Chapter 476: Technological Long March

In August 1993, Shenzhen was still not past the typhoon season.

Li Ping'an stood before the floor-to-ceiling window on the top floor of Wanxiang Dasha, watching the city outside being washed by the downpour.

Yushui streamed down the glass in winding ribbons, distorting the traffic and neon on Shen Nan Avenue below; the whole city resembled an oil painting soaked in water, its bustling splendor tinged with an uneasy blur.

He had been back from his hometown in Henan for less than a week.

The newly erected stone tablet on the back hill kept recurring in his dreams. The tablet's icy, hard feel, his mother's withered‑like‑firewood hand, the howling wind of the 1942 Ransang Hill… These images intertwined with the reports, data, and graphs in the Wanxiang Group conference room, churning in his mind.

"Boss, Zhou Zong has returned from Moscow."

The secretary's voice came over the internal Telephone, cautious.

Everyone knew that after Li Ping'an returned from his hometown, he had become much more silent, his gaze acquiring an indefinable weight—not sorrow, but something deeper, as if staring into an abyss.

"Let him come up," Li Ping'an said.

Zhou Wenbin entered the office still bearing the fatigue of a long flight. His suit was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot, but the black briefcase in his hand was polished to a shine.

"Boss, this trip… yielded great results," he placed the briefcase on the desk and opened its latch.

It wasn't documents, it wasn't a contract.

It was dozens of microfilm reels, plus several Russian notebooks as thick as bricks.

"After the Soviet Union collapsed, those top research institutes really fell apart."

Zhou Wenbin's voice was low, "I met the deputy director of the 'Lie Bie Jiefu Precision Machinery Research Institute'; he used to head CNC machine tool control system development. Now… he farms potatoes on the outskirts of Moscow."

Li Ping'an picked up a reel and held it to the light. Inside were densely packed schematics, the Russian annotations as tiny as ants.

"What price does he ask?"

"No money," Zhou Wenbin chuckled wryly, "He wants work, a lab, the ability to keep researching. He said those drawings in his hands will eventually become waste paper. But if someone can bring them to life…"

"How many people?" Li Ping'an asked.

"A complete team, seventeen people. Including three academicians‑level experts and eight senior engineers."

Zhou Wenbin paused, "But I'm worried… we can't digest it. In CNC machine tools, our current level is still stuck at copying Japanese models from the 1970s."

Li Ping'an said nothing.

He walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a hefty 'Mechanical Engineering Handbook.' Opening to a page, a red pen circled: five‑axis coordinated CNC machine tool, machining precision 0.001 mm, core equipment for aerospace and precision molds, Western embargo on China.

"If we can't digest it, we learn it," he tossed the handbook back onto the shelf, "Bring them in, build a lab, equip it with the best gear. There is only one condition—"

He turned, his gaze blazing.

"Within three years, I want to see a five‑axis CNC machine tool designed by Chinese engineers, manufactured in Wanshang's Workshop."

After Zhou Wenbin left, Li Ping'an sat alone in the office until late night.

The rain stopped, and Shenzhen's lights glittered outside. This city he had helped build was expanding and growing at an unprecedented pace. Yet beneath this splendor, he saw something else—

Xu Jiaming reported yesterday that the import price of DVD decoding chips had risen another fifteen percent. The reason given was "strong international market demand," but everyone understood it was a choke point.

Zhang Wei last month tried to buy a second‑hand lithography machine from Germany; the seller quoted three million dollars with absurdly harsh conditions: the machine could not be used for military purposes, it must undergo regular inspections, and all repairs had to be performed by German engineers.

He Xiao's automobile production line relied entirely on imported welding robots. Japanese manufacturers delayed every repair, and spare parts were exorbitantly priced.

There were also computer operating systems, mobile communication protocols, specialty steel, precision bearings…

Everywhere were bottlenecks, everywhere constrained by others.

Li Ping'an closed his eyes, recalling how the former Dragon Nation had been strangled by its industries—why? Because of poverty, because of weakness, because fate was not in its hands.

Now?

Wanxiang Group posted annual revenue of five billion, employed tens of thousands, and sold products nationwide. Yet fundamentally, it was still dancing on a stage built by others. The stage's pillars, lighting, sound, even the floor beneath its feet were held in someone else's hands.

When they're in a good mood, they let you dance.

When they're not, they pull out a board and you fall.

The next day, the group held an emergency strategic meeting.

When Li Ping'an entered the conference room, everyone sensed a different aura.

The former general manager, an old patriarch, today wore a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, held no documents, only a Yixing clay teacup.

"Today we won't discuss quarterly reports or analyze market share,"

He spoke, his voice calm, yet the room fell silent instantly, "Let's talk about how we can avoid being choked by others."

Everyone looked at each other.

Xu Jiaming spoke first, "Boss, you mean…"

"Chips, lithography machines, CNC machine tools, operating systems, precision instruments."

Li Ping'an listed the terms, "These are things we don't have, or if we do, they're low‑end; we can't keep relying on buying them."

He Xiao chuckled wryly, "But these… are hard nuts. They require huge investment, long cycles, slow returns. We make appliances, clothing, pagers, and see profit within a year. Chips? Even ten years may not yield results."

"Then we do it for ten years," Li Ping'an set the teacup down, "Twenty years, thirty years—we must do it."

He stood, walked to the whiteboard, and picked up a marker.

"From now on, Wanshang's strategic focus shifts,"

He drew a circle on the board, "First, deepen the computer industry—not assembly, but the entire chain from chips to operating systems."

The pen tip moved.

"Second, position ourselves in mobile communications. The current big phones use analog signals; they will inevitably go digital. From now we stockpile technology, so when digital cellular networks roll out, we have products ready."

Another circle.

"Third, upgrade the CNC machine tool center into a 'High‑End Equipment Research Institute,' with me personally in command. The Soviet expert team has arrived; they'll be placed here."

One more circle.

"Fourth, lithography machines. I know it's hard, I know we might pour billions in and hear nothing. But it must be done, starting with the simplest contact lithography machine and climbing step by step."

After drawing four circles, he turned around.

"These are investments that may not show profit in the next ten years. But if we don't act, Wanshang may cease to exist in a decade."

The conference room erupted in chaos.

"Boss, this is too risky!"

"Can our cash flow hold up?"

"Where do we get technical talent?"

"Can the market wait?"

"Developing ourselves is not as good as buying from others."

Questions rose one after another. Li Ping'an listened quietly, and only after everyone had spoken enough did he speak slowly.

"We Chinese believe that man can overcome destiny; foreigners can develop, but I don't believe China can't do it."

His voice wasn't loud, yet it drowned out all the clamor, "I don't accept fate. I went to Beijing, joined the revolutionary army, entered the Steel Factory, started as a security officer, experienced reform and opening, resigned to go into business, and step by step arrived at today."

He looked around at everyone.

"Now some tell me we can't make chips, can't handle lithography machines, can't master CNC machine tools— that's fate, we have to accept it."

He smiled, and there was something sharp in his smile.

"I still don't accept it."

The resolution was formed, despite some reservations.

Li Ping'an knew these veteran subordinates weren't opposing, they were worried—worried that a huge investment would cripple the group, that the front was too long and they'd neglect something, worried that if they failed, the foundation built over more than a decade would be destroyed.

He understood.

So for the next month, he personally visited every critical link.

First stop, Nanshan R&D Center.

Zhang Wei was debugging the second-generation Chinese operating system in the lab. The screen showed a blue background with white text interface, rough, but every line of code was written by Chinese themselves.

"Boss, this is our 'Pangu' System 2.0 version," Zhang Wei said, his eyes shining, "It now supports a graphical interface, though it's still very crude..."

"Compared with Windows, how much difference is there?" Li Ping'an asked directly.

Zhang Wei's smile stiffened for a moment: "The gap... is huge. But we have our own advantage—fully Chinese, low resource consumption, more suitable for domestic hardware."

"Keep going," Li Ping'an patted his shoulder, "Don't fear ugliness, don't fear slowness. The hardest part is from zero to one, and you've already stepped out."

Second stop, the CNC Machine Tool Center at Bao'an Industrial Park.

Here stood a dozen or so machine tools, some imported, some domestically copied. In the most conspicuous spot sat a five-axis machining center just imported from Germany, worth eight million dollars, covered with a plastic sheet, like an ancestral tablet.

"We rarely use it in normal times," Workshop director Lao Yang said, rubbing his hands, "Each use wears it, maintenance is too expensive."

Li Ping'an walked to the machine, lifted the plastic sheet. The cold steel glowed with a faint blue light, and the control panel's dense German-labeled buttons looked like a celestial script.

"From today on, use it every day," he said, "If it breaks, repair it; if it can't be repaired, disassemble it. Open it up to see its inner structure, why we can't make it."

Lao Yang opened his mouth wide.

"Soviet experts arrive next month; you cooperate with them," Li Ping'an said, looking at the domestic copies, "Use the imported machine to nurture the domestic ones, learn design by disassembly. In three years, I want to see our own five-axis machine tool."

Third stop, the hardest.

The chip laboratory at Longgang Gongye Yuan was still in its infancy. The lab was a temporary conversion, most equipment second‑hand, some even self‑assembled. Over a dozen young people in white coats busied themselves at ultra‑clean workstations, the air filled with the smell of chemical reagents.

The person in charge was a doctor in his early thirties, surname Zhao, a Tsinghua microelectronics graduate who turned down an offer from Bell Labs in the United States to return home.

"President Li, we can only make the simplest logic chips now, 3‑micron process," Dr. Zhao handed over a tiny black square, "The international advanced level is already 0.8 microns, several generations behind."

Li Ping'an took the chip, held it to the light. The tiny silicon wafer's circuit pattern resembled a miniature city map.

"If we can make it, that's victory," he said, "We'll chase the process gradually, start with design capability. Can we design our own DVD decoder chip?"

"Yes, but performance..."

"A slight performance shortfall is fine; first we need to see if we can make it," Li Ping'an returned the chip, "On the lithography machine side, Zhang Wei is tackling the challenge. You must cooperate closely; designs need to match the level of equipment we can produce."

Dr. Zhao nodded heavily.

When leaving the lab, Li Ping'an glanced back. The silhouettes of those youths hunched under fluorescent lights reminded him of the boy who walked alone across the wasteland in 1942.

Roads are made by people walking them.

If no one walks, there will never be a road.

In early September, the Soviet expert team arrived in Shenzhen.

Seventeen people, average age fifty‑five, carrying over thirty boxes of data and equipment. Leading them was Academician Walianjing Ivanov, sixty‑seven, white‑haired yet his back was straight.

Li Ping'an went personally to the airport to receive them.

"Mr. Ivanov, welcome to China," he said in Russian, awkward but clear enough.

The senior academic grasped his hand, a complex light in his eyes: "Mr. Li, thank you for this opportunity. Those blueprints... are mouldering in a Moscow warehouse; better to turn them into machines here."

The next day, at the unveiling ceremony of the High‑end Equipment Research Institute, Li Ping'an delivered these words:

"Today, we are here not to copy anyone or chase anyone. What we must do is step off the track drawn by others and forge our own path. That road may be steep, hard, perhaps slow. Yet every step is set on our own soil."

Amid applause, Academician Ivanov walked onto the stage.

Through a translator he said, "In the Soviet Union I once helped design the world's most advanced CNC system. Later those designs turned to dust in the archives. Today I'm glad they have a chance to be reborn on another land."

The two elders shook hands.

One from a battered ancient Eastern nation, the other from a freshly dissolved red empire.

Their hands were both covered in old calluses, marked by time, having witnessed glory and loss in their respective countries.

And now, they stand together, for the same goal—

To create a top‑tier machine tool of their own for the Chinese.

The growing pains from the strategic shift soon became evident.

The Q3 financial report was released: R&D spending rose 240% year‑on‑year, net profit fell 18%. At the shareholders' meeting, a few minority shareholders grew restless.

"President Li, this burning of cash—when will it end?"

"Chips, lithography machines, CNC machine tools... these are things the nation should do. As a private enterprise, why should we bear this main beam?"

Li Ping'an sat in the main seat, waited until everyone had spoken, then slowly opened his mouth.

"Everyone, do you still remember what engine we used when our first Wanshang van rolled off the line?"

The conference room fell silent.

"Japanese Mitsubishi, second‑hand," Li Ping'an said. "Back then we couldn't afford new ones, so we could only buy what others had discarded. We took them apart and reassembled, reassembled and took apart, copying a little, modifying a little. It took five years before we built our own engine."

He paused.

"Now our cars can use domestically produced engines. Although the performance is still a bit lacking, we won't be choked off. The same goes for chips, lithography machines, and CNC machines—if we don't make them now, in ten years we'll still have to beg others to sell, watching their moods."

He looked toward the shareholders.

"If any of you think the risk is too great, you may withdraw your shares. I will buy them back at 1.2 times the market price, and will not bargain down."

No one spoke.

Finally, an elderly shareholder sighed: "President Li, it's not that we don't support you. We're afraid... afraid you'll be too exhausted."

Li Ping'an laughed: "Tired? I'm sixty‑two this year, and my health is better than that of a forty‑year‑old. Working another twenty years is no problem."

The night was deep.

Li Ping'an sat alone in his study, with in front of him the schematic of a CNC system brought by the Iwanov team. The Russian annotations were dense and unreadable to him, but from the structural diagrams and circuit schematics he could discern the principles.

Lin Xueqing carried in a bowl of white‑fungus soup and gently set it on the table.

"Not sleeping yet?"

"I'll look a little longer," Li Ping'an rubbed his brow, "These things would have been fine to see twenty years ago."

"It's not too late now," Lin Xueqing sat beside him, "Do you know, today I went to the foundation, and a veteran told me his grandson works at the Nanshan R&D Center, doing chip design. The young man said their team hasn't had a weekend off for three months."

Li Ping'an's hand paused.

"Why?"

"The young man said, President Li, you're so old yet still rushing about these matters; what reason do we young people have not to strive?"

Lin Xueqing said softly, "Ping'an, what you ignite is not just the fire of technological R&D. It's the spirit of a generation."

Li Ping'an fell silent.

He looked at the night sky outside, Shenzhen's lights turning the sky a dark red. In some corner of this city, perhaps at this very moment, young people are fine‑tuning equipment in a lab, typing code at a computer, measuring precision at a machine tool.

Many of them may never become wealthy in their lifetimes.

The chips they design may never catch up with Intel.

The lithography machines they build may be obsolete in ten years.

But they keep doing it.

Because some things must be done by someone.

Some roads must be walked by someone.

On the last day of 1993, Li Ping'an received a special New Year's gift.

At the CNC Machine Tool Center, the first completely self‑designed CNC system was successfully debugged.

Although it was only the simplest two‑axis system, and its accuracy still fell short of half that of imported products, and its stability still needed testing—

But it is Chinese.

From circuit design to control algorithms, from hardware selection to software programming, every link was our own.

Li Ping'an stood in the Workshop, watching the machine tool equipped with the new system, under the technician's control, slowly cut a tiny gear. Metal shavings fluttered, sparkling with fine light under the lamps.

The gear was finished.

It was rough, imperfect, and even a few teeth were off in size.

But it was the first part this machine tool produced using this system.

Li Ping'an took the gear, heavy and still warm from cutting. He held it in his palm; the metal edges dug into his skin, giving a real sense of pain.

"Continue," he said to everyone present, "Don't stop."

Leaving the Workshop, Shenzhen's night sky was blooming with New Year's fireworks—brilliant, fleeting, yet straining to illuminate the darkness.

Li Ping'an lifted his head, watching those fleeting lights.

He thought of the grave behind the hill.

"Dad, Mom."

"The thing I'm doing, you two may not understand."

"But I know that this can let our descendants no longer go hungry, no longer beg, no longer live under the gaze of others—"

"The only path."

"This road is long."

"But he will walk it."

"Keep walking it."