Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War-Chapter 3 - The Children of the Forgotten and the Dawn of a Vision

Orphanages sprang up like fragile blossoms in barren soil, each one a calculated move in the broader campaign of religion. Under the care of priests and nuns, these children learned the languages of their foreign benefactors: English, French, and other tongues. They became conduits between cultures, bearers of a unique power in an era defined by division.

Yet, for most of these children, life offered no golden road. A fortunate few rose to join the British or French militaries, or returned to distant homelands. The rest, however, were discarded by a society that saw only the shade of their skin, a pale reflection of their parents' worlds. In the rigid hierarchies of the 19th century, their existence placed them in a liminal space—a gray zone where no flag flew to shield them.

For Fang Ming, this gray zone was fertile ground. He saw opportunity where others saw outcasts. The peculiar intersection of cultures had created a pool of talent waiting to be shaped. Fang Ming, with a strategist's eye, recognized the potential of these children.

"This is truly the perfect condition..."

The mixed blood of these children was more than a curse—it was a bridge. Their fluency in the languages of the West made them invaluable. British soldiers, haunted by guilt they could scarcely articulate, found it easier to pass their menial tasks to these children. And Fang Ming, ever the architect of schemes, placed himself at the heart of this exchange.

In a world fractured by cultural chasms, Fang Ming became the keystone. He hired boys old enough to work, proficient in French or English, and hungry for purpose. Their loyalty came not from coercion, but from the hand Fang Ming extended to them when others turned away. They followed him not as slaves, but as companions in shared survival. Like wolves bound to their pack, they knew the strength of unity.

Even in the far-distant 21st century, Fang Ming mused, such multilingual talents would have been rare treasures. Had not his homeland of South Korea poured resources into thousands of English academies in pursuit of such skills? Here, in the crucible of Hong Kong, Fang Ming found these talents freely given by fate.

"Haha, talented people are practically rolling into my lap," Fang Ming would often remark, though his tone carried the weight of careful calculation.

In the forging of his enterprise, staff was his greatest challenge. Menial labor—shoe shining, cleaning, and carrying—could be managed by the street children. But finding those with intellect, education, or specific skills was akin to capturing starlight.

"Well, if talent is lacking, I'll cultivate it myself," Fang Ming resolved, his mind already turning to the intricacies of Hangul and other knowledge he could pass down.

In Fang Ming's view, business was both an art and a war. It began with people and ended with profit. As a general needs soldiers, Fang Ming needed capable workers. Not wealth, not prestige—just people.

"The unique nature of Hong Kong is my blessing," he thought often, his lips curving into a knowing smile.

In this age, no laws bound employers, no contracts shackled ambitions. Fang Ming could hire at will, expand endlessly, and face no regulators demanding accountability. Workers toiled in dim warehouses and thanked their employers for the privilege. Fang Ming's conscience, shaped by memories of a distant future, pricked him now and then. But compared to the rapacious greed of others, he treated his employees with fairness and dignity.

Yet Fang Ming harbored no delusions of heroism. His memories of the 21st century did not spur him to revolutionize the world or shift its moral compass. Such endeavors were folly, bound to end in ruin. His ambition was simpler: to stay one step ahead, to offer just enough betterment to make others grateful for his leadership. After all, humanity was a species defined by its capacity to compare—and to be satisfied when its lot was better than another's.

When Fang Ming first awakened to the echoes of his past life, he had cursed his fate. No powers, no royal lineage—just the memory of a boy trapped in the lowest rung of a foreign land. On sleepless nights, he whispered futile prayers for some fantastical "status window," as if this were a storybook.

"There's no way something that fantastical would happen," he had muttered to himself, laughing bitterly at his own foolishness.

But reality, Fang Ming knew, was stranger than fantasy. His memories themselves were the only magic he would ever need. With them, he built a business as unyielding as stone, a service tailored to the British soldiers who ruled Hong Kong. From the odd jobs they despised,Fang Ming forged a foundation upon which he could build empires.

Still, this foundation alone would not suffice. Fang Ming needed more. His thoughts churned like a storm at sea as he considered the path ahead.

A sudden tap on his shoulder broke his reverie. Fang Ming turned to see Jonathan Yang Basilio, one of the mixed-race boys he had recruited. Jonathan, four years Fang Ming's senior, spoke with a formality that belied their partnership.

"What's the matter?" Fang Ming asked.

"All tasks for today are done. We've checked out every box," Jonathan reported with military precision.

Fang Ming regarded the boy with quiet admiration. In just six months, Jonathan had mastered the written Fang Ming taught him. Though his spoken Korean was still clumsy, his ability to write fluently was remarkable. A true prodigy in any age.

"You're running the most successful operation in Hong Kong, boss," Jonathan teased. "Why do you look so glum?"

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Indeed, Fang Ming's fame had grown. From a mere shoeshine boy, he had risen to control the British military's odd jobs, backed by their protection. Even those who once beat him now knelt with apologies. Fang Ming, ever the tactician, chose to turn their defeat into redemption, hiring them to bolster his reputation.

"Just thinking of a new venture," Fang Ming replied, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"A new venture? What brilliant scheme have you conjured this time, boss?" Jonathan asked, his eyes gleaming.

"Food," Fang Ming said simply.

"A restaurant?"

"Yes."

Jonathan's brow furrowed briefly but then brightened. "It won't be just any restaurant, will it?"

Fang Ming nodded. "Precisely. What kind of establishment would make every soul on this island seek it out?"

Jonathan paused, then spoke thoughtfully. "To feed the whole island... it would have to be fast. And made in large quantities."

Fang Ming froze. The words struck him like lightning. He grabbed Jonathan by the collar. "Say that again!"

"To feed the island, you'd need food that's fast and plentiful," Jonathan repeated, bewildered.

"That's it! That's the answer! Why didn't I see it before? Food that's fast and plentiful—of course!" Fang Ming exclaimed, his excitement igniting like a bonfire.

His eyes gleamed as he stood tall. "The next venture is decided."

Jonathan tilted his head. "What kind of restaurant will it be? Do you have a name?"

"Of course," Fang Ming declared with a grin. "It will be called... Makdonaldo."