Chapter 1803 - Staking Claims
By any reasonable standard of administrative procedure, Minister Hong should have first coordinated with the Delong banking system to assess the fiscal situation, then dispatched military representatives to accompany Delong personnel in a monitoring capacity. But this was a period of profound institutional transition—Delong Bank was transforming from a central bank into a commercial institution—and a thousand administrative threads hung loose with no one available to tie them together. So Minister Hong had personally stepped into the vacuum, meeting directly with village and township-level liaison officers to assume operational control of "Reasonable Burden" collection.
When Liu Xiang arrived in Guangzhou and discovered this arrangement, he was stunned. Minister Hong, you really aren't the Transport Commissioner! Is it genuinely acceptable for the military to intervene directly in civilian local administration—village-level administration, no less?
Before he could even begin lodging complaints, memoranda from Wudaokou descended like a paper snowstorm, politely but firmly reminding Hong that this was "not in accordance with regulations." The Political Security Bureau likewise dispatched its own memorandum, noting delicately that lower-level liaison officers felt "considerable unease"—uncertain "whose orders they were actually supposed to follow."
Did I ask him to do this? Why not take the criticism directly to the military! Liu Xiang cursed silently, realizing he would need to seek Wen Zong's coordination to untangle this administrative knot. The mere thought made him want to scratch his scalp, imagining his hair thinning with each passing bureaucratic disaster.
Just as he was contemplating how to handle Ai Zhixin's latest salvo of "memorandum bombardment," he noticed a new document in the bamboo basket marked "Incoming" on his desk.
"Minister Hong..." Liu Xiang read the name on the cover, and the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily.
Hong Huangnan's correspondence had arrived as a personal confidential letter between Senators. Such communications were termed "private correspondence," though they carried a distinctly semi-official character—typically employed by Senators to discuss matters they preferred not to route through formal bureaucratic channels, since official documents were routinely copied, archived, and subject to institutional oversight. These "burn after reading" letters served the purpose perfectly.
The contents were indeed official business, however discreetly packaged. To "ensure logistical supply for the army and Guangdong administrative agencies by all necessary means," Minister Hong was requesting that a substantial tract of agricultural land be formally designated as a Joint Logistics support base for food production. He had already identified the ideal location: the Mude Patrol Division area north of Guangzhou Prefecture. The soil and water conditions there were genuinely excellent, and since the Patrol Division essentially functioned as a "national road toll collection agency"—a petty cash box for Guangzhou Prefecture bureaucrats—local landlord power was unusually weak. Most cultivated land was state-owned; most wasteland remained officially unclaimed. The property rights structure was rarely this straightforward anywhere else in the province.
Liu Xiang had himself long coveted that exact territory, planning to negotiate with Wu Nanhai about intensive large-scale farming operations once Liang Xinhu finished purging the local bullies and evil gentry. The Heaven and Earth Society's Guangdong Agricultural Reclamation Command had already marked the area for development priority. Hong Huangnan's "private letter" threatened to disrupt the entire operational timeline.
Minister Hong's proposal wasn't entirely without merit, of course. He did bear genuine responsibility for logistical support of the South China Army, which extended well beyond front-line combat troops to encompass National Army garrison units and administrative teams already deployed across counties and strategic locations throughout the region. Even within Guangzhou city proper, the Joint Logistics Headquarters handled provisions for most administrative agencies—including Liu Xiang's own daily meals, which were of notably high quality. Minister Hong's catering standards remained consistently impressive: fresh seafood from Hong Kong, processed meats from Lingao, coconuts from Wenchang, air-dried venison from Taiwan, potatoes from Jeju Island, citrus from Zhejiang—all flowing in through continuous supply chains. Establishing a dedicated agricultural support farm to "improve logistics self-sufficiency" was entirely justified in principle.
You want to run a logistics farm; well, I want to run one too! Liu Xiang reflected sourly. Wang Sangou had proposed opening a municipal agency farm on state land outside Guangzhou to grow vegetables and raise pigs, thereby reducing food costs—currently, vegetables and meat had to be transported from Hong Kong at considerable expense. Liu Xiang had declined the proposal for the moment, fearing that pursuing staff welfare improvements before his administrative seat was even properly warm would invite criticism that he was prioritizing perks over policy.
My own people's welfare hasn't been addressed yet, and I'm supposed to satisfy yours first? Dream on. Liu Xiang thought acidly.
He had already harbored considerable dissatisfaction with Hong Huangnan's disorderly interventions in local civilian administration during the transitional period, though those actions had occurred before Liu Xiang formally assumed office—or even before he'd expressed intent to serve as Prefectural Governor. Beyond attempting to wrap up loose ends and mitigate negative effects, Liu Xiang had possessed no real grounds for formal complaint. Besides, since entering the city, various ministries and agencies had been able to commence operations immediately upon unpacking their document boxes—the Joint Logistics' preparatory groundwork had been genuinely effective, whatever its bureaucratic impropriety.
What truly rankled wasn't the substance but the presentation. He read the letter repeatedly, and the more carefully he studied its phrasing and tone, the more irritated he became. This wasn't remotely composed as a collegial note between institutional equals—it read as though a senior official several ranks superior were issuing instructions to a subordinate clerk.
"Minister Hong, I am the Prefectural Governor, not some Prefectural Shepherd from the Han Dynasty. And you are the Minister of Logistics, not the Transport Commissioner." After the fourth careful reading, Liu Xiang made his decision: this request would be categorically rejected.
It wasn't merely wounded pride over the condescending wording. The fundamental issue was that this land grant could not—must not—be approved under any circumstances. Real estate allocation was an extraordinarily sensitive matter. Before Liu Xiang's departure from Hainan, Wu De had specifically cautioned him about handling land use requests with extreme care.
"Everyone covets prime locations. Once the important figures enter Guangzhou, staking territorial claims becomes inevitable. You must control this tendency ruthlessly from the start. If it solidifies into fait accompli, any subsequent adjustments will drag in entire institutional networks. The entangled interests can't be resolved by simply offering alternative parcels elsewhere."
"The matter that Elder Brother raises carries profound consequences, and Younger Brother cannot decide such questions alone," Liu Xiang wrote in his formal reply. He had developed an odd habit of adopting literary classical flourishes when composing rejections, deliberately framing refusals in elevated archaic prose as a kind of rhetorical cushion. "Should Elder Brother truly harbor such intentions with determined purpose, the only procedurally acceptable path forward is to copy this proposal in duplicate: one copy submitted to Senator Wen Desi for discussion at the Guangdong Senator Group meeting, one copy transmitted to Lingao for consideration by the Senate Standing Committee..."
After a quarter-hour spent carefully drafting his response, Liu Xiang reviewed it once more and found nothing objectionable in either substance or tone. He spent another ten minutes transcribing it onto proper letter paper in his best calligraphy, sealed it thoroughly with red wax, then pulled the second bellpull mounted on the left wall—its copper wire ran directly through a reserved conduit to the Secretariat located across the corridor. Within moments, a crisp knock sounded at the door.
"Come in!" Liu Xiang didn't even glance up, simply gesturing for the visitor to enter.
"Chief! Communications Officer Ye Siman reporting!" It was Ye Siman, the communications officer who'd been assigned to Liu Xiang during his administrative return to Lingao. Originally, Ye Siman had been on temporary secondment, but during that brief, intensive, eventful month back at headquarters, Liu Xiang had recognized exceptional organizational capabilities and requested his permanent assignment.
"Use the Senators' exclusive channel and deliver this personally to Senator Hong Huangnan at the Joint Logistics Office." Liu Xiang indicated the envelope, now properly sealed with kraft paper and stamped with wax. "Has Director Zhang finished compiling today's document summary?"
"Director Zhang's work is completed and currently being organized for presentation. I will bring it to you shortly!"
"Good. Ask her to come by as well when she brings it. I have additional tasks to assign." Liu Xiang waved dismissal after relaying the instructions.
Zhang Yunmi now held the formal title "Deputy Director of the General Office of the Guangzhou Municipal Government." When establishing this General Office as an organizational entity, several impressively bureaucratic justifications had been offered—"super-ministry coordinating system," "improving cross-departmental office efficiency," and similar administrative jargon. But the actual reason was far more prosaic and considerably more awkward.
Originally, Zhang Yunmi had secured a promise from Xiao Zishan and approached Liu Xiang to "campaign" actively for a position in Guangzhou. Liu Xiang had entertained certain notions of his own regarding the arrangement. Learning that this attractive young woman wanted to accompany him to his new posting had set his heart blooming through several metaphorical seasons. He'd agreed enthusiastically—after all, Guangzhou was meant partly as relaxation after years of grinding administrative work. As long as her physical safety could be ensured, whether she spent her time playing tourist or living in pleasant seclusion didn't particularly matter. Daily proximity would naturally create more opportunities for... various things.
But when Liu Xiang actually boarded the ship to depart for Guangzhou—stopping first in Hong Kong to collect a batch of personnel waiting there—Zhang Yunmi had somehow, inexplicably, approached him with a very serious proposal that shattered his comfortable assumptions: she wanted to "work hard" and "formally participate in substantive governmental work." "I'm not here to play dilettante," she'd declared with surprising firmness, "but to achieve something meaningful."
Now it was Liu Xiang's turn to scratch his head in consternation. He possessed no real gauge of what administrative work this young woman could realistically accomplish. Guangzhou Prefecture had just been "liberated," and urban and rural administrative operations were extraordinarily complicated, demanding experience and institutional knowledge. This was definitely not terrain that a young woman with absolutely zero administrative experience could navigate successfully on her first deployment.
Failing to achieve notable results wouldn't itself constitute a major problem—mediocre competence was the Senate's median. But if she acted as either a naive "Virgin Mary" dispensing unearned mercy or an overzealous "Iron Fist of the Proletariat" creating factional disasters, Liu Xiang would face crushing pressure from every institutional direction simultaneously.
After considerable anxious thought, Liu Xiang concluded that only one position was remotely suitable: his personal private secretary. This role had originally been filled by Guo Xi'er back in Qiongzhou, though practically speaking, whether one employed a single secretary or maintained a staff of a hundred made little operational difference for a senior Senator. Truthfully, Liu Xiang had departed for Guangzhou without anyone he could completely trust to handle genuinely classified documents and sensitive correspondence. Zhang Yunmi's unexpected availability seemed ideal—as a fellow Senator, she was institutionally trustworthy by definition.
But in the minds of many of the Senate's more disreputable members, the position of "private secretary to a male Senator" was hopelessly tinted with salacious implications. When there's work, the secretary handles it; when there's no work, you handle the secretary. This had virtually become standard operating procedure for certain Senators, an open secret whispered about with knowing grins. As for the secretary's actual administrative function and professional responsibilities, these losers remained completely oblivious. In their provincial minds, a female secretary was merely a glorified bed slave for the master, appointed for nocturnal rather than bureaucratic service.
Whether Zhang Yunmi had absorbed this toxic cultural attitude or simply accepted it as unfortunate but unavoidable "common knowledge" about Senate gender dynamics, Liu Xiang couldn't confidently determine. But even viewing Zhang Yunmi's motivations in the most charitable possible light, he absolutely dared not formally appoint her as "Personal Secretary to the Mayor of Guangzhou." If that particular appointment and its implications reached Lingao through the gossip networks, a certain aggressively Germanophile individual would likely appear at his door wielding something considerably more dangerous than a strongly worded memorandum.
Zhang Yunmi stood before his desk, carefully scanning the document summaries she had just finished compiling. With the absolutely massive volume of incoming and outgoing official correspondence—and given the generally poor educational levels and frequently execrable document composition skills among grassroots cadres—it was functionally impossible for Liu Xiang to personally spend time correcting everyone's tortured prose and muddled reasoning. During his administrative tenure in Qiongzhou Prefecture, he had assigned Guo Ling'er to "pre-read" all incoming official documents and prepare concise summaries of content and significance. Liu Xiang would then adopt appropriately detailed or deliberately cursory approaches to different documents based on her preliminary assessments, dramatically improving his time management.
Though Zhang Yunmi bore the impressive formal title "Deputy Director of the General Office," she understood perfectly well that she was essentially performing high-level secretarial duties, however much bureaucratic dignity the title conferred.
(End of Chapter)