Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War-Chapter 21 - A Night of Reckoning

But tod Amid the turbulent era, the world seemed unusually quiet. Shandong, once the center of chaos, had settled into an uneasy calm. Japan, previously deafening with war cries, was now silent, basking in the glow of their recent conquests. Even the opium-addled machinations of the British and the ambitions of the Germans in Shandong felt muted, as if the storm had passed.

Each power appeared preoccupied with its own business. The British diligently cultivated addiction among the masses, the Japanese indulged in fervent praise for their Emperor's divine leadership, and the Germans, satisfied with their foothold in Shandong, worked methodically to solidify their presence. Meanwhile, the Russians stewed in their frustration, cooling their tempers in the icy Siberian winds.

But for one man, this quiet was deeply unsettling. Watching from the shadows, the Chairman of Jinhan Corporation saw a world where the players were not following the roles he had envisioned.

"They all seem far too comfortable..." he muttered.

The Boxers had already purchased over 5,000 rifles—an impressive feat, far exceeding the 1,000 to 2,000 units he had initially anticipated. Their leader, now drunk on power, had organized personal militias and fortified his utopia. Yet, instead of unleashing chaos, the Boxers were quiet. Too quiet.

It wasn't what he had planned. The Boxers were meant to be the spark that ignited a raging fire. A force to plunge the Qing dynasty into unending turmoil—a land of daily rebellions, mutinies at breakfast, coups at lunch, and insurrections by dinner. Yet the so-called "fuse" seemed to be burning out, smothered under the weight of its own newfound stability.

"Has he grown too complacent?" the Chairman wondered, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his desk. "Instead of a bomb, this is turning into a ticking clock."

Reports from Shandong came weekly, each painting a picture of an increasingly organized and disciplined Boxer movement. Their leader, once a revolutionary, now played the part of a king. He enjoyed his paradise of power, indulging in the wealth and control he had amassed.

"Have I let them grow too soft?" the Chairman mused, rising from his chair. "Perhaps it's time for some exercise."

With a wry smile, he summoned a team of his most trusted operatives. Among them was Zhang Chun, recently promoted to deputy, who was soon boarding the fastest ship bound for Shandong under the cover of darkness.

ay... today, you've broken that trust."

The captain gestured at the chaos left by the soldiers' search. The disheveled crates, some damaged, others haphazardly repacked, told the story of their reckless inspection.

"Damaged goods, delayed deliveries, penalties for breach of contract—tell me, officer, to whom should I send the bill?"

The officer froze, unable to respond. If he were to pay for every item aboard that ship, the cost would be astronomical. Worse still, if Jinhan suspended their supply chain, the German garrison would struggle to function. It was a disaster beyond his ability to manage.

The captain didn't wait for a reply. "We'll finish our work now. Kindly step aside."

With that, he dismissed the officer, his voice as cold and professional as ever. The crew resumed unloading cargo, muttering their frustrations as they worked.

"We're a logistics company, not smugglers! What weapons? I've never even seen a rifle in my life!"

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"Right? And they tore through our cargo like rats. Damned fools."

The officer said nothing. He stood frozen, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. "I should've handled this more diplomatically..." he thought bitterly.

That night, in a warehouse beneath the port,

The chaos of the day gave way to the quiet hum of clandestine activity. Workers moved swiftly in the dim light, their hands steady as they unpacked crates.

"Hey! Watch the alignment!" one barked.

From the unusual table legs, workers removed their tops and separated connecting parts. With a few deft motions, the "table legs" transformed into rifle stocks. Tobacco pipes, carefully disassembled, revealed rifled barrels hidden within.

Piece by piece, from dozens of nondescript crates, a hidden arsenal emerged. Workers assembled the components with practiced precision, and soon, rows of rifles stood gleaming under the flickering lanterns.

At the head of the operation stood Captain Julian, his earlier calm now replaced with brisk efficiency. He directed the workers like a conductor leading an orchestra, his voice cutting through the stillness of the night.

To Julian, there was no dishonesty in his earlier words. He had not smuggled rifles—only parts. It was a technicality, yes, but one that Jinhan's ethos thrived upon.

Elsewhere, at Jinhan Corporation's headquarters,

"Chairman, we've received the latest report from logistics," said Xiu Lin, handing over a sealed folder.

The chairman skimmed its contents, his expression unreadable. The report detailed Germany's intensified efforts to root out smugglers and their attempts to conceal the matter from other nations.

"What do you want to do about their shipments?" Xiu Lin asked. "We've temporarily delayed the next departure, but we can cancel deliveries entirely if necessary."

The chairman shook his head. "No need. Let's proceed as planned. Consider this a favor. A little goodwill goes a long way."

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Besides, resolved suspicion turns into certainty. After today, they'll never search our ships again."

Xiu Lin nodded. "The Boxers seem to have avoided exposure as well."

The report confirmed that the Boxers had maintained strict discipline. Their leader, the venerable elder, had prohibited weapons from being distributed outside their immediate ranks. Loyalty to their cause and fear of exposure had kept their secrets intact.

The chairman chuckled. "How does a fanatical sect have stricter discipline than most armies? It's fascinating."

According to Zhang Chun's firsthand accounts, the Boxers operated with military-like precision. Their hatred for foreign powers and the Qing dynasty's enemies drove them to unparalleled zeal. Over time, their leader had transformed from a mere organizer into a messianic figure, declaring himself the son of Buddha and a disciple of the Monkey King.

"It's extraordinary," the chairman mused. "The madder their doctrine, the stronger they seem to grow. They'll never wake up and say, 'Let's be reasonable.' And that's exactly why they're perfect."

His mind buzzed with ideas, the possibilities of what could be achieved with such a movement. For now, he was content to watch the fire grow, feeding it from the shadows.

"Let the Boxers grow stronger," he murmured to himself. "They're not my problem to stop."

Like a distant puppeteer, the chairman pulled the strings of chaos, ensuring that when the explosion came, it would be spectacular—and profitable.

In the end, it wasn't the bold who shaped history, but the cunning who mastered its tides.