Chapter 110: Two Types of Identity Cards

Salman stared deeply at Chen Feng. Then he made a gesture, and the tribesmen behind him dismounted their camels and came to his side. More than twenty men, ranging from sixteen to sixty years old, wore identical white robes and stood on the scorching sand.

"Mr. Chen," Salman said, his voice carrying far in the hot wind, "we Bedouins have a tradition. When two tribes form an alliance, we slaughter a camel together, sharing its flesh and blood, symbolizing a bond of life."

He pointed to the busy Chinese laborers at the distant construction site:

"You are building iron ships, we are herding camels. You live in stone houses, we live in woolen tents. You worship ancestors, we worship the Almighty. It seems completely different."

"But—"

He patted his own chest:

"We all want a better life for our descendants. We all want to survive in the desert. We all want to be respected, not pitied. In these matters, we are the same."

Chen Feng felt his throat tighten. He inhaled deeply, the desert's hot air scorching his trachea.

"Elder Salman," he extended his hand, "welcome to join Lanfang."

The two hands clasped again. This time Salman gripped tightly, his rough palm like iron tongs.

"Then, about the land..." Chen Feng said.

"The land is yours," Salman released his hand, "but we have a condition—once the shipyard is completed, reserve fifty job slots for my people. Not charity jobs, but positions where they can truly learn the craft."

"One hundred," Chen Feng said, "and I will have a reservoir built beside the shipyard, drawing water from the Persian Gulf. Your camels and people can draw water for free."

Salman's eyes brightened. In the desert, water is more precious than gold.

"Also," Chen Feng continued, "I will have a medical team from the hospital visit your camp once a week for free check‑ups."

This time, the tribesmen behind Salman murmured softly. A few young men exchanged excited looks.

"Mr. Chen," Salman's voice was a bit hoarse, "you have earned the respect of me and my people. From now on, on this desert, your affairs are our affairs."

He turned and said something in Arabic to the tribesmen, speaking quickly with an ancient cadence. Then all the tribesmen—including Salman himself—faced the direction of Mecca and began to pray.

Chen Feng and Wang Bo waited quietly. The prayer lasted five minutes; under the scorching noon sun, the white‑robed figures cast brief shadows on the sand. After the final "Amin" ended, Salman turned, a relaxed smile on his face.

"Alright. Now we can discuss the specifics. How deep must the shipyard be dug? How many workers are needed? When can my people start working?"

Chen Feng also smiled. He took the blueprint out of the jeep and spread it on the sand. Two people from completely different cultural backgrounds squatted on the scorching sand, beginning to discuss concrete grades, pile‑foundation depths, and worker shift schedules.

The wind blew, stirring up sand that gently settled over the edges of the blueprint.

But the lines on the blueprint have already been deeply etched into the memory of this desert. (Time jumps ahead now; I doubt anyone wants to see the construction details.)

March 21, 1909, 10:00 a. m.

The gate of Dock No. 5 slowly opened, the sound of seawater rushing in like a giant's breath. The last "Gu Ba class" battleship ordered by the French Navy—the "Provence"—was about to begin its maiden voyage.

The ceremony platform was packed with people. The French delegation stood on the left, Lanfang officials on the right, and in the middle were invited foreign envoys and journalists. Chen Feng and French Navy Minister Dubuowa stood in the front row, both dressed in formal attire but with markedly different styles—Dubuowa wore a deep‑blue French naval officer's uniform, chest adorned with medals; Chen Feng wore a dark‑gray Zhongshan suit, its only ornament a fountain pen tucked into the left breast pocket.

"Mr. Chen," Dubuowa said in English with a heavy French accent, "I must admit, when I first met Mr. Wang Wenwu three years ago in Paris, I thought his claim of 'delivering five capital ships in three years' was a fairy‑tale."

"And now?" Chen Feng asked, his gaze fixed on the massive ship slowly rising in the dock.

"Now I believe it," Dubuowa paused, "and I'm beginning to worry—worry for the Germans. Their two 'Caesar class' ships, how much higher are their performance specs than the Gu Ba class?"

Chen Feng smiled faintly, "Minister, client information is confidential. But rest assured, the Gu Ba class fully meets the contract requirements and, in some aspects, even exceeds them."

"For example?"

"For instance, the welding process. The contract stipulated a watertight standard of twelve hours without leakage; the actual test result was seventy‑two hours."

Dubuowa raised an eyebrow. As an old naval officer, he knew what that meant—better survivability, longer service life, and lower maintenance costs.

"Is this your new technology? Segmental construction?"

"Yes. But the specifics..." Chen Feng made an apologetic gesture, "are also confidential."

Dubuowa smiled, a knowing smile, "I understand. Then let's discuss the next order. The French Navy needs more advanced battleships, preferably… the fuel‑boiler version."

"We are already developing it," Chen Feng said, "but the price will be higher than the Gu Ba class."

"As long as performance improves by forty percent, money isn't an issue," Dubuowa lowered his voice, "the Germans are expanding too quickly in the North Sea, we need balance. And you… seem to be the only ones who can provide a solution in a short time."

The conversation paused there. The "Provence" had fully floated, and a tug began to slowly pull it out of the dock. The hull sliced through the water, leaving a broad wake. Sunlight struck the brand‑new armor plates, reflecting a cold, hard metallic sheen.

On the bridge, the French captain and Lanfang's liaison officers stood side by side. According to procedure, Lanfang was to tow the battleship to a deep‑water anchorage, where final equipment adjustments and weapon tests would be completed before formal handover.

"Mr. Chen," Dubuowa suddenly said, "there's something I'd like to ask privately."

"Please, go ahead."

"If… I mean if France and Germany were to clash again, would Lanfang remain neutral?"

The question was direct and dangerous. Chen Feng was silent for a few seconds, choosing his words carefully:

"Minister, Lanfang is an Asian country. European conflicts are not our conflicts. Our warships will only be deployed to protect our own citizens and interests."

"But what if the conflict affects your trade? For instance, a German submarine attacks a merchant ship bound for France, and that ship might carry Lanfang cargo, or… Lanfang citizens?"

Chen Feng turned his head, facing Dubuowa for the first time. The French navy minister's eyes held no speculation, only solemn concern. He was seriously contemplating the possibility of war and preparing for that day.

"Minister," Chen Feng said slowly, "Lanfang's stance remains consistent: we do not seek war, but we do not fear it. If anyone threatens our citizens, our merchant ships, or our legitimate interests, we will take all necessary measures."

He paused, then added:

"But for now, we prefer to resolve issues through trade and cooperation rather than artillery and blood. That is why we are willing to sell the most advanced battleships to all friendly nations, including France."

The subtext was clear: as long as you pay and abide by the rules, we can cooperate. As for war—that is the last resort.

Dubuowa nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. He turned his gaze back to the "Provence" emerging from the dock, his eyes deepening.

"Do you know, Mr. Chen," he said nostalgically, "my father fought in the Franco‑Prussian War. In 1870, at the Sedan battle, he was an artillery lieutenant. After France's defeat, he wrote in his diary: 'We lost not because our soldiers lacked bravery, but because our guns were inferior.'"

He paused, then continued:

"Since then, France spent thirty years rebuilding its army. But when we finally had equipment comparable to Germany's, technology advanced again—first the Dreadnought appeared, then the Super‑Dreadnought, now the Hyper‑Dreadnought. The arms race is like a never‑ending race; if you stop to catch your breath, you'll be left behind."