"...Adhere to the communist ideal... unswervingly follow the socialist path... implement the philosophy of serving the people heart and soul..."

On the day after Li Runshi’s inaugural address for his fifth term, foreign analysts across the globe highlighted the key passages of his speech.

"...In social management, apply new technological means to enhance the capacity of administrative systems..."

"...Devote full effort to the development of the mobile communications industry..."

"...Push forward the construction of the Information Superhighway..."

"...Environmental protection must be placed in a position of priority..."

"...Increase investment in new energy industries; accelerate development through internal competition and policy support..."

"...Engage in industrial cooperation with all nations; through planning, ensure China’s growth becomes the engine of world development, sharing the dividends of our rise with the entire planet..."

"...Establish a World Aerospace Cooperation Center; strive to complete the manned moon landing project by 1970..."

Since China became the global hegemon in 1945, the inaugural speeches of its President had served as the bellwether for the world economy. For those with the capacity to analyze the nuances of the rhetoric and a deep understanding of the Chinese operational model, these addresses were a treasure trove of commercial opportunity.

Twenty years had passed. The analytical teams of the major industrial powers had undergone at least three iterations. The first occurred between 1948 and 1950, as China finalized the construction of GATT, the World Bank, and the Global Security system. Dedicated "China Departments" were carved out of existing intelligence agencies.

The second iteration took place between 1958 and 1960. In 1958, Chinese personal computers hit the market. No longer were intelligence analysts required to sit beside massive mainframes in server rooms; the PC shifted the office from centralization toward decentralization.

In this world, while China was the undisputed hegemon, the strength of the US and the USSR remained formidable. Both possessed their own computer industries and network infrastructures that far surpassed the rest of the world.

In 1960, China’s civilian network was officially commercialized, and the United States followed suit with lightning speed. The ability to communicate with institutions and scholars without leaving one's desk triggered a total transformation of the analytical trade.

By 1962, the Chinese-led World Communications Committee completed the geosynchronous satellite communication system. From that point on, the speed of information acquisition surged once more, leading to the third iteration of analytical models.

The initial results of the analysis of Li Runshi’s 1965 speech were quickly ready. Overall, the address remained grounded in domestic Chinese development. The primary focus of global cooperation remained industrial layout.

Among the Western nations, none had reaped greater dividends from China’s global layout than West Germany. Like Japan, West Germany had fully integrated its industries with Chinese planning, securing a significant share of global sectors.

In 1945, Europeans visiting West Germany had lamented that it would take twenty years just to clear the rubble. In fact, West Germany had utilized Chinese aerated concrete technology to transform that rubble into a source of new building materials. Leveraging the funds and technology from the European Recovery Plan—known in Europe as the "Cheng Ruofan Plan"—and working from comprehensive blueprints, they had built a brand-new West Germany.

Because China dominated the global market, securing a piece of China’s industrial plan meant securing a piece of the world’s industry. This allowed the West German and Japanese economies to grow at a staggering pace.

In just twenty years, West Germany had not only fully recovered from the devastation of the war but had reached unprecedented heights, becoming the premier economy of Western Europe and the engine of the continent.

Consequently, while its population was far smaller than that of the US or the USSR, the number of analysts in West Germany rivaled those of the two giants.

The first-phase report from West Germany suggested that after twenty years of equity-focused policies, the Li Runshi government was showing signs of shifting back toward a priority on efficiency. This shift caused a degree of concern within the German analytical departments.

Once the report was submitted, the West German government convened a meeting. In 1950, the German Communist Party (KPD) had won a landslide election, securing a majority in the Reichstag and forming a cabinet independently. Over the following fifteen years, while the traditional Social Democrats (SPD) had occasionally denied the KPD an absolute majority, the Communists remained firmly the largest party. This had led the left wing of the broader social-democratic movement to "defect to the Communists."

It wasn't just the leftists. Generally, those who advocated for "Materialism" and "Scientific Rationality" tended toward the right. After comparing the traditional SPD with a KPD-led Germany built on worker participation in production and management, these right-leaning figures also joined the KPD. This injected a streak of cold Materialism into the party, making the internal meetings of the German government exceptionally rational.

Such rationality placed immense pressure on subordinate departments. Based on experience, the analysts knew the cabinet meeting would likely last three days. During those three days, the department didn't need overtime; they needed relaxation to prepare for the intense work to follow.

The married staff hurried home to their families, while the single ones chose their own means of unwinding.

Those left on duty were a bit more unfortunate, yet they had their own pastimes. Some surfed the web, visiting adult sites. Others lay lazily on sofas with books.

Beside a Chinese-made color inkjet printer, two men were printing out adult images they had downloaded. It wasn't that these single men were particularly lecherous; the color printer was simply a novelty, and given the artistic atmosphere of Germany, images of beautiful women were a natural choice.

Before the images were finished, a third man approached. "Hurry up. I need to print a book."

"What book?" the two asked, puzzled. The printer in an analytical department was a consumable; it produced enough material daily to bind a dozen books. They weren't confused by his desire to print a book, but by his desire to do so during their legitimate "slacking" time.

As the first few pages emerged from the printer, the other two set aside their images and began to read intently. It was a long-form report by a British journalist titled *The West German Economic Miracle*.

German development was the envy of all Europe, and the journalist’s perspective was unique. He identified two key factors: the presence of Chinese garrisons and the successful introduction of Chinese Daoism.

The Chinese garrisons ensured West Germany’s national security, allowing the nation to focus entirely on the economy without fear of foreign invasion or a resurgence of domestic right-wing militarism. Not since the formal establishment of Prussia had the German lands enjoyed such genuine security.

The introduction of Daoism, however, was a more surprising success. Germany possessed a highly developed philosophy, and its intellectual circles had long wished for the collapse of Christian culture. Yet despite numerous reformations in German history, they had never managed to topple Christianity.

Until Daoism entered Germany under He Rui’s layout. The situation was fundamentally altered.

Daoism, like Christianity, posited a supreme existence. But its supreme was the non-personal "Dao," not a personal god in human form.

Like the Creator, the Dao was the source of the world. But unlike Christianity, everything in existence was part of the Dao; there was no hierarchy or master-servant relationship between humanity and the ultimate source. This allowed humans to establish a direct relationship with the ultimate core of the world without the need for an "End Times" or a "Final Judgment." It freed humanity from the shackles of the Christian God.

Driven by internal need, Daoism had developed in Germany at a staggering pace since 1945. Many were genuinely attracted to its philosophy and became practitioners. Even more adopted it simply to avoid the social stigma traditionally attached to atheism in Germany.

The massive shift in religious demographics also altered the traditional Christian forces. The conservatives became more radical, turning toward fundamentalism. But the German intellectual community was already weary of such things, leading to a rapid decline of fundamentalist influence, which devolved into far-right groups like the "Christian Falange."

The more progressive Christian elements adopted Daoist ideas to launch their own reformation. They attempted to explain God as a non-conscious entity similar to the "Great Dao," while describing Jesus Christ as a "radical quasi-communist reformer."

Daoism did not collect tithes. And if the reformed German Christians re-defined Jesus as a radical socialist, how could they justify a tithe?

Tithing was something only the "evil Papacy" would do!

The "Reform" faction argued that a true Christianity should not collect taxes. Any entity that took money was to be defined as a "commercial organization."

Regardless of the turmoil within the religious circles, the influence of religion in Germany dissipated with incredible speed. The proportion of Christians plummeted from over 90% in 1945 to 31% by 1965.

In 1937, at its pre-war height, there were fewer than a hundred "genuine" Daoists with Chinese lineage in Germany. By 1965, 57% of the population identified as Daoist. Whether they followed the Quanzhen or Zhengyi schools, or some other variant, no one in Germany particularly cared.

Another 12% identified as Buddhist or other faiths. 7% of the population openly declared themselves Materialists with no religious belief.

The British journalist concluded: "...Germany has, in the past twenty years, become a truly secularized nation. Religion has lost its decisive influence. This has made Germany increasingly like China in its social structure.

"It is true that Germany is more secure and far wealthier. Yet it appears to have lost its own traditions.

"To trade tradition for the present... is it worth it?"

The German youth in the office had been reading with relish until that final paragraph. Their faces fell. None could find an immediate rebuttal, and their annoyance only added to their displeasure.

Finally, one of them sneered, "Britain is so impoverished these days; they should worry more about where their next meal is coming from."

The other two, thinking of Britain’s stagnant economy, burst into laughter at the aptness of the jab.

After three days of relaxation, the department heads returned from the cabinet meetings with a mountain of tasks. The cabinet believed that while the Chinese government might be shifting its tilt between efficiency and equity, it was entirely possible that China could maintain high efficiency *while* remaining equitable.

Over the past two decades, while the growth of West Germany and Japan had been astonishing, neither had surpassed China. That their development seemed more impressive was merely a matter of scale: China’s population exceeded one billion, while Japan held eighty million and West Germany sixty million. They were simply not in the same league.

Any wealth divided among a billion people would appear negligible. For instance, China’s 1964 steel production reached a staggering one billion tons—yet in terms of per capita accumulation, it had only just reached the levels of the Northern United States. Still, in the forty years between 1924 and 1964, China had produced more steel than the rest of the world combined over the previous five centuries.

High-speed growth, rapid increases in production efficiency, an equitable social distribution, and super-scale infrastructure development—the path China had chosen was one that traditional Western economic theory predicted would stifle capital liquidity. Yet the Chinese economy thrived, with 97% of families owning their own homes.

Thus, the cabinet required more effective analysis, not easy conclusions.

But the reality continued to exceed their expectations.

In the latter half of 1965, the Chinese government dispatched delegations worldwide for extensive negotiations. A new round of industrial layout began, with low-end, labor-intensive industries accelerating their departure from China.

According to Western experience, such an exodus would inevitably cause mass unemployment. To solve this, China was expected to appreciate the Yuan and transition from an industrial producer to a financial power, purchasing cheap goods from the globe.

But in 1966, the West discovered the reality was quite different. Over the past forty years, China had built a natural advantage in labor-intensive sectors. As the lowest-tier industries left, the remaining sectors did not vanish; they transitioned into capital-, tech-, and labor-intensive hybrids.

Simply put, a factory that once produced buttons manually now did so with massive automation. The vast workforce either retired or underwent adult vocational training to enter high-end electronics assembly lines, becoming a new breed of industrial worker.

From a traditional perspective, training a button-maker to assemble mobile phones was an enormous investment that, from a purely capital standpoint, was not worth the cost.

But the Chinese policy of equity focused on individual development. Every adult received two months of mandatory re-education annually, during which they were paid their basic wage.

Germany followed a similar system and understood its execution well. Their pride in their high-quality labor force was built upon exactly such investment.

To the German analysts, the problem wasn't the Chinese worker, but the fact that Chinese industry had achieved a total breakthrough.

Since 1940, China had used its industrial breakthroughs to seize the initiative on the battlefield. Since the war’s end, it had remained at the absolute forefront of new technology. Europe had lost not only the war but the race for science and industry as well.

By 1968, a flood of global capital began flowing into Chinese government bonds. Li Runshi, reading a paper titled *Discussions on the Correction of Terminology* by a joint Sino-European research group, felt a degree of impact.

The paper categorized government bonds as a field of "rent-seeking." In Chinese culture, rent-seeking carried a heavy negative connotation.

Rent-seeking refers to non-productive profit-seeking activities designed to monopolize social resources or maintain a monopoly position to extract economic rents without engaging in actual production.

Bonds do not produce profit. The state issues them to raise capital for industry or other state sectors, providing the investor with a stable, risk-free profit.

He Rui had always emphasized that all enterprise involves risk. If a "risk-free" profit appeared, it meant the risk had been transferred. Consequently, risk-free profit would inevitably lead to an accumulation of problems that would explode as the transferred risks reached a breaking point. Such an explosion would trigger a profound crisis.

In the He Rui era, this risk had been nominally borne by the government, and practically by the state-owned economy. After his death, it had been sustained by the industrial plans he left behind. Because Li Runshi had adopted those plans, the risk was nominally his government’s, but remained practically the state’s.

Li had tried to change this but failed. The Chinese government was the most powerful and resilient organization in human history; if it were unwilling to bear the risk, no private capital would do so at the current low rates of return.

The risk of industrial development had nothing to do with whether a system was socialist or capitalist. Had capitalism possessed a more effective means of resolving industrial problems, China would not be leading the world by such a margin.

This was the source of Li’s regret. He Rui had solved problems through an "Idealist" mode—pre-supposing the problems and imagining the paths to their resolution.

Even twenty years after his death, He Rui’s pre-death concepts allowed China to keep industrial risk at a manageable level, solving problems with speed and efficiency.

But to rule a nation this way was to invite catastrophe.

During his tenure, Li had done his best to eliminate Idealist tendencies within the leadership. He had also utilized education to universalize Materialism across the nation with significant success.

Yet some things were beyond his power, or even that of a powerful state. The greatest problem was success itself: if a project succeeded, everyone was happy. Post-action reviews analyzed flaws and issued reprimands, and since the goal was met, these were accepted.

But what if it failed?

Failure meant a massive loss. How could a single individual bear the loss of a nation?

Investments in the hundreds of millions far exceeded the capacity of any individual to repay. Not to mention the lost time and the cascading impact on related industries.

China had compressed two hundred years of development into forty and emerged as the world leader. The failures other nations could absorb were fatal in such a compressed timeline.

Given the rate of population growth and the rapidly rising living standards, China *had* to maintain high-speed growth to meet its needs.

At such a time, let alone economic stagnation—merely failing to grow fast enough—was a political responsibility Li could hardly bear. Not even a resurrected He Rui could have borne it.

Li, with his vast experience in struggle, knew this well. From 1924, He Rui had only ruled for twenty years. Li’s own tenure had now far surpassed that.

In his twenty-three years in power, the reason he remained unshakeable was that China’s average growth had remained above 9%. Living standards rose, and the per capita wealth of the people continued to climb.

As a Materialist, Li knew that once growth faltered, the people would not accept it.

It had nothing to do with whether a system used "grand narratives" or a spirit of sacrifice. In the war, not only the Chinese but all peoples had shown staggering bravery and sacrifice.

Nazi Germany, the supposed representative of evil, had pioneered the use of "human bombs" when facing superior Soviet forces.

People do not reject sacrifice; they reject *meaningless* sacrifice. More plainly: the people do not accept failure.

On a national level, the people do not accept the failure of the government’s policies!

Li had sought to eliminate He Rui’s "Idealist" influence, hoping to ground the Party and government in a Materialism that could match He Rui’s invincibility.

Yet after all their efforts, he had failed to reach that goal. Before the momentum He Rui provided was exhausted, Li had still not identified a clear, viable path to keep risk within manageable bounds through Materialism alone.

Of course, from an administrative standpoint, he had plenty of options. He could shift the policy tilt back to efficiency, allowing those driven by greed to bear the risk.

Had he done so, He Rui’s prophecy would have come true. Those bearing the risk would demand extraordinary profits, triggering an ideological shift. Individual pursuit would override social value, rendering the concept of equity a joke.

In such a scenario, Li’s only choice—his only duty—would be to propose a "correct lifestyle."

The resulting chaos would last until the people realized the "capitalist roaders" were beyond redemption—until their tolerance for inequality reached its limit and forced the policy back toward equity.

Of course, there was another way. If he could find another "He Rui"—another man capable of managing the risk—then the next leader could, like his predecessor, coldly utilize the efficiency-seekers as tools to drive growth until the next transition point.

But Li never considered this. If he had, he would not be a Materialist, but an Idealist.

In 1969, Li Runshi chose not to stand for re-election. The news shook the world; everyone understood that a new era had begun for China.

Summer 1979, Hunan. A heavy rain had just ended. Li Runshi opened a window, watching the last of the puddles on the road outside his retirement home. A car pulled into the courtyard.

A man in uniform stepped out. On his collar were no stars or bars—only the national emblem beside embroidered pine and cypress branches.

The man strode into the living room as Li emerged from the elevator. "Ruofan! You’re a rare guest," Li greeted him happily.

Cheng Ruofan did not look happy. He merely nodded and handed Li a file. Inside were several pages of text and a USB drive.

Computer technology had reached the 14nm process, and the "U-disk" had replaced traditional storage for the youth. But Li still preferred the feel of paper. He read the documents first before asking, "You want me to make a statement?"

"Not entirely. I’m just... lamenting," Cheng replied with regret.

"Come, let's go upstairs."

Li’s computer utilized a forty-inch screen, the font size set to 300%. He read with ease. After the first few pages, he stopped. "Is this real?" he asked, turning to Cheng.

"Yes. The child was killed." Cheng’s face was like ice, his voice just as cold.

Both men had seen enough death to last ten lifetimes. The number of people killed by their orders exceeded the number most humans ever saw.

Over the years, with the universalization of networks and mobile internet, murders over online disputes were not unheard of. The file showed that the victim was one such casualty.

"Why are you so focused on this one?" Li asked directly.

"Because I feel this has exceeded the bounds of the acceptable," Cheng answered with absolute seriousness.

Li sensed something special about the case. Cheng would never have intervened for a stranger otherwise—let alone dragged him into it.

"I’ll need to read the whole thing," Li said.

Cheng nodded. If Li were willing to read it, it meant he was taking it seriously.

"I’ll take a walk downstairs. Take your time, Chairman." Cheng turned and left the study.

Li’s retirement home in the outskirts of Changsha was comfortable. Simple plants grew in the yard. A calico cat was prowling its territory; seeing Cheng, it stopped and looked up.

The cat was clearly a "social butterfly." As Cheng knelt and called to it, it approached, rubbed against his hand, and soon rolled over to show its belly under his practiced touch.

They played for a while before the second-floor window opened. "Comrade Ruofan, please come up," Li called out.

Cheng took the elevator back up. The cat, not yet satisfied, followed him in and walked with him into the study. As he sat, it took its place by his feet, rubbing against his trousers.

Li looked grim. "Has there been an investigation?"

"I don't know," Cheng replied coldly. "I only hope it isn't what I fear!"

Li’s gaze flickered to the cat, then back to the screen. The victim’s online handle had been "Three-Flowers-at-the-Peak Cat." Looking through the details, Li’s mood darkened. The coincidence of the name only added to the complexity of his feelings.

"Has there been a massive leak of personal data at this stage?" he asked.

"I fear it is something worse," Cheng persisted.

Li nodded. It seemed this would be a long conversation.

The cat jumped onto the sofa. Sensing his own tension, Cheng reached out to stroke it. It purred contentedly and curled up on his lap.

To the background of the cat's purring, the two men began their discussion in the summer afternoon.