Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 300: Tracks Through Future

July 5, 1899 — East of Nanjing, China

A whistle echoed across the rice fields.

The freshly laid steel rails shimmered in the summer sun as the first construction train of the East Asia Railway clattered slowly along a testing segment near Nanjing. Dozens of Chinese laborers, joined by engineers from Korea and technical observers from Japan, cheered as the locomotive passed. It wasn't sleek or fast—just a squat, coal-fed beast hauling flatbeds loaded with gravel and beams—but it was history in motion.

Minister Zhang Mingyuan stood on a raised platform under a white sun canopy, flanked by several China officials and an Amerathian delegation led by Daniel Reaves of the Hesh Corporation. Zhang wore a dark silk robe embroidered with modernized insignia of the imperial government, his expression unreadable as the train approached.

When the train screeched to a halt, Reaves stepped forward, dusting soot from his sleeves.

"Well, Minister Zhang," he said with a slight grin, "that's thirty kilometers down."

Zhang didn't smile, but he did offer a slow, approving nod. "It moves," he said simply. "And that's more than we could say a year ago."

Behind them, a crowd of onlookers gathered—students, farmers, foreign journalists, even children climbing atop nearby crates to get a better view. There were whispers in dozens of languages, but the common theme was awe.

"This line will connect Beijing to Seoul within three years," Reaves explained to a Korean journalist beside him. "From there, Phase Two will link Pusan to Osaka across a bridge or ferry corridor. It's not just a railway—it's the spine of regional cooperation."

Minister Zhang added curtly, "And the arteries of our economic independence."

July 10, 1899 — Seoul, Korean Empire

The roar of steam and the rattle of metal echoed through the valley near Daejeon as construction crews worked around the clock to connect Korea's interior to the broader network. Korean engineers oversaw the blueprints—most trained under Amerathian scholarships—while construction managers negotiated labor terms, safety standards, and the allocation of steel, much of it now sourced locally.

General Lee Sang-hoon visited the central depot with King Gojong himself, both men wearing civilian attire to avoid drawing crowds. They walked along the half-complete platform in quiet contemplation.

"It's strange," Gojong murmured. "In war, every bridge we built was a risk. A way for the enemy to advance. And now… this."

Lee smiled faintly. "Now the tracks lead to prosperity instead of cannons."

The King looked toward a group of students on a school trip, each child gripping a tiny Korean flag in one hand and a notebook in the other. "One day, they will board a train and reach Beijing before sundown," he said. "Or Tokyo by morning. What will they find when they get there?"

Lee's tone was firm. "Neighbors. Not enemies."

July 15, 1899 — Tokyo, Imperial Technical College

In a bright lecture hall filled with chalk dust and the scent of ink, students pored over schematics for the East Asia Railway's coastal extension. Maps of tide levels, tunnel elevations, and marine logistics were spread across every desk. These weren't military cadets—they were Japan's future engineers.

Professor Keisuke Taniguchi stood at the front of the class, pointing to a hand-drawn schematic of a proposed ferry terminal at Shimonoseki.

"This," he said, tapping the paper, "is not just a dock. It is our handshake to the world."

He paused, scanning the room. "The Treaty of Geneva may have ended the war, but the treaty of steel, rail, and knowledge—that's how peace will be kept. You, more than any general, will ensure Japan's future."

A young woman near the back raised her hand. "Professor, do you think the China Empire will continue cooperating?"

Taniguchi smiled. "Only if we treat them as equals. As partners."

He turned to write two words on the chalkboard:— balance and trust.

July 20, 1899 — Washington, D.C., Presidential Office

President Matthew Hesh sat in his office surrounded by maps and diagrams of the East Asia Railway. Collins entered with fresh updates from the field and several international newspapers. One headline read: "East by Steel: The Rails that May Save the Pacific."

Matthew leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "You know," he said to Collins, "when we first funded this initiative, I thought it would take a decade just to agree on the route. They've moved faster than we ever anticipated."

Collins placed a memo on the desk. "Because the stakes are higher than ever. These countries still remember how easily peace can slip away. The railways aren't just transportation—they're insurance."

Matthew flipped through the pages. "Cargo tariffs, station integration, language standardization… it's everything a war treaty never had."

Collins nodded. "And here's the kicker, sir. Trade along the Korean-Japanese corridor is up thirty-two percent. Power plants are being constructed along the new grid. Literacy rates are climbing because textbooks are moving faster than soldiers ever could."

Matthew looked out the window, the Potomac glinting in the morning sun. "Sometimes the best battles are the ones we don't fight."

July 22, 1899 — Pyongyang, Northern Korea

In a city once reduced to ash and rubble, a new train station stood proudly near the heart of the capital. Its white stone facade bore the trilingual inscription: "Unity Through Progress"

Captain Edward Harris returned to the city he'd helped liberate nearly a year earlier. This time, he wore a clean suit instead of a uniform. He stepped onto the platform with quiet reverence.

Mayor Choi greeted him warmly. "You came back."

Harris nodded. "Had to see it with my own eyes."

Together, they watched as the first passenger train from Seoul rolled in. Onboard were a mix of civilians—teachers, mechanics, artists, and visiting family members. For the first time in living memory, they came not as refugees or evacuees, but as travelers.

A small boy held his mother's hand as they stepped onto the platform, gazing up at the towering arches above them. "Is this where the war happened?" he asked innocently.

Harris knelt beside him. "Yes. But now it's where something better begins."

July 30, 1899 — Shandong Peninsula, China Empire

At a dusty rail junction still under construction, Chinese and Japanese engineers coordinated the delicate placement of a bridge segment that would one day cross the Yellow Sea. It was a sight that stunned even the most skeptical observers: men who might have been enemies in another time now working together under one flag—their shared blueprints emblazoned with both imperial seals and the Hesh Corporation crest.

Minister Zhang visited the site with a delegation of China scholars. When asked by a German journalist what he thought of the scene, he replied:

"Once we measured strength by the size of armies. Now we measure it in meters of track, in tons of grain moved, in how far a teacher can travel in a single day."

August 5, 1899 — Pacific Shipping Routes

Steamships bearing goods from Nagasaki, Shanghai, and Incheon passed each other with increasing frequency. Port activity across the region exploded as rail-linked trade hubs funneled commodities between countryside and coast faster than ever before.

In Manila, a group of Amerathian shipping captains met with East Asian maritime officials to create the first unified Pacific freight schedule. One commented, "You know it's real when your worst delay isn't customs—but rain."

August 10, 1899 — Washington, D.C., Hesh Residence

At twilight, Matthew sat on the porch with Amber, sipping coffee as Arthur and Sophia played with a wooden train set on the floorboards.

"They say we've connected the continent," Amber said, watching Arthur push a tiny locomotive up a ramp.

Matthew smiled. "Let's just hope it holds."

Amber leaned her head against his shoulder. "You didn't just win a war, Matthew. You helped build the road that might prevent the next one." freewёbnoνel.com

He exhaled slowly. "Let's keep laying track then."

And so, as steel rails stretched across a continent once torn by rivalry, a quiet miracle unfolded: peace held, not by treaties alone, but by the shared rhythm of engines, freight, and the common dreams of nations finally on the move—together.