Chapter 112: The Seed Has Sprouted

December 31, 1909, late night.

Chen Feng stood on the central plaza of the newly completed "Chinese Quarter" No. 3 residential area. Half a year ago this was wasteland; now twelve four‑story brick‑concrete buildings rise, each housing sixty‑four households. In the middle of the plaza a flagpole holds a yellow dragon flag that flutters gently in the night wind.

Over a thousand people gathered on the plaza: workers who had just finished their shifts, children returning from school, vendors hawking night snacks, and people like Chen Feng who were there simply to soak in the atmosphere.

Today is New Year's Eve.

It is not the lunar New Year but the Gregorian calendar's New Year's Eve. Lanfang adopted the Gregorian calendar as the official calendar, a symbol—that they are a modern nation, belonging to neither the Qing Dynasty nor any old era.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

The crowd began the countdown. At first the voices were chaotic, then gradually synchronized. Different Chinese dialects—Fujian, Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew—ultimately merged into a single phrase:

"Three! Two! One!"

"Happy New Year!"

Ha—

Cheering erupted. Some tossed hats, some embraced those beside them, and children shrieked with excitement. In a corner of the plaza a small band began to play a rearranged version of "Jasmine Flower"—the melody sped up, Western instrument harmonies added, sounding both familiar and strange.

Chen Feng did not join the cheers. He simply stood, watching. Wang Bo stood half a step behind him; the elder had deliberately put on a newly made cotton robe today, but still wore the old Mandarin jacket he had worn for years over it.

"Young Master, another year has passed," Wang Bo said.

"Indeed, another year," Chen Feng said, looking at the cheering crowd, "1909… we delivered eight warships, completed Dock No. 10, the population Breakthrough 1.5 million."

"And an additional 3,700 citizens of Arab descent," Wang Bo added.

Chen Feng nodded. He thought of Elder Saleman, of the Bedouins who had lived in the desert for centuries, now citizens of Lanfang, holding blue ID cards, working at the dock and on the railways, their children attending school.

That was not part of his original plan. Yet it happened, and it happened well.

"Wang Bo," he asked suddenly, "do you miss home? Miss that little fishing village in Fujian?"

Wang Bo remained silent for a long while—so long that Chen Feng thought he would never answer.

"I miss it," the elder finally said, his voice soft, "the big banyan tree at the village entrance, the sunrise I saw each morning when I went out to sea, my mother's shrimp pancake. But…"

He paused:

"But this place is also wonderful. The people here all came from all directions, all away from home. Together we keep each other warm, help each other, and gradually it becomes a new home."

Chen Feng looked at the crowd on the plaza. He saw a young mother cradling a child, pointing at the stars and saying something; an elderly couple walking hand‑in‑hand, the husband tightening his wife's scarf; a group of workers who had just finished their shifts eating noodles at a stall, chatting and laughing.

These people might have been strangers three years ago, hailing from all corners of the world. Now they are neighbors, colleagues, friends.

They are building a city, and also building a new "home".

"Young Master," Wang Bo said again, "look over there."

Chen Feng followed his pointing direction. At the edge of the plaza, a group of children formed a circle, playing a game—a child stood in the middle, eyes closed, counting while the others hid. When the child in the middle reached ten and opened his eyes, all the children rushed out of their hiding spots, shouting, "Found you!"

The game was simple. Yet Chen Feng noticed that among the playing children were Chinese and two children of Arab descent. They communicated in halting Chinese, sometimes mixing in gestures, but laughed heartily.

"Their parents may still not be fluent in each other's language," Wang Bo said, "but the children are already playing together."

Chen Feng felt a warm surge in his chest. It was a satisfaction deeper than delivering warships or completing a dock.

Warships will age, docks will wear, but children's laughter will be passed down through generations.

"Let's go," he said, "we'll return to the administrative building. There's a New Year meeting tomorrow."

The two left the plaza, heading toward the car parked at the street corner. Along the way they passed a row of newly opened shops—tailor, grocery, pharmacy, even a small bookstore. The shops were still lit; some shopkeepers had posted spring couplets at their doors. Though the lunar New Year was a month away, they were already eager.

"Boss, Happy New Year!" a shopkeeper called out when he saw Chen Feng, greeting him proactively. He did not recognize him as the president, treating him as an ordinary passerby.

"Happy New Year," Chen Feng replied with a smile, "how's business?"

"Very good! This month we sold twenty sewing machines, all made in our own factory!" the shopkeeper said proudly, "We used to import them from Deguo, but not anymore!"

Chen Feng nodded. Civil industry was also taking off. Sewing machines, bicycles, clocks, simple home appliances… these seemingly modest products were the true improvements to people's livelihoods.

As he got into the car, Chen Feng took one last look at the plaza. The revelry continued, the music still floated, the children kept running.

This was the oasis they had built in the desert. No, more than an oasis—it was a homeland, a hope, a seed.

"Drive," he said to the driver.

The car started slowly, heading toward the administrative building. On the road, Chen Feng suddenly said, "Wang Bo, next year… 1910. We should begin the preliminary work of the 'South Ocean Plan'."

Wang Bo's body trembled slightly. He knew the weight of those four words—that was the ultimate purpose of Lanfang's existence.

"Young Master, is it… too early?"

"Not early," Chen Feng said, looking at the passing lights outside the window, "three years to prepare, three years to implement. In 1913, we will take the first step toward returning home."

"Where is the first step?"

"Singapore," Chen Feng said confidently, "there are three hundred thousand Chinese, the world's third‑largest port, and a British base."

Wang Bo thought quickly about the plan's implications. Singapore is a British colony, but the Chinese are the majority. If we can establish a foothold there, it would be the first relay station on the road home.

"How much capital is needed?" he asked.

"At least five million pounds. To establish trading houses, schools, hospitals, a shipping company. We want Singapore's Chinese to know that there is a country called Lanfang waiting for them to return home."

"But the British will not stand by idly."

"So it requires finesse," Chen Feng said, "not a forceful breach, but infiltration. Under the guise of commercial cooperation, under the pretext of cultural exchange, we go in bit by bit. By the time the British react, we will already be rooted there."

The car stopped in front of the administrative building. Chen Feng did not get out immediately; he remained seated, watching the lights shining inside the building. Many office lights were still on; some people were working overtime, others preparing for New Year tasks.

These people trusted him, followed him, and placed the future on his shoulders.

He could not betray that trust.

"Wang Bo," he said finally, "Happy New Year."

"Young Master, Happy New Year as well," Wang Bo said, his voice a little hoarse, "I will stay by your side until the day we return home."

Chen Feng patted the elder's hand, then opened the door and stepped out.

A cold wind slapped his face, bearing the sharp chill of a desert night. Yet he did not feel cold, because a fire burned within his heart.

A fire that had burned for three years and would keep burning.

He entered the administrative building. The elevator rose, stopping at the top floor. The corridor was quiet, only his footsteps echoing.

He pushed open the office door, and on the desk the documents for tomorrow's meeting were already arranged. The title of the first document was: "1910-1913 South Ocean Expansion Plan (Draft)".

He sat down and opened the file. The first page was a map, showing a route from the Persian Gulf to the Strait of Malacca, then to the South Sea, and finally to Borneo. A red line marked the planned route.

The road is long. But no matter how long, it must be taken.

Because at the end of the road is home.

From outside the window came the faint singing from a distant plaza. People were singing an old song; the lyrics were indistinct, but the melody was cheerful and full of hope.

Chen Feng set the documents aside and walked to the window. He saw the myriad lights of Dubai Port, the searchlight pillars in the shipyard district, and farther away, the campfires of a Bedouin tribe in the desert.

Red ID cards, blue ID cards.

Chinese, Arabs.

The shipbuilders, the herders, the teachers, the doctors.

All of them are working toward the same future.

That is enough.

He returned to the desk, picked up a pen, and wrote on the title page of the plan:

"1910. The seed has sprouted, awaiting the time of bloom."

After writing, he set the pen down and turned off the desk lamp.

The office fell into darkness, but the lights outside the window remained bright.