Fu Weihong arrived at the Beiyang Naval Academy compound on a grey morning that threatened rain. The compound sat on Tianjin's eastern edge, near enough to the sea that the air carried salt and the cry of gulls. Once, this had been the pride of Chinese naval education—European-designed buildings, modern equipment, instructors trained in Britain and Germany.
Now, after the war, it felt like a mausoleum.
Fu walked through the main gate, his naval uniform drawing salutes from the guards despite his unofficial status. The dismissal from active service hadn't stripped him of rank—just authority. The distinction felt thin some days.
"Captain Fu!"
Yan Fu stood waiting just inside the compound, his scholarly robes a contrast to Fu Weihong's military bearing. They'd corresponded extensively over the past week, but this was their first face-to-face meeting since Fu's appointment to rebuild naval education.
They clasped hands, and Yan Fu smiled with what looked like genuine warmth. "I'm glad you're early. We should talk before you face the others."
"That bad?" Fu asked as they began walking toward the administrative building.
"They're not happy." Yan Fu chose his words carefully. "Admiral Liu, Captain Ye, Commander Wang—they represent what remains of the old Beiyang leadership. The survivors. They view your appointment as... judgment on their service."
"It is judgment on their service," Fu said flatly. "Their methods failed. Their leadership failed. We lost the entire fleet."
"Yes. But telling them that directly won't help you recruit instructors or gain cooperation." Yan Fu glanced sideways at Fu. "You need some of them on your side. Or at least, you need them not actively sabotaging your efforts."
Fu was silent as they climbed the steps to the main building. The stone was weathered, carved with characters proclaiming dedication to maritime strength and national defense. Empty words, now.
"What's your advice?" Fu asked finally.
"Be honest about what failed. But frame the academy as expansion, not replacement. You're creating new paths, not destroying old ones. Give them room to save face, and some will take it."
"And the ones who won't?"
Yan Fu's expression hardened slightly. "Those you defeat. Publicly if necessary. But choose your battles carefully."
They reached the conference room. Through the door's window, Fu could see figures already gathered—senior officers in formal uniforms, their faces weathered by decades at sea. Men who'd survived battles, storms, and now humiliating defeat.
Men who were about to judge whether a dismissed captain had any right to rebuild what they'd lost.
Fu straightened his uniform, checked that his documents were in order, and opened the door.
The conference room fell silent as Fu entered. Twelve officers sat around a long table—survivors of the Beiyang Fleet, instructors who'd remained at the academy, a few officials from the Tianjin naval administration. Their expressions ranged from hostile to carefully neutral.
Admiral Liu Buchang sat at the table's head—senior surviving officer of the Beiyang Fleet, now nominal director of what remained of naval operations. His face was drawn, aged beyond his years by defeat and the weight of survival when so many had died.
"Captain Fu Weihong," Liu said, voice formal. "Welcome to the Naval Academy. Or what's left of it."
Fu bowed respectfully. "Admiral Liu. Thank you for gathering everyone on short notice."
"We didn't have much choice." This from Captain Ye Zugui, sitting to Liu's right. His tone carried barely concealed hostility. "Li Hongzhang's orders are quite clear. We're to hear your plans for 'revitalizing naval education.' As if we haven't been trying to maintain standards despite impossible circumstances."
Fu moved to the front of the room, Yan Fu taking a seat at the table's far end. He set down his document case and faced the assembled officers.
"Gentlemen, I'll be direct. The Beiyang Fleet was destroyed not because our sailors lacked courage, but because our training, doctrine, and leadership were inadequate to modern naval warfare. We emphasized ceremonial perfection over combat readiness. We promoted based on connections rather than competence. We studied outdated tactics and ignored painful lessons from foreign conflicts. The result was catastrophic defeat against an enemy we should have matched."
The room erupted.
"How dare you—" Captain Ye was half out of his seat.
"We were outnumbered and undersupplied—" Commander Wang protested.
"Your dismissal from service should have taught you humility—" another officer began.
Admiral Liu raised his hand, and the room gradually quieted. He studied Fu with an expression that was impossible to read.
"You're quite comfortable assigning blame, Captain Fu. Tell me—were your ideas implemented before the war?"
"No, Admiral. They were not."
"Then perhaps the problem wasn't just our methods, but the fact that promising officers like yourself were pushed aside by the very political dynamics you now criticize." Liu's tone was mild, but his words cut deep. "You're not wrong about what failed. But you were removed from the navy before you could prove your alternative approaches would work any better. Why should we trust them now?"
Fu had expected anger. This calculated counter-attack was more dangerous.
"Because, Admiral, the traditional methods have been tested exhaustively. They've failed not once but repeatedly—against the French, against the Japanese, against every modern navy we've faced. At some point, continuing to use failed methods stops being prudent caution and becomes willful blindness."
He pulled out his documents, spreading them on the table. "This is the proposed curriculum for the rebuilt Naval Academy. I'm not asking for blind trust. I'm presenting detailed plans that you can evaluate, critique, and improve. But we cannot keep training officers the same way and expecting different results."
Captain Ye leaned forward, scanning the documents. "Your curriculum emphasizes practical seamanship and gunnery over naval theory. That's a dramatic shift from current education standards."
"Because theory without practical skill produces officers who can discuss tactics eloquently but can't maneuver ships in storms or maintain fire discipline in battle." Fu's voice was firm. "We had officers who'd memorized textbooks but panicked when faced with actual combat conditions. That's not education—it's academic theater."
"You're oversimplifying—" Commander Wang began.
"Am I?" Fu interrupted. "How many of our officers could accurately calculate firing solutions under stress? How many understood basic damage control procedures? How many had actually commanded vessels in difficult weather before assuming wartime command?"
The room was silent. Everyone knew the answers to those questions.
Yan Fu spoke up from his seat at the table's end, his voice carrying scholarly authority: "Captain Fu's curriculum addresses specific deficiencies we observed during the war. I've reviewed his plans in detail. They're based on successful foreign naval education models—particularly the German system—but adapted to our strategic circumstances."
"You're supporting this?" Captain Ye looked at Yan Fu with something like betrayal. "You, who've been advocating for classical Chinese strategic principles applied to naval warfare?"
"I support learning from our failures," Yan Fu replied calmly. "Captain Fu's doctrine acknowledges our real strategic position instead of pretending we can match superior navies ship-for-ship. He proposes distributed coastal defense, rapid-response flotillas, and asymmetric advantages—doctrine suited to defending our coastline rather than projecting power we don't possess."
He gestured at the documents. "More importantly, his training methods emphasize what we actually lacked: practical seamanship, accurate gunnery, effective damage control, realistic tactical exercises. These aren't radical foreign ideas—they're basic military competence that we somehow lost sight of while pursuing prestige and ceremony."
Admiral Liu had been reading through Fu's documents while others argued. Now he looked up. "You propose re-educating existing officers. That's politically difficult. Many will see it as insulting their service."
"It's not about insult," Fu said. "It's about acknowledging that we trained people for a navy that doesn't exist anymore and needs to be rebuilt with different capabilities. Officers who studied abroad but can't advance because they lack the right connections—they need new paths. Mid-level officers with competence but no prospects—they need opportunities. Even junior sailors who want training the current system doesn't provide—they deserve chances to improve."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "The academy isn't replacing anyone. It's expanding the institution. Creating new roles, new positions, new paths forward. First instructor positions will go to current officers who want them. First students will come from existing navy personnel. This is about growth, not destruction."
"That sounds reassuring," Captain Ye said, his tone skeptical. "But you'll need to demonstrate that your methods actually work. Words are easy, Captain Fu. Results are what matter."
Fu had anticipated this moment. He reached into his document case and pulled out a large folded map—the Yalu River engagement area, marked with ship positions and movement arrows.
"Then let me demonstrate," Fu said. "Let's refight the Battle of the Yalu. Not historically—as a tactical exercise. You command the Beiyang Fleet using traditional doctrine. I'll command a reformed fleet using the methods I propose. We'll see which approach produces better outcomes."
The room went still. This was dangerous—publicly challenging senior officers to a simulated battle, gambling his credibility on the result.
Admiral Liu's eyes narrowed. "A tabletop war game? That's your evidence?"
"It's a start," Fu replied. "If my doctrine can't even win on paper, why implement it at sea? But if it does win—if it can defeat traditional approaches in scenario after scenario—then perhaps it deserves consideration."
They cleared the conference table and spread out the map. Fu distributed simplified fleet markers—wooden pieces representing different vessel types, with cards indicating their capabilities.
"We'll run three scenarios," Fu explained. "First: The Yalu battle as it actually occurred. Admiral Liu commands the historical Beiyang formation. I command a reformed fleet with the same number and type of vessels, but using my proposed tactics."
"This proves nothing," Commander Wang objected. "You have perfect hindsight about what the Japanese did."
"Fair point," Fu acknowledged. "Which is why after the Yalu replay, we'll run two more scenarios with unknown enemy forces. Yan Fu will design the scenarios and command the opposing side. Neither of us will know his battle plans in advance."
Yan Fu nodded. "I'll make them difficult. No easy victories."
Admiral Liu studied the map, then looked at Fu. "If you lose even one scenario, you concede your doctrine needs serious revision. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Fu said without hesitation.
They began.
First Scenario: Yalu River Engagement
Admiral Liu positioned the Beiyang Fleet in traditional line formation—heavy battleships at the center, lighter vessels on the flanks, the formation that Admiral Ding had actually used.
"This formation maximizes our battleships' firepower while protecting weaker vessels," Liu explained, moving the pieces into position.
Fu arranged his fleet differently—distributed groups, no rigid line, with designated roles for each division.
"My center division engages directly, drawing Japanese attention," Fu said. "But my flanking divisions are positioned for rapid maneuver, not static support. Their job is exploiting openings, not maintaining formation."
They ran the engagement, turn by turn, Yan Fu acting as neutral referee tracking damage, ammunition, and maneuver costs.
Admiral Liu's traditional formation fought well initially—concentrated firepower produced early successes. But as the battle progressed, problems emerged. Ships couldn't maneuver independently without breaking formation. When the Japanese focused fire on individual vessels, supporting ships couldn't respond quickly. The formation's rigidity became a liability.
Fu's distributed groups took heavier early damage—less concentrated firepower meant slower kills. But they adapted continuously. When Japanese focused on one division, others maneuvered for advantage. When opportunities appeared, they exploited them immediately without waiting for formation-wide coordination.
By the scenario's end, Admiral Liu's fleet had suffered critical damage to its battleships—once they were disabled, the formation collapsed. Fu's fleet was battered but functional, with most divisions still combat-capable.
"Luck," Captain Ye muttered. "You anticipated our moves because you know how we think."
"Then let's try something I can't anticipate," Fu replied.
Second Scenario: Coastal Defense
Yan Fu designed this without showing anyone: A larger Japanese force attempting to land troops at Weihaiwei. The Chinese fleet must prevent landing while preserving its own combat capability.
Admiral Liu chose to meet the enemy fleet directly—traditional doctrine emphasized decisive fleet engagement.
Fu split his force: One division engaged the enemy fleet, buying time. Two divisions positioned to attack the troop transports directly, ignoring the warships. A fourth division stayed in reserve, hidden in coastal waters.
"You're avoiding the main enemy fleet?" Commander Wang was incredulous. "That's cowardice."
"That's prioritizing objectives over ego," Fu replied. "The mission isn't to defeat their fleet. It's to prevent troop landing. I can lose the fleet battle and still win the scenario if their transports are destroyed."
The scenario played out over forty-five minutes. Admiral Liu's approach produced a fierce fleet engagement—equal losses, neither side gaining clear advantage. But while the fleets battled, Japanese transports approached the coast mostly unmolested.
Fu's divided force took heavier losses—his engaging division was outnumbered and gradually overwhelmed. But his other divisions savaged the transports, sinking or heavily damaging most of them. When the Japanese realized what was happening and tried to break off fleet engagement to protect transports, Fu's reserve division ambushed them from coastal cover.
Final result: Liu's fleet survived mostly intact but failed to prevent landing. Fu's fleet was badly mauled but the invasion was stopped.
Yan Fu, playing the Japanese admiral, set down his pieces. "In this scenario, Captain Fu wins despite losing more ships. His doctrine prioritizes strategic objectives over tactical pride."
Third Scenario: Commerce Raiding
The final scenario tested sustained operations: defending merchant shipping against enemy raiders over multiple turns, with limited resources and no reinforcements.
This was the most complex scenario—it required not just tactical decisions but strategic resource management. Where to patrol, which convoys to prioritize, when to risk engagement versus when to preserve forces.
Admiral Liu played conservatively, focusing on protecting the most valuable convoys with concentrated forces. Standard doctrine—protect what matters most, accept that some losses are inevitable.
Fu dispersed his forces more widely, using smaller units to patrol broader areas. When raiders appeared, he didn't necessarily engage directly—instead, he used hit-and-run tactics to harass them, drive them toward less profitable hunting grounds, force them to expend resources on defense rather than attack.
"You're not even trying to destroy enemy raiders," Captain Ye pointed out.
"I'm trying to protect merchant shipping," Fu corrected. "Destroying raiders is a means to that end, not the end itself. If I can make their operations costly and unprofitable without risking fleet-on-fleet battle, that's a better outcome."
The scenario ran for over an hour, the most complex of the three. By the end, Admiral Liu had lost fewer ships but also saved fewer convoys—his concentrated forces couldn't cover enough area. Fu had taken more losses but protected significantly more merchant shipping, and several enemy raiders had withdrawn due to the cumulative harassment making their operations unsustainable.
Yan Fu tallied the results. "In terms of pure naval combat, Admiral Liu performed well. In terms of actual mission success—protecting trade—Captain Fu's approach was substantially more effective."
The conference room was quiet after the third scenario ended. The officers who'd been hostile when Fu arrived now looked thoughtful, even troubled.
Admiral Liu gathered the game pieces slowly, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke: "Your doctrine emphasizes mission success over naval honor. That's... unsettling for officers trained to think of fleet battles as the highest expression of naval warfare."
"Fleet battles are important when they achieve strategic objectives," Fu said. "But they're not sacred. The Yalu battle was a disaster not because we lost ships—losses are inevitable in war—but because losing those ships accomplished nothing strategically. We didn't prevent Japanese operations. We didn't protect our coasts. We just... died bravely. That's not success—it's waste."
Commander Wang, who'd been one of the most hostile initially, spoke up: "Your tactics rely heavily on junior officers making independent decisions. That requires trust in their judgment that our current system doesn't cultivate."
"Which is exactly what the academy needs to address," Fu replied. "We need to train officers who can think independently, assess situations quickly, and act decisively without waiting for detailed orders from superiors. That requires different education methods than we currently use."
"It also requires cultural change," Yan Fu added. "Moving from a system that values obedience and hierarchy above all else to one that values initiative and adaptability. That's difficult but necessary."
Captain Ye, who'd been studying the Yalu scenario maps, looked up. "I notice your tactics assume we'll be facing superior forces. That's... pessimistic."
"It's realistic," Fu said bluntly. "We lost the war. Our industrial base is weaker than Japan's. Our fiscal situation is desperate. We cannot—in the near term—build a fleet that matches our most likely enemies ship-for-ship. So our doctrine must be designed for fighting from disadvantage, using geography, coordination, and strategic intelligence to compensate for material inferiority."
He gestured at the maps. "That's not pessimism. It's honesty about our situation. And honest assessment of capabilities is the first step to improving them."
Admiral Liu stood, walking to the window that overlooked the academy's training grounds. Empty now, silent.
"Captain Fu," he said without turning around. "You've demonstrated that your tactical thinking has merit. That your doctrine addresses real problems with traditional approaches. But tactics and doctrine are only part of what the academy needs to teach."
He turned back to face the room. "Leadership. Character. The ability to maintain discipline and morale under impossible circumstances. How does your academy address those?"
Fu met his gaze. "By being honest about failure. By showing students that we learn from mistakes rather than hiding them. By demonstrating that competence matters more than connections, that merit can advance careers even without political backing. The best way to teach character is to embody it institutionally."
"Idealistic words," Admiral Liu said. But his tone wasn't dismissive—more thoughtful, even cautiously approving.
"I have a question," said a voice from the table's far end. Lieutenant Zhao Wenxuan—one of the younger officers present, who'd been silent throughout the meeting. "You mentioned that first instructor positions would go to current officers. What positions specifically?"
Fu pulled out another document. "Seamanship instruction, gunnery training, damage control, navigation, engineering fundamentals. I need ten to twelve instructors initially. Preference goes to officers with relevant combat experience or foreign training. Salary is modest but steady—better than the uncertain prospects most junior officers currently face."
"And student recruitment?" Lieutenant Zhao pressed. "You said first students come from existing navy. How are they selected?"
"Merit-based applications open to all current naval personnel, regardless of rank or background. We'll test for basic literacy, mathematical ability, and seafaring knowledge. Top forty applicants are admitted to the first class."
"No recommendation requirements?" Another young officer—Lieutenant Sun—leaned forward with sudden interest. "No need for officer sponsorship?"
"None," Fu confirmed. "I want the best candidates, not the best-connected candidates. Political patronage is precisely what corrupted the old system."
Three young officers exchanged glances. They saw what the senior officers perhaps didn't—opportunity. A path forward that didn't require years of courting the right patrons or accepting dead-end assignments because they lacked family connections.
Lieutenant Zhao stood. "Captain Fu, I volunteer as an instructor. I studied at the Fuzhou Naval Academy and served aboard cruiser Jiyuan during the war. I can teach navigation and basic seamanship."
Fu nodded, making a note. "Accepted. Thank you, Lieutenant."
"I'll volunteer as well," said Lieutenant Sun. "Engineering background, served in the engine rooms of the Beiyang Fleet. I can teach engineering fundamentals and damage control procedures."
A third officer—Lieutenant Wang—rose as well. "Gunnery instruction. I trained with German advisors in '93. I have expertise you need."
Fu accepted all three, feeling momentum shift in the room. The senior officers looked troubled—seeing their junior colleagues volunteer felt like betrayal to the old guard. But they couldn't stop it without appearing obstructionist.
Admiral Liu watched this unfold with an expression that was difficult to read. Finally, he spoke: "Captain Fu, you'll have access to the North Academy compound—the oldest facility on the grounds. It's been mostly unused since the war, but the buildings are sound. Take what you need for your academy."
It wasn't enthusiastic support. But it was permission. That was enough.
After the meeting concluded, Fu walked through the North Academy compound with Yan Fu and his three new instructor volunteers. The facility dated back to the 1880s—China's first attempt at modern naval education, built with optimistic energy that now felt like ancient history.
The main instruction building stood three stories tall, European-style architecture with Chinese decorative elements. Windows were intact but dusty. Classrooms empty, desks stacked against walls. An abandoned lecture hall where hundreds of students had once studied navigation, gunnery theory, maritime law.
"This place was the pride of the Beiyang Fleet," Yan Fu said quietly. "When it opened, foreign observers praised it as equal to any European naval academy."
"What happened?" Lieutenant Zhao asked.
"Politics," Fu replied. "Funding was diverted to build more impressive ships rather than maintain educational infrastructure. Then the war came, and educational budgets were cut entirely. The students were reassigned to active duty—most of them died at Yalu or Weihaiwei."
They walked through empty corridors, their footsteps echoing. In one classroom, a map of the Yellow Sea still hung on the wall, pins marking long-obsolete fleet positions. In another, a chalkboard bore partially erased calculations—someone's gunnery homework from years ago, never completed.
Lieutenant Sun pushed open a door to reveal the engineering workshop. Lathes sat silent and dusty, toolboxes unopened, diagrams of steam engine components still tacked to walls.
"We can make this work," Lieutenant Sun said, surveying the space. "It needs cleaning and some equipment repairs, but the foundations are solid."
They continued to the old dormitory building—four floors, rooms for two hundred students. Empty bunks, stripped mattresses, the smell of dust and disuse.
"How many students in the first class?" Lieutenant Wang asked.
"Forty," Fu replied. "We'll use the first two floors. Plenty of space."
"And funding?" Yan Fu's question was practical. "Li Hongzhang approved your plans, but has he approved the budget to execute them?"
Fu pulled out a letter from his coat. "Three months of initial funding. After that, we need to show results—successful first class, graduates who perform better than traditionally trained officers, measurable improvements in seamanship and gunnery scores. If we succeed, funding continues. If we fail..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
They emerged from the dormitory onto the old parade ground. Weeds had pushed through the cobblestones, but the space was still impressive—large enough for formation drills, physical training, ceremonial formations if needed.
Lieutenant Zhao looked around at the abandoned compound, then at Fu. "We're starting from nothing. Unused facility, tiny staff, questionable funding, and the entire old guard hoping we fail. This is insane."
"Yes," Fu agreed. "But it's also opportunity. We're not constrained by existing bureaucracy or traditional methods. We can build something new, something that actually works."
He walked to the center of the parade ground, turning to face his small group. "Forty students in six weeks. That's our goal. Yan Fu will help with curriculum development. You three will prepare your instruction materials. I'll handle recruitment and coordinate with Li Hongzhang's office for final approvals."
"What about the student recruitment notice?" Lieutenant Sun asked. "When do we post it?"
Fu smiled. "Today. I want it distributed to every naval facility in Tianjin, every port office, every place where serving sailors might see it. The message is simple: The Naval Academy is accepting applications based on merit, not connections. If you can pass the entrance examination, you can attend. No recommendations required. No political patronage needed. Just ability and willingness to learn."
"That'll cause trouble," Yan Fu warned. "The old guard won't like you openly advertising that competence matters more than their recommendations."
"I know," Fu said. "But we need the best students we can find, not whoever senior officers want to reward with academy placement. This is too important to compromise on."
They stood together in the empty parade ground, five men surrounded by abandoned buildings and uncertain prospects. But something was shifting—hope, perhaps, or just determination. The sense that despite overwhelming obstacles, something worth building was beginning.
Lieutenant Zhao looked up at the main instruction building, its facade still impressive despite years of neglect. "When I graduated from the Fuzhou Academy in '92, I thought I was joining the greatest navy in Asia. Then we lost everything. I spent two years wondering if naval service even had a future in China."
He turned to Fu. "Now I think maybe it does. Not the old navy—that's dead. But something new. Something that might actually work this time."
"That's what we're building," Fu confirmed. "Not a restoration of what failed, but creation of what might succeed. It won't be easy. It probably won't even work. But we're going to try anyway."
Yan Fu smiled slightly. "Ambitious words from a dismissed captain with no official authority."
"I have Li Hongzhang's backing and three volunteer instructors," Fu replied. "That's more authority than I expected when I woke up this morning."
They walked back toward the main building, discussing logistics—what equipment could be salvaged from the old workshops, what needed to be purchased new, how to structure the six-week timeline before the first class began.
Behind them, the empty parade ground waited. Soon it would fill with students—forty young men taking a chance on an experimental academy run by a disgraced officer with radical ideas about naval warfare.
Success wasn't guaranteed. Failure was more likely than not.
But for the first time since the war ended, the possibility of something better felt real.
Fu Weihong stood at the entrance to the main instruction building, looking back at the compound that would become his academy. Tomorrow he would begin the bureaucratic work—submitting forms, securing final approvals, coordinating with Li Hongzhang's office. Tomorrow the reality of building an institution from ruins would begin.
Today, he allowed himself a moment of hope.
The work ahead was immense. The opposition was entrenched. The resources were minimal.
But the foundation was there. Volunteers had stepped forward. Permission had been granted.
Now they just had to prove that merit-based education could work better than the patronage system that had failed so catastrophically.
Fu smiled slightly, thinking of the war game scenarios where his doctrine had defeated traditional approaches three times. Tactics on paper were one thing. Implementing them at sea with actual ships and actual sailors—that was different.
But they'd never know unless they tried.
He turned and walked into the building, ready to begin.