "The Americans offer, senior engineers earn five hundred dollars a month, family members can apply for visas. The Japanese promise to send core technicians to Hiroshima for training, with food and lodging provided, plus a bonus."

He paused, letting those numbers ferment in the cold air.

Then, he slowly pulled a stack of documents from his pocket.

Not dollars.

They were clearly printed contract drafts and color-printed albums.

"We, the Wanxiang Group from the East, offer another alternative." He handed the contract and album to the nearest old welder.

"The monthly salary starts at three hundred fifty dollars, adjusted according to skill level. Work location: Shenzhen, China, Wanxiang Heavy Industry Shipbuilding and Marine Engineering Research Institute. Family members can relocate; the company assists with paperwork and provides transitional housing. Children's education: the group has cooperative schools."

The old welder took it trembling, squinting at the colored page by the firelight.

It showed a neat, bright modern workshop, advanced welding robots, and a group photo of workers in uniform smiling broadly.

Compared to the cold, dilapidated warehouse before them, filled with despair, it was like two different worlds.

"What we want is not scrap iron, nor to take you as disposable tools."

Ivanovich's voice rose a bit, carrying a strange persuasive power, "What we want is the decades of experience accumulated in your minds, the 'magic' in your hands that makes steel obey. We want in China to rebuild, even upgrade, the shipbuilding industry you once took pride in. You are not going to work for wages; you are going to be teachers, founders!"

He pointed to those equipment in the album.

"These machines need you to teach them how to work. The young Chinese workers need you to guide them hand-in-hand, how to weld two steel plates seamlessly, how to lift ship sections weighing thousands of tons without the slightest error!"

"The salary may not be as high as what the Americans offer."

Ivanovich said frankly, "But we offer a career, a legacy, the chance for your skills and names to continue living, even flourish, on another land that longs for the sea."

Silence.

A long silence.

Only the fire crackled.

Several older technicians had red rims around their eyes.

They feared neither hardship nor fatigue, and not even poverty.

What they feared was that the skills they had spent a lifetime learning, which they regarded as part of their lives, would be completely obliterated with the country's collapse and factory closures, forgotten by all.

"I... I'll sign." The old welder spoke first, his voice hoarse yet unusually firm, "My son had his leg broken by a falling steel plate in the workshop; I have no money to treat him... I want to take him somewhere his leg can be healed. I also want to pass on my secret skill of 'helium-arc welding single-side double-side forming'; I cannot take it to the grave."

"I'll sign too!" An engineer responsible for marine engine installation stood up, "The Germans only want my notebook, the Japanese only want to pump me for information. You at least... still talk about building a new shipyard. I'll go with you!"

With a leader, the crowd surged like a breached dam.

One by one, names were solemnly signed on the contract.

One by one, hands covered in old calluses, oil stains, and scars pressed their prints.

Ivanovich carefully collected each contract, feeling little joy, only a heavy responsibility.

He knew that what he was taking away was not just twenty-something top-tier shipbuilding artisans.

But also the last fragment of the technical soul of a world-class shipyard.

When the artisans of Nikolayev pressed their handprints onto the contract.

In that smoke-filled Moscow apartment, the screening work had already proceeded more than halfway.

Vasily and Aleksey entered a kind of selfless work state.

Once the psychological defenses were breached by the combined chill of reality and the warm current of money, professional instinct quickly took over.

They rapidly flipped through, sorted, and commented, at times whispering debates about the reliability of certain data, at times uttering short exclamations upon discovering a complete key experimental report.

Chen Jianghe stood silently to the side, his heart shaken.

These two down-and-out scientists, once they entered their field, immediately exuded a focused and powerful aura.

Their eyes were like the most precise scanners, able to quickly identify genuine gold from massive chaotic information.

"This! The full-process vacuum smelting record of K-32 special high-temperature alloy, including parameters of seventeen failures and the final successful pre-furnace adjustment details! A priceless treasure!" Aleksey excitedly raised a thick stack of record paper, his hands trembling.

"And this... the complete set of wind tunnel simulation data for wing flutter of the early-model Tu-160, including all attempts made at the time to solve transonic buffeting... This is something Americans would dream of!" Vasily also found a tightly sealed file wrapped in oilcloth.

Suddenly, Vasily's movement stopped.

He stared at a sheet of paper with burnt edges and somewhat blurred ink, his face turning extremely strange.

It seemed to be an extremely rough conceptual sketch, depicting a peculiarly shaped aircraft, with radical aerodynamic ideas and question marks noted beside it.

"This is..." Vasily murmured, "This is a crazy concept by Academician Mikhail Simonov (note: chief designer of Sukhoi Design Bureau) in his youth, about applying 'forward-swept wing' to tactical aircraft... just a casual discussion sketch he doodled, never included in formal development plans. How could it be here?"

Chen Jianghe's heart stirred.

Forward-swept wing?

He vaguely recalled that this seemed to be a technology adopted only by some later advanced fighters.

"Is it valuable?" he asked.

"The theoretical value is great, but the engineering difficulty is extremely high; the Soviet Union never truly invested in its development." Vasily shook his head, "This is more like... a child's drawing of scientific fantasy."

Chen Jianghe, however, took that "child's drawing," examined it carefully, then solemnly placed it into a nearby file folder marked "Special Theoretical Concepts."

"Sometimes, the most avant-garde 'fantasy' is more worthy of collection than the most mature 'reality.'" He said softly.

Vasily stared at him blankly, as if for the first time truly sizing up this mysterious Eastern "drawing purchaser."

In the early morning hours.

The screening work was nearing its end.

The essential parts were organized into a dozen or so sealed waterproof and shockproof document boxes.

The remaining, duplicate or low-value data were temporarily piled in a corner.

Vasily and Aleksey slumped in their chairs, exhausted, eyes vacant, as if they had just gone through a soul-wrenching battle.

Chen Jianghe handed over hot tea and a new, thicker envelope.

"Thank you both for your professional work. Here is the subsequent remuneration. Also," he took out two pre‑prepared documents, "this is the 'Specially Invited Senior Researcher' appointment letter from our Wanshang Research Institute. If you ever wish to change environments and continue your research, we are always welcome. Of course, this is merely an invitation; no decision is required now."

They took the appointment letters, stared at the bilingual Chinese‑Russian terms and generous benefits, and were speechless for a long while.

Outside the window, Moscow's night sky remained pitch‑black.

But the eastern skyline seemed to faintly reveal an extremely weak, gray‑white dawn.

A few days later.

This batch of file crates labeled "Industrial Design Reference Materials," together with the twenty‑something contracted Nikolayev Shipyard craftsmen and dozens of engineers from various fields gathered through other channels, boarded different modes of transport and set out on the long journey eastward.

They took away paper, memory, and skills etched into their muscles.

What remained were the empty archive room, the silent Workshop, and a once‑glorious history now shattered.

This is not plunder.

It is a silent, efficient migration of intellect across the ruins of civilization.

A capital‑driven yet guided by deeper vision and commitment, a reshaping of the future technological map.

When the first ray of sunlight finally pierced the clouds over Kyiv, illuminating the icy waters of the Dnieper River.

Chen Jianghe stood on the riverbank, watching the last cargo ship carrying "special cargo" vanish where water meets sky.

He knew that this smoke‑free yet crucial "blueprint war" and "talent migration" was far from over.

It had only just entered its climax.

And Wanshang, already in this century‑defining intellectual gold rush, quietly seized several mineral‑rich shoal positions through its early move, sincerity, and unique insight into "future seeds."

The cold wind remained biting.

But beneath the ice, a warm undercurrent had begun to surge, carrying hope and the power of rebirth toward the distant eastern coast.