Worthy of Being My Zhang Yuting's Offspring

The Japanese consulate in Fengtian.

The atmosphere was oppressive.

Sato Kenichi knelt on the tatami, a cup of green tea already gone cold in his hand.

Before him, an intelligence officer in a Western suit bowed deeply, not daring to lift his head.

"You're saying the rifles carried by Zhang Xueming's escort for the bride procession far outperform our Type 38?"

Sato Kenichi's voice was flat, revealing neither anger nor pleasure.

But the more so, the faster the intelligence officer's cold sweat broke out.

"Hai!" He bowed his head sharply. "According to our observer's close-range reconnaissance, that rifle's bolt throw is shorter, its rate of fire faster. Moreover, their accuracy while mounted... is abnormally high."

"Abnormal?" Sato Kenichi set down his teacup and adjusted the round-rimmed glasses on his nose. "How abnormal?"

"At over a hundred meters, nearly every shot hits. This is absolutely not the standard level of the Feng Army. We speculate they may have received secret military aid from one of the Great Powers, or even... a fully organized military advisory group."

"Baka!"

Sato Kenichi hurled his teacup to the floor, shards scattering.

"Aid? Advisory group? The Americans or the German? That mud-legged Zhang Yuting, what right does he have!"

His chest heaved violently. This news had completely upended his plans.

In the Empire's eyes, the Feng Army was nothing but a rabble armed with outdated weapons, ants to be crushed at any moment.

But now, those ants had quietly evolved fangs.

"Investigate! Find out for me! Which country is meddling behind the scenes!"

Sato Kenichi stood and paced the room, his gaze dark and venomous.

"Immediately send a telegram to the General Staff back home! Report our findings! Tell them they must accelerate the development of new weapons—we cannot be outdone by a local warlord!"

"Also, have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs people mingle more with the British and American embassies. Sound them out!"

He stopped pacing, a vicious glint flashing in his eyes.

"If we can't do it openly, we'll do it in the shadows. Those Old Qing Loyalists have been quite active lately, haven't they?"

The intelligence officer caught his meaning. "They've always wanted to restore the Great Qing, viewing Zhang Yuting as a thief who stole the nation."

"Excellent." Sato Kenichi's lips curled into a cold grin. "Give them some hope. Give them some support. Let them cause trouble for Zhang Yuting, set his backyard on fire. A bunch of useless wastes who can't accomplish anything but are perfect as a stirring stick."

He paused, then asked.

"How are our two mixed brigades stationed in East Manchuria? Are they ready?"

"Everything is prepared. They can move out at any time."

"Keep the soldiers on alert. Didn't Zhang Yuting send his precious son to suppress bandits in Jilin Province? A playboy—what does he know about war? I'm waiting for news of his failure. Once Jilin falls into chaos, our army can march in to 'maintain order' with perfect justification."

"By then, the entire Jilin Province will be a prize within the Great Neon Empire's grasp."

The Marshal's Mansion, the Great Green House, Tiger Hall.

A massive tiger skin hung on the wall, claws bared, exuding an imposing presence.

Fengtian Governor-General and Provincial Governor Zhang Yuting held a brand-new rifle, turning it over in his hands.

He worked the bolt, and the crisp click of the mechanism echoed through the empty room.

"Good rifle, truly a good rifle!"

Zhang Yuting caressed the cold metal with reluctant admiration, then looked up at Zhang Xueming across from him.

"Kid, how many of these can your armaments factory produce in a month?"

Zhang Xueming was lounging lazily in his chair, a cup of tea in hand. He didn't even lift his eyelids.

"How many? A thousand or so at most."

He made it up on the spot.

He had to keep the factory's actual output secret, even from his own father.

This thing was his trump card—the fewer who knew, the better.

Zhang Yuting shot him a glance and snorted.

"You're still holding out on me, kid. A couple days ago, I sent Old Wang from the Anshan General Factory to take a look around your place, see if he could reverse-engineer it. Guess what he said when he came back?"

Zhang Xueming's heart skipped a beat, but his face stayed calm. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'Damn it, I've never even seen that production line before. Those German machines are like treasured heirlooms—I couldn't even put them back together if I took them apart.' Where the hell did you get such an immortal production line?"

Zhang Xueming laughed inwardly. That thing was decades ahead of this era—of course you couldn't understand it.

He set down his tea and began spouting nonsense with a straight face. "Father, it's not the production line that's amazing, it's the people. I spent a fortune to hire a top-tier industrial advisor from Germany. The stuff in his head is high-tech we can't even grasp. This whole setup was his personal design—proprietary technology, get it?"

"Let me tell you, we can't just hand these rifles out casually. Give one to Uncle So-and-so today, another to Uncle What's-his-name tomorrow, and the day after, it'll show up in some bandit hideout. If someone steals the technology, we'll have nowhere to cry."

Zhang Yuting listened and nodded in deep agreement.

He knew his own generals' character better than anyone.