Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War

Chapter 18: Chapter 18 The Turning Point

The company needed to change. Its structure, its operations—every factory and every point of contact had to be reimagined. Fang Ming resolved that every critical node, every place where vital information converged, must be entrusted only to those he deemed reliable.

For menial labor, simple administrative tasks, and low-priority positions, it didn't matter if they were Qing nationals or British.

From there, he would carefully select those who could truly become his people.

It was no small task. Growth was inevitable; he would become a proverbial fattened pig, ripe for slaughter. To survive, he needed sharper defenses than anyone else—sharp enough to make even the hungriest predator hesitate before attacking. A message had to be sent: if you want the meat, be ready to risk your life.

Two powers loomed as the greatest threats: Britain and Japan. To endure, Fang Ming had to tread boldly yet discreetly. That was the only way.

Well, there was one other path. A more stable, lucrative option.

Opium.

By distributing opium brought from India to the Qing Empire, he could secure immense wealth and the protective shield of British approval. The temptation was undeniable. But for Fang Ming, it was an absolute line he would not cross. His refusal wasn't rooted in modern morality or a sense of virtue. He simply knew that companies built on opium could never last.

At just sixteen—an age where most would still be in school in the modern world—Fang Ming couldn't imagine spending the next fifty years running an opium empire. Employees raised on such foundations would be anything but stable, and no one involved in the trade could resist its lure forever.

"Opium is off the table," he muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. The allure was sweet, but in time it would turn into a weakness, a shackle waiting to snap closed. Though he knew the shape of major future events, his own path remained murky. He couldn't afford to let his ambition become his undoing.

"Bold and discreet. Don't forget."

This would be the creed guiding the road ahead.

Fang Ming's musings were interrupted as he rose from his seat, breaking the spell of his thoughts. Before him stood Siu Lin, holding a stack of papers.

"Siu Lin," he asked, his voice steady, "what will you do?"

She tilted her head slightly, her demeanor as professional as ever. "What do you mean, sir?"

"It's time for you to decide. Will you stay with me, or will you return to Liu Feng?"

Her composed expression faltered for the first time, a crack forming in the mask of her porcelain features. Even her displeasure was strikingly beautiful,Fang Ming thought briefly before shaking the thought away. This wasn't the time.

"What do you want to do?" he pressed. "Not what I want, not what Liu Feng expects. He's already agreed to respect your choice. Besides, for now, he and I are sailing in the same ship."

Siu Lin hesitated, considering her response. Finally, she spoke. "To be honest, I want to stay. Everything we accomplish here is thrilling. It's all new, all exciting. As long as it doesn't harm Liu Feng, I'd like to continue working under you."

Her choice came with a condition: loyalty to Fang Ming, but not at the expense of Liu Feng.

Fang Ming couldn't help but admire Liu Feng's knack for cultivating loyalty. The man truly understood people. But no matter—Fang Ming was willing to bide his time. He would turn her into his ally completely. Anything less was unacceptable.

"Pass the word," he said, his tone decisive. "By next week, everything must be reorganized. This company has been running too haphazardly for too long."

"Understood, sir," Siu Lin replied, bowing before leaving the room. @@novelbin@@

Fang Ming turned to the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Though employees managed much of the daily operations, there were still tasks only he could handle. At least, officially, the head of the company was his father. But everyone knew who truly pulled the strings.

As he sifted through the documents, a letter caught his eye.

[Sender: John Browning]

The moment he saw the name, Fang Ming tore open the envelope. The tedium of reviewing contracts vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

Dear Fang Ming,

Your letters over the past two years have always impressed me. It baffles me how someone in the East seems to know me better than my own family. Is this one of those mysterious Eastern occult practices? Haha.

You were right. To them, I'm nothing but a slave designing firearms. Perhaps it's because I'm Mormon, or because I don't fit into their high society parties—they always find a reason. I longed for someone who understood me, who spoke my language. Yet, I found no such person in America. Not a single one.

The Winchester rifle we planned to launch last year? I didn't even bother mentioning it. And so, here I am, writing to you because of that very rifle—the Winchester. Your idea birthed this gun. I can no longer suppress my curiosity about the boy who has consistently outpaced me in thought. This middle-aged man is ready to embark on an adventure, just like in Around the World in 80 Days.

Your letters stir something in me, Fang Ming. A restlessness. A hope. I've decided—I must meet you. No one can stop me now. I'm leaving this vast prison to find someone who truly understands me for the first time. Will you meet with me?

Sincerely,

John Browning

Fang Ming sat back, his heart pounding as if it might escape his chest. The world seemed to freeze. He had written to Browning for years, offering insights and ideas drawn from knowledge of firearms that didn't yet exist. Browning's responses had always been curt, dismissive.

But this... this was different.

He whispered the words aloud, almost disbelieving. "The Winchester 1895... wasn't released?"

The legendary rifle—one destined to secure Browning's place as a millionaire and a titan of innovation—had not seen the light of day. Fang Ming's knowledge of history had never failed him before, but this revelation sent his thoughts spiraling.

"What does this mean?" he muttered, sinking into his chair. "Will everything he was supposed to create vanish?"

And then, a thrill unlike anything he'd ever felt coursed through him. An electrifying sense of possibility. He grabbed a pen, his usually clumsy handwriting flowing effortlessly for the first time.

To my friend John...

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