Chapter 103: Meeting

The door opened, then closed.

Only Wang Wenwu and Li Mingyuan remained in the conference room. The torn scrap on the table was lifted by the wind blowing in through the window, twirled in the air, and fell to the floor.

Li Mingyuan swallowed a mouthful of saliva: "Minister, saying it like that… isn't it too blunt?"

"Some things must be said outright." Wang Wenwu walked to the table, picked up a piece of torn paper, on which "Budget: four million pounds" could still be read, and continued, "The Japanese are clever; they already knew this outcome. Dong Xiang came in person not to buy a ship, but to confirm—confirm our stance toward Japan, confirm how much we truly hate them."

"Then they have confirmed it now."

"Right." Wang Wenwu tossed the scrap into the trash can, "So from now on they will do two things: first, accelerate their ship‑building program; second, try every means to stop our growth. Spies, sabotage, diplomatic pressure… all methods will be employed."

"How should we respond?"

"First report to the President." Wang Wenwu glanced at his watch, "You go prepare the car; I'll head to the administration building. Also, inform the Security Bureau that from today onward every activity of the Japanese delegation is under 24‑hour surveillance. Whoever they meet, where they go, what they say—I must know it all."

"Understood."

As he left the conference room, Wang Wenwu saw Dong Xiang Pingbalo standing in the courtyard of the Palm Palace. The elder faced away, his head tilted upward toward the distant shipyard district, where the keel of a new vessel had just been laid and the welding sparks were visible even in daylight.

Dong Xiang stared for a long while, then turned, his gaze meeting Wang Wenwu's.

The two stood thirty meters apart, neither moving.

Finally, Dong Xiang gave a slight nod—not a courteous nod, but the kind of respectful nod shared between rivals.

Then he turned and walked toward Building Four. His stride remained steady, but Wang Wenwu felt the elder's silhouette had grown a bit heavier than before.

At seven p. m., Chen Feng listened to Wang Wenwu's full report in his study.

"You did the right thing." Chen Feng said after listening, "These words should be said face‑to‑face. Hiding them only lets them cling to fantasies."

"When Dong Xiang left, he asked me to pass a message to you." Wang Wenwu said, "He said… 'Hope Lanfang is well prepared.'"

Chen Feng smiled, his smile devoid of warmth.

"Prepared? We've been preparing for three years. From the first day we set foot on this desert, I knew we would eventually clash with Japan. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly."

He walked to the map and pointed at Taiwan's location.

"In the First Sino‑Japanese War they took Taiwan. In the Russo‑Japanese War they seized the South Manchurian Railway. Now they want the whole Far East. We have blocked their path."

"President, tomorrow you will meet Dong Xiang; what do you intend to say?"

"Just as you said." Chen Feng turned, "But I'll say it more bluntly. Some words carry a different weight when spoken by this President."

Wang Wenwu hesitated, "Will it… over‑stimulate them? We still need time now."

"Time isn't begged for; it's forged." Chen Feng walked to the window, gazing at the night outside. "Three years ago we begged the Yingguo for a way out, and they ignored us. Now? They have to sit down and negotiate with us. Why? Because we have the Restoration Ship, because we dared to fire on Java."

He paused, his voice dropping:

"Wenwu, do you know why I must build a battleship? Not because I enjoy war, but because in this era, without big guns there is no voice. The Japanese understand the sound of cannons, they understand strength. The harder we press, the less they dare to act rashly."

"I understand."

"Go rest." Chen Feng patted his shoulder, "Tomorrow, you and I will go meet Dong Xiang together. Some dramas look better when performed by two."

After Wang Wenwu left, Chen Feng remained alone in the study. He kept the lights off, sitting in darkness, watching the harbor lights outside the window.

The points of light merged into a sea of stars reflected on the water. Three years ago this place was pitch black.

He recalled his childhood, on a fleeing fishing boat, his father's dying words: "Feng‑er, remember… our country is called Lanfang… in Borneo… we must return… we must definitely return…"

Back then he didn't understand, only knew how to cry. Now he understands, and also knows how hard this road is.

To go back, one must cross the Taiwan Strait, the South China Sea, the Dutch artillery, the Yingguo blockade, and Japanese hostility.

It's like dancing on a knife's edge.

But it must be done.

Because if you don't, you'll never return.

The clock on the wall struck ten. Chen Feng rose, switched on the desk lamp, spread a blank sheet, and began drafting what to say to Dong Xiang Pingbalo tomorrow.

It wasn't a script, but an outline. Point one, point two, point three…

When he reached the fifth item, he paused, drew a circle on the paper, and wrote two characters inside:

"Bottom line."

The bottom line is: Lanfang will not trade arms with Japan, will not acknowledge Japan's special interests in the Far East, and will not support any Japanese expansionist actions.

On that basis, everything else… can be discussed.

But will Dong Xiang accept? Can a victorious, ambitious Imperial Navy commander who defeated Russia accept a Chinese nation's "bottom line"?

Chen Feng didn't know.

He only knew that tomorrow's meeting would determine the trajectory of Lanfang‑Japan relations for the next decade. Good would mean peace; bad would mean war.

And he had already prepared for the worst.

10:03 a. m.

When the door of Reception Hall One in the administration building opened, Dong Xiang Pingbalo stood before an ancient Borneo Kundian map. The map, drawn 120 years ago using traditional Chinese landscape technique, rendered mountains in bluish‑green washes, rivers with silver lines, and beside the coastline tiny script marked "Lanfang Grand Administration jurisdiction."

"Mr. Dong Xiang."

Chen Feng's voice came from the doorway. Dong Xiang turned, seeing the young Lanfang President enter alone, without a retinue, not even the sharp‑tongued Wang Wenwu from yesterday. He wore a dark‑gray, stand‑collar Zhongshan suit, the top button fastened, sleeves neatly rolled to mid‑forearm, exposing sturdy wrist bones.

"Your Excellency President." Dong Xiang bowed slightly, using the Japanese navy officer's standard salute—a fifteen‑degree angle, neither more nor less.

Chen Feng walked to the head of the long table but did not sit immediately. His gaze swept the surface: two documents were already placed on the side of the table belonging to Dong Xiang, neatly bound in kraft paper folders. A black ceramic teapot steamed in the center, accompanied by three matching teacups arranged in a triangle.

"Please sit."

Both sat simultaneously. The chairs were solid wood, cushionless, causing the back to sit upright naturally. Ji Song Maotailang and Lieutenant Xiao Ye sat on wall‑adjacent chairs two steps behind Dong Xiang, like two silent statues.