Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War-Chapter 16 - Another Path Part

The carriage creaked gently as it rolled through the dimly lit streets, lanterns casting flickering shadows along the cobblestones. Fang Ming sat waiting, his thoughts as restless as the chill of the evening air. The sound of footsteps drew his gaze to the carriage door, and as his father climbed inside, Ming leaned forward, eager for answers.

"Father, did you manage to gain anything tonight?" he asked, his tone sharp with anticipation.

His father exhaled heavily, loosening his cravat with a frustrated tug. "No," he admitted. "As you said, it wasn't going to happen in one night. I couldn't even bring up the topic."

So, nothing. Fang Ming leaned back slightly, though his expression betrayed little.

"For now,"Fang Ming said calmly, "we have to continue supporting them. Lavishly. If they want grand parties, we throw them. If they want ponies, we buy white horses. Even if nothing comes into our hands immediately, we must endure."

"I know," his father muttered. "But I didn't expect them to be so brazen."

"Take it as a good sign," Fang Ming replied, his voice steady but edged with cunning. "The easier they take our generosity for granted, the easier it'll be to entangle them. Asking the first favor is hard; the second and third come naturally."

Half-measures, Fang Ming knew, would only invite disdain. To wield influence, one had to invest completely—or not at all.

"But if we give too much too easily, they'll just dismiss us entirely," his father countered, his frustration boiling over into a sigh.

Fang Ming could picture the party clearly in his mind. His father, the lone Asian amidst the aristocratic predators, would have been their entertainment for the evening. An exotic curiosity, paraded about like a monkey in a gilded cage. To them, his father's pride, his dignity—his very humanity—would have meant nothing.

"At least the commander kept me close," his father added. "If not for him, I'd have been passed around for introductions all night."

Fang Ming raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "The commander? What could you and someone of his rank possibly have in common?"

A man of such influence—equivalent to a lieutenant general—was no small figure. Even the Qing Empire's Li Hongzhang would tread carefully around him.

His father hesitated for a moment. "It turns out we share a similar grief."

"What grief?"

"We both lost our wives. Both raising a son and a daughter alone."

Fang Ming fell silent. Of all things to bond over, shared sorrow was perhaps the most unsettling. It wasn't camaraderie; it was a fragile connection steeped in loss.

"Anyway," his father said, his voice softening, "I'm fine now. I only feel guilt for you and your sister. Regardless, it's clear that anything involving critical military supplies is out of the colonel's reach. It'll take someone of the commander's rank to make a difference."

"Of course," Fang Ming agreed. "It's only at that level that decisions about military procurement can be influenced."

"But the commander seems like an incorruptible man," his father added. "I doubt money will sway him."

Sweet Dreams of Bitter Ambition

The two of them were chasing something monumental: a military contract for critical supplies. The taste of their initial foray into this world had been intoxicating. The goods they supplied so far—basic industrial items and low-priority materials—had yielded substantial profits. With cheap labor and proximity to resources, their margins were enviable.

But Fang Ming's vision extended far beyond mere rations and tools.

"What if we supplied guns?" he had asked before, the question almost reverent.

His father, sensing the shift in Fang Ming's thoughts, spoke before the younger man could voice them. "It's too soon. We've grown, yes, but if we move too quickly, we'll only provoke resistance."

"I know," Fang Ming admitted, though the frustration in his voice was unmistakable. "But the prize is too tempting. How can we not salivate?"

The tension between the Qing Empire and the British had simmered since the Opium Wars, and the wounds were still fresh. For a Qing businessman to propose supplying firearms to the British military would be laughable—if not outright suicidal. At best, the British might shut down his factories. At worst, they'd ensure his ruin.

Producing firearms wasn't just about factories or production lines. It required military approval, political protection, and alliances forged in the shadows.

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"Father," Fang Ming said after a moment, his tone grave, "we've only been in their circle for a year. They don't see us as equals. They never will."

His father nodded. "You're right. This attempt was premature. I couldn't even bring it up. I had to tread carefully, or they'd see it as greed."

Fang Ming sighed and slumped further into his seat, nearly falling off the edge. "So, what now? If we can't sell guns, there's nothing left to offer the military at a premium."

FangMing's mind raced. The British army wasn't a fool; they smiled now because he sold cheaply. Raise the prices, and not even the best commission would convince them to buy.

Who in this Far East would buy my guns? Fang Ming wondered.

He needed buyers desperate for arms, wealthy enough to pay, and discreet enough to keep the transaction hidden. But could he even make firearms in secret? A gun factory would require hundreds—if not thousands—of workers. His plans were too ambitious to stay unnoticed.

"I don't know how to do this," Fang Ming admitted aloud.

"Neither do I," his father said with a heavy sigh. "You've convinced me why we need to sell guns, but how we do it... sell them expensively, in large numbers, without being caught... that's beyond me."

"Then we'll have to find a way," Fang Ming replied, his voice firm. "No matter what."

He knew the odds were nearly impossible. But that didn't matter. It had to be done.

"For now," his father said, "we'll keep researching. At least the factory isn't operational yet. But we need to start within the year. The world won't wait for us."

Fang Ming nodded, his resolve hardening. "Agreed. Let's go home."

The hour was late, and the streets were quiet save for the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves. Fang Ming thought of his younger sister. She no longer waited anxiously by the door for their return—household staff ensured she was cared for. But she still glanced at the gate from time to time, a habit born of years spent longing for the family's safe return.

Each time Fang Ming saw her, he embraced her tightly, a silent reassurance that they were still together.

As the carriage rocked gently, Fang Ming smiled faintly. "I can't wait to see her."

His father chuckled. "Neither can I."

For a fleeting moment, the weight of their ambitions melted away. They weren't schemers or businessmen; they were simply a father and son, longing to see their family.

But even in the quiet of the night, Fang Ming's mind churned. The world wasn't kind to those who hesitated, and he couldn't afford to falter.

The path ahead was steep, but he would climb it.

For his family. For their future.