Chapter 528 - All Sides Mobilize (Part 1)
"The Executive Committee isn't stupid—they understand the necessity. The worry is that some people will pretend not to," Yan Maoda sighed, tapping ash from his pipe. "According to Zhang Yu and others, the comrades back in Lingao are furious about the distribution of benefits over the past year. If an opportunist seizes on that resentment, who knows how this will end? We need to prepare our defense now. Anyone who targets Chang Shide won't hesitate to target us next."
"Not just defense—we need to go on the offensive. submit a formal proposal!" Zhang Xin said, leaning forward. "Declare the rights of overseas personnel. Rights aren't given; they're fought for."
Leizhou, Haian Harbor
Since the mysterious death of Master Zhu the Third and the dissolution of the Haiyi Hall, the sugar merchants of Haian Street had reorganized into the "Leizhou Sugar Industry Guild." The monopoly on Leizhou sugar sales had passed entirely to the South China Sugar Refinery. For the transmigrates, this was a major victory—though the season's profits had been somewhat eroded by the high-interest loans taken out during the price war.
After the dust settled, Chang Shide moved into Master Zhu's former mansion on Haian Street. As spoils of war, the estate had been unceremoniously claimed by the company.
Zhu An's mansion wasn't massive, but it was elegant and well-built—a far cry from the noisy, industrial chaos of the South Gate Pond factory complex. Chang Shide managed this relocation under the pretext that, as the Guild's Secretary-General—or "Chief Steward"—he needed a base closer to the other merchants. He moved in with his women and his secretary, Wen Qing, officially establishing the Zhu residence as the Leizhou Station headquarters. The former storefronts of Zhu An's "Riyicheng" firm were re-branded and absorbed into the South China Sugar Company's operations.
Wen Tong remained at South Gate Pond to oversee production, while Zhan Tianxiong split his time between the factory and the Zou Monk Temple, which was currently under reconstruction as a forward outpost.
Because Haian was the primary port connecting Leizhou to Lingao, the station's center of gravity had naturally shifted there. The Lingao Construction Company had renovated the mansion thoroughly, turning it into a comfortable and secure command center.
In the mansion's safe room, Chang Shide reclined on a wooden couch piled with cushions, wrapped in a thin silk-padded robe against the seventeenth-century chill. Across from him sat Wen Tong, dressed like a prosperous petty merchant in a thick gown and a puffy cotton cap. Zhan Tianxiong occupied a heavy armchair, looking like a rough-and-tumble street peddler in his short jacket and trousers.
The three men studied a secret letter from Lingao. The Qiongzhou Strait was narrow enough that even without radio—which they hadn't been issued—couriers could make the crossing in half a day.
The letter was an official notice from the caretaker cabinet, identical to the one received in Guangzhou. They knew the political storm brewing across the water.
Wen Tong and Zhan Tianxiong were trying to dissuade Chang Shide from returning for the General Assembly.
"It's clearly a trap," Zhan Tianxiong warned. "Old Chang, I know you're not afraid, but they want to make an example of you. You can't let your guard down."
"Exactly," Wen Tong added. "The masses are in an uproar over the 'woman issue.' You, with your five women, are a lightning rod. If you go back, the incels will mob you. You won't even get a chance to explain."
"Old Wen! When did I ever have five women? Rumors are deadly," Chang Shide complained. "Didn't A'Zhu go to you? And A'Luo is just... a trainee. I'm cultivating her potential."
"Try explaining 'cultivating potential' to a crowd whose only nightly companion is Miss Five Fingers," Wen Tong retorted. "I can already picture it: high dunce caps, placards around our necks, struggle sessions..." The imagery was drawn vividly from his father's stories of the Cultural Revolution.
"It doesn't matter," Chang Shide said, dismissing the fear. "Hiding in Xuwen solves nothing. If I don't go back, the new cabinet will just order me back for discipline anyway. At least if I go now, I can face the Committee members directly. For overseas personnel, the woman issue isn't just physiological—it's operational."
"The Executive Committee has resigned. The caretaker cabinet is a lame duck. What's the point?" Wen Tong shook his head.
"The core leadership won't change much," Zhan Tianxiong noted. "But I'm afraid some of them might sacrifice you to appease the mob."
"Am I, Chang Shide, the sort of man who can be easily sacrificed?" Chang Shide scoffed. "Any turtle-egg who thinks they can scapegoat me has another thing coming. I'm one of the 'masses' too."
A bell chimed inside the room—the signal that someone was outside. Indigenous staff were strictly barred from the secure area.
Chang Shide stepped out and returned a moment later with a small bamboo tube. "Pigeon post from Guangzhou," he announced. "Rare. Something's happened."
"Trouble?" Zhan Tianxiong asked.
"Let's see." Chang Shide broke the wax seal, unrolled the scroll, and decoded the message. His expression shifted from curiosity to vindication.
"Guangzhou gets it!" he exclaimed, slapping the paper on the table. "In matters like this, we can only rely on ourselves."
Wen Tong read the decoded message and nodded. "They're right. We need to fight back."
"The people in Lingao don't understand the operational environment," Zhan Tianxiong agreed. "They see corruption; we see necessary cover."
Chang Shide was animated now. "It seems only comrades in the same trench truly understand the struggle." He waved his hand decisively. "We'll submit a proposal too! Let those shut-ins in Lingao know the reality of overseas work!"
Outside Bairen Fortress, Army Training Cadre Garrison
In a conference room where the lights blazed but the typhoon shutters were sealed tight, a secret meeting was underway.
Around a long table littered with rum bottles, six or seven young officers sat with ramrod-straight spines. They wore identical Army uniforms, Sam Browne belts buckled tight, doing their utmost to project an aura of martial discipline that clashed slightly with the scattered alcohol.
"Comrades!" Zhang Bolin's voice was low and forceful. "The thirteenth meeting of the Young Officers' Club will now begin! All rise for 'The Young Officer's Song'!"
A chorus of off-key male voices broke into a rewriting of the "Panzer Lied." The lyrics were clumsy and the rhythm ragged, but the enthusiasm was genuine. They bellowed the song with a fervor that made up for the lack of musicality.
"Comrades," Zhang Bolin intoned solemnly after the singing died down. "Our Club has existed for exactly one year. The collective's tremendous achievements are inseparable from the selfless combat of the Army!" He swept his gaze across the room. "Now, we face a turning point. The Army is the bedrock of the regime, and the Young Officers' Club must be its steel core—ready to defend the revolution against sabotage from any quarter!"
"Long live!" the officers shouted, stamping their boots three times in unison.
"Next, Wei Aiwen will speak!"
Wei Aiwen stood, adjusted his belt, and marched to the podium with strict, eighty-centimeter goose-steps, brimming with performative Germanic spirit. He clicked his heels sharply before turning to address the room.
The Young Officers' Club was a clique of young men united by a fanatical, almost fetishistic admiration for the German military tradition—specifically the Wehrmacht of the Third Reich.
Within the transmigrator Army, the officer corps was divided. The first stream consisted of genuine veterans—former PLA or paramilitary men like He Ming and Ying Yu—who held the key command positions and delivered professional results. The second stream was the "civilian officers" like Wei Aiwen—military enthusiasts from the old world who had memorized tank specifications and battle orders but had never held a gun before Landing Day. While the veterans viewed them with a mix of amusement and skepticism, the young officers compensated with theoretical passion and an intense, self-imposed discipline.
(End of Chapter)