Chapter 111: Delivery of the Faguo Warship

Chen Feng listened quietly. He knew Du Buwa was not just chatting, but conveying some information.

"And now," Du Buwa turned to Chen Feng, his gaze sharp, "you suddenly appeared on the track, not only catching up with the leaders, but possibly surpassing them. That changes everything."

"We don't want to take part in any competition," Chen Feng said, "we build ships just to go home."

"I understand. But sometimes, if you don't want to compete, the track will find you anyway." Du Buwa pulled a delicate little box from his pocket, "a small gift, representing Faguo's gratitude."

Chen Feng took it and opened it. Inside was a medal—a Faguo Legion of Honour medal, Knight class. A golden cross glittered on a velvet backing.

"This…"

"This is informal, a private gift," Du Buwa said, "it does not represent the Faguo government, only myself—and everyone grateful to Lanfang for helping Faguo rebuild its navy."

Chen Feng stared at the medal. He knew what it meant: Faguo was currying favor with him personally, trying to forge a private link beyond official relations. It was an ancient diplomatic art, using sentiment and personal ties to strengthen the bond of interests.

"Minister," he closed the box, "this gift is too valuable."

"What is valuable is your technology and integrity," Du Buwa said, "five warships, all delivered on schedule, all meeting or exceeding specifications. That is rare in world shipbuilding history. You have shown that Chinese can not only make the finest porcelain, but also the finest warships."

Chen Feng handed the box to Wang Bo behind him. The elderly man took it with both hands, as if cradling a relic.

"Then," Chen Feng said, "as a return gift, I would also like to give you something."

He made a gesture. Wang Bo reached into his cloth bag, took out a wooden case, opened it, and revealed a precision marine chronometer. The brass housing was polished to a shine that could reflect a silhouette; the dial bore bilingual Chinese and French markings, and through the glass cover one could see intricate gears turning.

"These are the first batch from Lanfang Clockworks," Chen Feng said, "the daily error does not exceed 0.5 seconds. We hope that the Faguo Navy's warships will always have accurate time at sea."

Du Buwa took the chronometer, examined it closely. He was a connoisseur; at a glance he recognized the craft level—on par with top Swiss products, even featuring innovations in shock and moisture resistance.

"You can even make this?" he asked in surprise.

"We've only just begun," Chen Feng said modestly, "but like shipbuilding, given time we can produce world‑class products."

Du Buwa smiled, this time a sincere smile: "Mr. Chen, I am beginning to understand why the Yingguo find you both feared and revered. You not only build warships, but are constructing an entire industrial nation. That is the truly frightening part."

"The frightening thing is not the industry, but those who wield it," Chen Feng said, "we hope to use it for building, not for destruction."

"Hopefully so," Du Buwa said, though a hint of doubt lingered in his tone—he had seen too many nations, after gaining power, ultimately choose expansion and conquest.

The delivery ceremony concluded at noon. The "Provence" was towed to the deep‑water anchorage, and Faguo sailors began boarding. They would spend two weeks familiarizing themselves with the controls before sailing home. Meanwhile, in the same dock, workers had already started clearing the site, preparing to lay the Keel of Deguo's "Kaiser Friedrich III".

Chen Feng and Du Buwa shook hands and said farewell.

"Looking forward to our next meeting, Minister."

"Me too, Mr. Chen. I hope the next time is in Paris—at a café on the Champs‑Élysées, not on the dock's viewing platform."

"That day will come."

After Du Buwa left, Chen Feng did not depart immediately. He stood on the open viewing platform, watching the workers bustle. The massive dock was being drained; once the water receded, the concrete foundation was exposed. Cranes were dismantling temporary structures, welders cutting away excess supports. In another forty‑eight hours, this place would be ready to receive the next warship.

Wang Bo walked to his side and whispered, "Young Master, the Deguo delegation has arrived, waiting for you in the reception room."

"Have them wait half an hour," Chen Feng said, "I want to stand here a little longer."

"Understood."

Wang Bo stepped back two paces but did not leave. He knew Chen Feng needed this moment of quiet—after delivering a warship that had taken three years of effort, before the next round of busyness began.

Chen Feng closed his eyes. He heard the wind blowing over the dock, the distant shouts of workers, the waves crashing against the breakwater. The sounds intertwined like a symphony of the industrial age.

Three years ago, only wind and waves were heard here.

Three years later, there is the clash of steel, the hiss of steam, the cries of humanity.

They have changed this land. And this land is changing them.

"Wang Bo," Chen Feng opened his eyes, "how are Elder Saleman's people faring at Dock No. 10?"

"Very well," Wang Bo said, "they are accustomed to the desert, know how to work in high heat, and are highly disciplined—five prayer times each day, they self‑coordinate shifts and never delay the project schedule."

"What about identity registration?"

"The first batch is done. The blue ID cards have been issued. The medical team sent by the hospital reported that the tribe's child vaccination rate has reached eighty percent, which was unimaginable before."

"That's good," Chen Feng said, looking toward the distant Dock No. 10 site, now visible in outline, "tell them that once the dock is completed, a subsidiary facility—a reservoir or a clinic—will be named after Elder Saleman."

Wang Bo's eyes brightened: "Young Master, this gesture…"

"This is not charity, it is respect," Chen Feng said, "they chose to trust us, so we must live up to that trust. Red ID cards, blue ID cards—different colors, but the rights and obligations are the same. This is Lanfang's promise."

"I understand. I will convey it."

Chen Feng cast one last glance at the "Provence" being towed out to sea. The warship will sail seven thousand nautical miles back to Faguo, then join the Mediterranean fleet. Its guns may never point at an enemy, but its very existence is a form of power.

Just like Lanfang.

They build these steel behemoths not to conquer, but to avoid being conquered. Not for expansion, but to return home.

Yet in the process, they unintentionally shifted the global balance of power, inadvertently becoming a new player in the great‑power game.

It is dangerous. Like dancing on a knife's edge.

But it must be done.

Because stopping would mean falling.

"Let's go," Chen Feng turned, "to meet the Deguo. Let's see what Emperor Wilhelm wants this time."

They descended from the viewing platform. Behind them, the dock's pumps still roared, workers remained busy. Farther away, on the freshly cleared dock foundation, the positioning line for the first Keel had been marked.

The old has ended; the new has begun.

This is the rhythm of the industrial age: never ceasing, always forward.