Chapter 3 The First Branch Unfolds

The market air buzzed with the dissonance of youth, an orchestra of voices raised in disbelief and curiosity.

"Are you serious?" one boy demanded, his eyes narrowing with skepticism.

"I told you, it's true!" Fang Ming replied, his tone unwavering, like the sure stroke of a blade.

"If you're lying, my friends and I won't let it slide!" the boy threatened, his words emboldened by the assembly of street urchins around him.

Fang Ming's confidence remained steadfast, like a ship cutting through stormy seas. "How many times must I repeat myself? If you work under me, you'll earn more than you would scraping by with odd jobs."

A murmur rippled through the gathering, their leader furrowing his brow before speaking again. "Hmm… fine. I'll believe you. No, I'll trust you."

The boy's tentative concession was a spark that ignited the resolve of the others. Their heads nodded, their gazes firm.

"Good," Fang Ming declared, a victorious smile tugging at his lips. "Then all you have to do is follow my instructions."

"Got it! So we just show up there tomorrow?"

"Exactly. After breakfast, meet me at the designated place."

As the crowd dispersed, the shantytown's makeshift streets reclaimed their silence. Fang Ming exhaled, gripping his shoeshine tools like a warrior would his sword. Without hesitation, he ventured toward the heart of foreign authority—the gates of the British military base.

There, under the watchful eyes of towering sentries, Fang Ming established his station. From the break of dawn to the rising sun's apex, he tended to weary boots with skill that bordered on artistry. The rhythm of his labor was interrupted only by the arrival of a familiar figure.

"Sergeant Brian!" Fang Ming called out, his voice carrying the warmth of familiarity.

"Oh, Fang Ming! So this is where you've been hiding," Brian responded, his booming laughter echoing like the toll of a great bell.

"Hehe, you're here for your shoes again, aren't you?" Fang Ming teased, his hands already reaching for his tools.

Sergeant Brian strode forward, his presence as commanding as the crimson banners of his regiment. The man's hearty demeanor and larger-than-life personality often bordered on the absurd, but to Fang Ming, he was a key piece in a larger game.

As Fang Ming worked, he cast a glance upward. "Sergeant, how do you manage your uniform aside from your shoes?"

Brian shrugged, his shoulders broad and unbothered. "We take care of it ourselves… unless we can get the nurses to help. Women are naturally better at that sort of thing."

Fang Ming's eyes narrowed slightly. The sergeant's words, steeped in the traditions of his century, were emblematic of the larger world Fang Ming sought to navigate.

"When you ask for help, do they agree?" Fang Ming probed further.

Brian snorted. "Hardly! Last time, I asked one to sew on a button, and I got an earful. Ended up doing it myself. Look at this." He gestured to his uniform, the missing button a glaring void in the pristine fabric.

"It's absurd for a soldier to do this kind of thing," Brian grumbled.

Fang Ming's reply was smooth, calculated. "Of course, Sergeant. A soldier's duty is to protect the realm, not to mend clothing."

Brian nodded, the corner of his lips curling upward. "Exactly."

The conversation continued, punctuated by the rhythmic strokes of Fang Ming's brushes. "What if someone else could take care of those tasks for you?" Fang Ming ventured.

Brian tilted his head, intrigued. "What, my odd jobs?"

"Yes."

For a moment, the sergeant appeared thoughtful. "I doubt it. That kind of help costs money. Do you think soldiers are made of gold?"

"That's why I'm suggesting it. What if someone could do it for a modest fee?" Fang Ming pressed.

Brian's gaze sharpened, his curiosity piqued. "Fang Ming, are you saying you'd take care of my tasks? And why should I trust you?"

"Trust isn't given—it's earned," Fang Ming replied, his tone firm yet inviting. "Give me one week. Your red coat, your boots, even your undergarments—I'll manage it all to perfection."

Brian smirked, his skepticism returning. "But Fang Ming, you're just a Chinaman."

Fang Ming's jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. "Sergeant, I'm Korean, not Chinese. The distinction matters, just as it would if I called a British gentleman a Yankee."

Before Brian could retort, Fang Ming reached into his pocket and produced a small pouch. He handed it over with deliberate care.

"This is the money I've saved over six months. Consider it a deposit."

Brian blinked, his expression a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Six months' savings, just for odd jobs? What if I take it and run?"

"That's precisely why I trust you," Fang Ming countered, his voice unwavering. "A British soldier's honor is worth more than a boy's earnings."

Brian burst into laughter, his mirth reverberating through the air. "You're a clever one, I'll give you that. Fine, I'll give you a shot. Do well, and I'll tell my friends."

As the sergeant departed, Fang Ming's shoulders relaxed. He let out a triumphant cheer, his fists raised to the heavens. Passersby cast him curious glances, but he paid them no mind.

The first step had been taken, the first piece of his grand design falling into place. Fang Ming's confidence swelled, bolstered by the knowledge that small victories often paved the way to greater conquests. 

The streets of Hong Kong teemed with life and despair, where the cries of the abandoned echoed against the stone walls of an unforgiving city. Amid the chaos, a quiet revolution began, led not by armies but by the unyielding will of a single boy.

Scattered across the shadows of the city were the forsaken—children born of two worlds, yet claimed by none. Western priests, clad in the austere garments of their faith, took pity upon these orphans of circumstance. They gathered them into sanctuaries, orphans of mixed blood whose very existence blurred the boundaries of East and West. The priests cared not for their own nationalities—be they British, French, or German—but saw in these children an opportunity to mold, to teach, and to convert.