Chapter 105: Abolishing the Treaty of Shimonoseki

"Dongxiang," he turned his head, his gaze falling again on Dongxiang's face, "Have you ever seen a refugee? In the true sense, someone who has lost their home, drifts abroad, not knowing where to go tomorrow?"

"I have. During the Restoration, the anti‑shogunate patriots, many fled overseas."

"Then you should know," Chen Feng's voice was soft, but every word was clear, "For refugees, the greatest ambition is simply to return home. To the place of birth, to the place where ancestors are buried, to a place where children can play safely."

He paused briefly, then continued:

"The people of Lanfang today—their fathers or grandfathers—escaped from Borneo. They remember Kun Dian's rainy season, they remember the equatorial scorching sun, they remember the scent of the jackfruit tree at their doorstep. These memories have been passed down three generations; some details may have blurred, but the thought of 'wanting to return home' has never changed."

Dongxiang listened quietly. His hand rested on his knee, his fingers slightly curled.

"So to answer your question: Lanfang's goal is to return home. To the place on the map surrounded by bluish‑green mountains. For that we need warships, we need factories, we need money, we need friends, and we also need to make the enemy understand—those who block this road must pay a price."

"Even if the price is war?"

"Even if the price is war," Chen Feng said each word deliberately, "but we will do our utmost to avoid war. Because war brings death; the dead could be my soldiers, or Chinese compatriots in the South Ocean. We do not want anyone's life, we only want to return to our own home."

Dongxiang fell silent. He lowered his head and stared at the torn pieces of paper on the table for a long time. Then he lifted his head and asked the most direct question of the day:

"Then, what must Japan do to change Lanfang's stance?"

The question finally emerged. It was not about warships, not about technology, but about position. About the grievance that began with the First Sino‑Japanese War and lasted fourteen years.

Chen Feng did not answer immediately. He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Dubai Port bustled in the morning sun, cranes swaying like a steel forest, cargo ships coming and going, and farther away, the massive hull of the Restoration Ship lay anchored in deep water, like a sleeping giant.

"Dongxiang," he said without turning, his voice coming through the glass, a little muffled, "Do you know Article Four of the Treaty of Shimonoseki?"

Dongxiang obviously knew. Every senior officer of the Japanese navy knew it. It was the treaty signed on April 17, 1895 at the Shunfan Building in Shimonoseki, marking Japan's total defeat of the Qing. Article Four stipulated that China cede the entire island of Taiwan and all its affiliated islands, including the Penghu archipelago, to Japan.

"I know," Dongxiang said.

"And Article Five? About the Liaodong Peninsula?"

"I know."

Chen Feng turned, leaning his back against the windowsill. Backlit, his face was hidden in shadow, only his eyes glimmered faintly.

"If Japan is truly sincere, first abolish the Treaty of Shimonoseki and return Taiwan, Penghu, Kinmen, and Matsu to China. Then—" he paused, letting each word settle, "I can personally accompany Your Excellency to tour our shipyard and explain every technical detail of the Restoration Ship. We could even discuss joint development, technology sharing, any possible cooperation."

The words hung in the air.

In the conference room only the clock's tick‑tock and the three of their suppressed breaths remained.

Jisong Maotailang sprang to his feet, the chair leg scraping the floor with a harsh screech.

"Impossible!" he shouted in Japanese, his voice trembling with emotion, "Taiwan is land bought with the empire's blood! Twenty thousand soldiers died there! Such a condition is simply—"

"Jisong!" Dongxiang's voice was low but carried undeniable authority.

Jisong Maotailang froze in place, his chest heaving violently. He stared at Dongxiang's back, at the navy admiral he had respected for twenty years, now turned away, his shoulders slightly slumped.

Dongxiang Pingbalang rose slowly. He stood very straight, but Chen Feng noticed the old man's right hand trembling slightly at his side—a neurogenic tremor from years of wielding a sword, surfacing with emotional swings.

"Your Excellency the President," Dongxiang's voice was hoarse, "the condition you propose exceeds my authority, even beyond that of the Navy Ministry, the Cabinet, and His Majesty the Celestial Locust's considerations."

"I understand," Chen Feng said, "so this is not a condition, it is a stance. Lanfang's stance toward Japan."

"Even if that means Japan will regard Lanfang as a potential adversary?"

"We already are, aren't we?" Chen Feng walked to the table, picked up the black ceramic teapot, poured himself half a cup of tea, "Since you decided to annex Korea, since you marched into Manchuria, since you sent your fleet to the South Sea, Japan and all Chinese who wish to return home have already become opponents."

He lifted the teacup, glanced at the tea's color in the light:

"Some opponents use guns, some use treaties, some use money. And we now choose the most civilized way—sitting at opposite ends of a table, making our case clear."

Dongxiang Pingbalang looked at the young man before him. Twenty‑four, his face still bearing adolescent angles, yet his gaze was that of a veteran who had seen countless wars. He recalled what he had been doing at twenty‑four: fresh from the naval academy, serving as a cadet officer on the Hiei, scrubbing decks, learning navigation, dreaming of one day commanding his own warship.

And this man, at twenty‑four, already led a regime of hundreds of thousands, wielded the world's most advanced warship, and was negotiating with the Japanese Combined Fleet commander to abolish the Treaty of Shimonoseki.

The times have truly changed.

"I understand," Dongxiang concluded, his voice returning to calm, "then today's talks end here."

"End it here," Chen Feng set down the teacup, "Minister Wang will arrange your return. Shall I dispatch a ship to take you to Mumbai or Colombo to transfer to a liner?"

"No need. The Japanese Oceanic Line's 'Spring Day Maru' is already waiting outside the Hormuz Strait," Dongxiang adjusted the collar of his suit jacket, the gesture restoring his imposing admiral bearing, "Before we depart, I have one personal request."

"Please, go ahead."

"May I be allowed to tour the port area? Only the outskirts, not entering any sensitive zones. I wish to… see the city you have built."

Chen Feng thought for three seconds, then nodded: "Yes. I will arrange a guide, but only the civilian zones may be visited."

"That is sufficient."

Dongxiang gave a slight bow, this time thirty degrees—deeper than upon arrival. Then he turned and walked toward the door. Jisong and Xiao Ye immediately followed; Jisong glared fiercely at Chen Feng before leaving, but Chen Feng did not look at him at all.