Chapter 04 | The Return of the Dragon - PART 1

The hallways of Zhongnanhai, China's communist headquarters, felt freezing. The old stone floor echoed under Li Wei Jun's shiny shoes, his steps calm but his mind full of worry. Outside, snow fell softly over Beijing, blanketing the city in a quiet hush. Inside, the air was heavy with stress, thick enough to feel on his skin as he walked past the red walls that had witnessed centuries of power.

Li hadn't stepped foot in this building for nearly one year. The last time, he had walked out of the President's office in disgrace not by formal impeachment, but by political suffocation. The Central Party Inner Council (CPI) had cornered him after the India Accord, a peace deal with Rudra Veer Singh that they labeled unstable, unpatriotic, and too intimate with a man the nation once called a rival. The whispers had grown into shouts, and Li had left, head high but heart broken, retreating to his villa near Chengdu.

Yet now, he returned.

But not as a ghost.

As a contender.

Two Months Earlier

The whisper came from an unlikely source an aging general named Cheng Bao, once a fierce critic of Li's peace doctrine. Cheng had called Li at midnight, his voice crackling through the phone in fractured Mandarin, as if the words themselves betrayed his loyalty.

"China has grown quiet, Li. Too quiet," Cheng said, his breath heavy with age.

"Is that not what you wanted?" Li responded, sitting in the dim light of his private villa, the Chengdu mountains visible through the window.

"The silence we created," Cheng whispered, "is not peace. It is decay. Our youths don't chant anymore. The workers don't trust. They only scroll on their phones, laughing at patriotism. They laugh at me. They laugh at us. But not at you, Li."

Li said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a tight rope.

Cheng continued, his voice softening. "You built something with Rudra. With the Butterfly Treaty. I hated it. But it's working somewhere, in people's hearts. And now, my heart burns inside me."

It wasn't a confession. It was a request.

A request to come back into power. A request to lead the nation. A request to lead its people.

Li leaned back, staring at the shadowed ceiling. The Butterfly Treaty his bold move with Rudra had sparked hope, even if it had cost him his presidency. Could he do it again? He didn't answer Cheng that night, but the seed was planted.

In the weeks that followed, whispers spread from military bases and industrial provinces like Jiangsu, Yunnan, and Inner Mongolia. Regional governors issued quiet statements, refusing to accept Li Wei Jun's resignation from a year ago. It was a signal a faint flutter that the Butterfly was returning.

Li began meeting allies in secret. A young economist from Shanghai, a retired pilot from Xi'an, and even a poet from Tibet who had once written verses about peace. Each brought stories of a nation losing its spirit, a people tired of stagnation. They drafted plans, mapped strategies, and rehearsed speeches in hidden rooms.

His formal declaration came through an encrypted press conference, broadcast live only on university campuses, social media platforms, and within People's Innovation Forums. He didn't speak of elections. He spoke of rectification.

"A machine must restart," he said, standing before a simple backdrop, "not because it is broken, but because it has overheated doing the right work."

He wore no tie. Only a traditional Zhongshan suit, sleeves rolled halfway, and a single white butterfly pin glinting under the lights a symbol of the treaty, of hope, of Rudra.

Then, one faction of the Communist Party erupted.

They called it unauthorized candidacy. They moved to ban his campaign under the clause of "foreign compromise," citing his closeness to Rudra. But the people moved faster. Within 24 hours, 17 million reposts, mashups, and drone graffiti of Li's old speeches flooded the digital walls of Chinese cities. Videos of students in Beijing chanting his name went viral, while workers in Guangdong shared clips of the Butterfly Treaty signing, their faces lit with pride.

Back in the Present

Li stepped into the briefing chamber, the air colder than the hallways. Four CPI elders stood in half-shadow, their faces stern. General Cheng Bao, now frail but defiant, stood beside him, his uniform hanging loosely on his shoulders.

Elder Song narrowed her eyes. "You do not belong here."

Li didn't blink. "Neither does stagnation," he said, his voice steady despite the storm in his mind.

They circled him with silence, their gazes like weights. It was Song again who hissed, "You think the people will elect you?"

Li raised his chin. "They already did. They just didn't get enough time to keep it."

That moment cracked something. Not in the chamber, but across the capital. His words reached the outer provinces in real time. In Sichuan, students painted butterflies on overpasses, their brushes dipping into cans of bright paint. In Guangdong, taxi drivers played his speeches between rides, the audio crackling through old speakers. In Tibet, monks whispered prayers for change.

The next morning, 3,000 retired soldiers signed an open letter endorsing him for elections, their signatures scrawled in shaky but determined hands.

Meanwhile, in India

Rudra Veer Singh sat in his Delhi war room, a silent chamber lined with projection maps and real-time news feeds. The latest update scrolled across the screen: "Li Wei Jun Officially Registers for Presidency."

His chief of staff, Iqbal, leaned in, his voice low. "If he returns, sir, it won't just be a victory again. It will be a phenomenon."

Rudra smiled faintly, his eyes on the map of the Himalayas. "It was always a phenomenon. We just kept it behind closed doors." He traced a finger along the border, remembering the secret nights with Li, the Butterfly Treaty forged in whispers.

Back in Beijing: Debate Day

Li faced the acting president, Zhou He, in the most-watched public policy debate show in China's modern era. Over 850 million people tuned in, their eyes glued to screens across the nation.

Zhou hammered him on foreign compromise, on the risk of leaning too close to Indian ideology. "Your treaty with Rudra weakened us!" he shouted, his voice echoing.

Li responded with a single line that went viral within seconds: "We don't lean toward India. We lean toward survival. Toward love. Toward breath."

The audience murmured, some nodding, others frowning. Li paused, then added, "If cockroaches can survive an atomic bomb, then we can survive the war with truth." The line sparked a wave of cheers, drowning out Zhou's rebuttal.

Election Night

The streets of Beijing were eerily calm but alive with light. Holograms of Li and Zhou's faces hovered above buildings. Every citizen, whether on their phone, smart glass, or public feed, was watching.

At 7:00 AM, preliminary numbers leaked. In Inner Mongolia: 61% Li. In Guangdong: 53% Zhou. By 9:45 AM, a trending tag broke across every social platform: #ButterfliesRise.

Outside the Great Hall, a crowd of over 100,000 gathered, lighting LED candles, holding paper butterflies, whispering Li's name like a prayer. Inside the Central Election Commission, Li sat in a black coat, flanked by Cheng Bao and two student campaigners. No celebration. Just breath held tight.

At 11:12 AM Beijing time, the final figures posted:

Li Wei Jun: 51.8%Zhou He: 47.4%Others: 0.8%

There was no applause. Just a release of breath, collective and silent, like a nation exhaling.

In the streets, the crowd burst into cheers. Paper butterflies were thrown into the air. Drones traced "Li Wei Jun" above the Forbidden City. In Tibet, monks rang bells. In Shanghai, digital towers displayed a butterfly emerging from a sleeping dragon's mouth.

The Communist Party released a statement: "We accept the mandate of the people." Zhou He resigned without protest.

The Next Day: The Presidential Office

All eyes were on Li as he was expected to arrive at the Presidential Office for the first time to officially take the chair. Cameras lined the main gate. Journalists stood on their toes, microphones raised. Drones hovered, ready to catch the perfect frame.

But Li didn't step out of the black state car at the grand entrance.

Instead, he got down quietly near the narrow southern gate a hidden, rarely used path behind the building. A gate most had forgotten... except him, who remembered that rainy evening when Rudra had used the same entrance during a secret visit, their hands brushing in the shadows.

All media houses buzzed with analysis:

CNN Asia: "China's New President Rejects Grand Entrance, Walks in Through Back Gate. A Symbol of Power, or Paranoia?"

Chinese Microblog (Nettrend): Top Comment: "He walked through the gate of shadows. What is he hiding?"

BBC News: "Was it humility or strategy? Li's decision shows disdain for theatrics or a deep understanding of silent optics."

Weibo Sentiment (90M posts analyzed):

38%: Proud admiration ("He doesn't need applause. He is the storm.")

27%: Suspicion ("Why sneak in like a thief on day one?")

35%: Political decoding ("Is this connected to Rudra's past visit?")

But very few knew the real reason—the real message.

Li stood in his office, staring out over the city, his reflection framed in centuries of imperial glass. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the encrypted tablet on his desk. He walked over, opened a message thread to Rudra, and typed only four words:

"The dragon is back."

He hit send, then closed the device.

Rudra would feel the tremble of geopolitics through the silence of border patrols, through the winds that crossed the Himalayas. Miles away, in Delhi, Rudra's war room grew quiet as the message arrived. He read it, a slow smile spreading, knowing the Butterfly Treaty's spirit lived on.

Finally, Li spoke aloud, his voice soft but firm: "Li Wei Jun is President again."

And this time, he wasn't alone.

To be Continued....

Note:

Butterfly Treaty is not written agreement..its trust , love made between Rudra and Li Jun. It symbolizes not just geopolitical peace but deep emotional trust and personal bond between the two leaders.