Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War

Chapter 15: Chapter 15 The Gathering Storm

The laborers shifted uncomfortably. They said nothing, their silence heavy with guilt. They were the ones who had dug up the graves, their hands paid in meager wages. Though they loathed the work, they were fathers, sons, and brothers with mouths to feed. Their silence became their shield against the young man's anguish.

When no one answered his cries, the young man sank to his knees, his tears carving trails through the dirt on his face.

"What justice is this? They say the railroad is for the people, yet it steals the very earth beneath our feet. How is this for the people?"

Though his sobs were broken and his words fragmented, they pierced the hearts of those who heard them. Yet no one dared speak. The silence of the laborers weighed heavier than the stones they moved.

From the crowd, a single mocking voice rang out, sharp and cruel.

"Why are you still here, you filthy wretch? Go dive into the river and fish out your mother's bones! Maybe they're still there at the bottom!"

The German officer chuckled, turning to leave. The young man couldn't understand the words, but the derision in the man's tone was unmistakable. Fury surged through his veins, and rational thought fled. He grabbed a stone, his knuckles white with rage, and lunged toward the officer.

But just as the stone arced toward its mark, a voice boomed through the chaos.

"Well, well! Isn't this a pleasant surprise? My friend from the tavern! Didn't we have a lively debate about German beer just the other day?"

A man stepped between them, his smile disarming. He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and another on the officer's arm, his laughter cutting through the tension like a blade.

The officer blinked, caught off guard. "Do I know you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

The stranger beamed, speaking fluent German with ease. "Of course! You sang praises of German beer, lamenting the sad excuse for brew here in the colonies. Come, why don't we settle this over a drink? My treat."

As he spoke, he gestured subtly to the laborers. Move the young man away. Quickly. Understanding the silent command, they hurried to pull the young man from the scene. By the time the officer turned back, the youth was gone, and the stranger's jovial chatter had already distracted him.

The laborers breathed a collective sigh of relief, realizing the stranger had just saved them all. Had the officer been harmed, none would have been spared from the retribution that followed.

Later, the young man sat among the laborers, his head in his hands. One of them spoke, his voice tinged with both reproach and concern.

"What were you thinking? You could've gotten us all killed!"

The young man looked up, his eyes hollow. "What face do I have left to show my mother? She could not rest in life, and now she cannot rest in death."

A sharp voice interrupted. "And if you had struck that man, you would've joined her immediately."

The young man looked up to see another figure—a Chinese man in a fine suit, his expression stern but not unkind.

"Who are you?" the youth demanded.

"They call me Zhang Chun," the man replied. "And the one who just saved you? That's Johnny Yang. Don't let his white skin fool you—his heart belongs to the Qing."

Despite their suspicions, the laborers couldn't deny their gratitude. Zhang Chun continued, his tone softening.

"Listen to me. Killing one officer won't change the world. It'll only bring more suffering to you and your people. If the world is broken, then fix it. Don't throw your life away."

With that, Zhang Chun turned and walked away, leaving the young man to sit in stunned silence. His words carried the weight of truth—and the promise of something greater.

Weeks passed, and whispers of the two youths spread like wildfire. The Chinese laborer and the half-White ally who had sworn to change the world—like heroes from an ancient tale. Their legend grew, and so did their resolve. Together, they began to forge a new path, one that would challenge the very foundations of the world that had wronged them.

And somewhere in the distance, the sound of a storm began to rise.

Zhang Chun worked as a sales agent for Jinhan Security, holding the rank of deputy. Some might scoff at his position as "mere deputy," but Jinhan Corporation, despite its rapid growth, did not grant promotions lightly. Each step up the ladder required rigorous proof of competence. Among all its subsidiaries, Jinhan Security was particularly unyielding.

Unlike its production branches, the security division was mercilessly results-driven. Loyalty and performance were rewarded generously, regardless of one's nationality. But failure? The company was prepared to sever ties without hesitation. @@novelbin@@

For its agents, the stakes were clear: success or oblivion. Their motto was simple: if the job required it, they would march into hell itself.

Zhang Chun had joined Jinhan at the tender age of 21, spending his first two years buried in menial tasks. He endured every hardship, each trial hardening his resolve. He vowed that when opportunity knocked, he would seize it—no matter the cost.

Then, the lifeline arrived: a position as a sales agent for Jinhan Security. Zhang Chun threw himself into his new role with the ferocity of a man chasing destiny, wielding his cunning and ambition like a sword in the city of Yantai.

"Elder Brother," Zhang Chun explained, cradling the weapon in his hands, "this is the trigger. Rest the stock against your shoulder, aim through the sights, and pull."

The air cracked with thunder.

Bang!

"See? With this, you can eliminate your enemies."

A distant target fell. Gasps rippled through the group.

"It hit!"

"By the heavens! Over 200 paces, and a perfect shot!"

The group marveled at the weapon—a sleek rifle smuggled into their hands. Though the production models were less refined, even the sample demonstrated staggering power. Most of the gathered disciples had never seen a firearm up close, let alone handled one.