The summons did not arrive on a memo. It arrived with Huilan herself.
She stood in the doorway of his Moscow safe house, a stark silhouette against the grey afternoon light. Her face, usually a mask of porcelain control, was pale, her eyes holding a storm of forced composure. She didn't greet him. She stated a fact, as if delivering a death sentence.
"My father wishes to see you. In Beijing. At the Ministry of Defence. Not the trade council."
Rajendra finished pouring two glasses of water. He handed her one. Her fingers were cold.
"When?"
"Three days. A plane will be sent. You and I. No one else." She took a sip, the glass trembling slightly. "He has… assembled a dossier. On Zashchita. On Krylov. On the shipments. On the 'Stability Accords.' On the pamphlets."
"He has been busy," Rajendra said, his voice calm. He'd expected scrutiny, but not this fast, not this direct.
"He sees patterns," Huilan said, her gaze fixing on him. There was no warmth there, only a bleak, professional assessment. "He does not see a merchant anymore. He sees a… system-builder. A rival who operates in the cracks of a falling empire. He finds this both impressive and unacceptable."
"What does he want?"
"He will tell you. But understand this. He does not make requests. He assesses capabilities and then assigns a place in his own design." She put the glass down, untouched. "I am no longer your… contractual wife. I am your escort. And your translator. And his witness."
Three days later, they were in the back of a black Red Flag sedan, gliding through the stark, ordered avenues of Beijing's military district. The air in the car was thick with unspoken history—the paper marriage, the factory fire, the silent partnership. Now, it was all just data in her father's file.
The Ministry of Defence was a monument to intimidating minimalism. No opulence, just vast spaces of polished granite, muted green walls, and the distant click of heels on hard floors. They were led not to an office, but to a situation room. A long, dark table reflected the glow of a massive wall screen, currently blank. There were no windows. The air was cool, recycled, and smelled of ozone and latent power.
General Guo Feng was not at the head of the table. He stood before the blank screen, a compact, immovable figure in a simple olive-green service tunic devoid of medals. He turned as they entered. His eyes, the colour of winter ice, passed over his daughter without a flicker and settled on Rajendra.
No greeting. No handshake. A slow, assessing stare that lasted five full seconds.
"Sit," he said in Mandarin. Huilan, moving automatically, translated softly beside Rajendra, her voice a hollow echo in the vast room.
They sat. The General remained standing, a lecturer before an audience of two.
"Captain Petrova," he began, using Anya's formal title, his voice a low rumble. Huilan translated, her tone flat. "She is loyal to you. An interesting feat. General Krylov. A pragmatist, now a… board member. Another feat. The pamphlets. The quiet food in hungry garrisons. The vanished prosecutors."
He tapped a remote. The screen flickered to life. It showed not satellites or troop movements, but a network diagram. At the center was a simple black dot labeled Shakuniya, R. Lines radiated out to nodes: MANO. MAKA/Zashchita. Suryananda Foundation. Krylov Command Network. Petrova, A. Silencers. It was a shockingly accurate map of his sovereign confederation.
"You have built a nervous system," the General stated. "It has no flag. No ideology. It runs on supply, fear, and narrative. It is… efficient."
He changed the image. Now it was a map of the Soviet Union, with zones shaded in a soft, encroaching green—the Zashchita-influenced areas. It was alarmingly comprehensive.
"You are carving a state from a corpse. Ambitious." He turned his icy gaze fully on Rajendra. "But you have a problem. Two, in fact."
The map zoomed in. First to the Caspian region, where Dawnlight-7 glowed. "Problem one: Local resistance. You are an outsider. A corporate colonist. They will bleed you. A slow, expensive bleed."
Then it zoomed to the Sino-Soviet border, vast and mountainous. "Problem two: Me. You are building a new power on my northern border. I do not know its final shape. I do not like unknowns."
He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "So. I will solve your first problem. And in doing so, define the second."
He gestured. The screen split. On one side, the Dawnlight-7 field. On the other, the logo of the China National Petroleum and Gas Corporation (CNPGC).
"You need legitimacy. You need engineering. You need capital to develop that field and pacify that region. I have these things. My… associates at CNPGC can provide them. They will enter your 'Trans-Siberian Consortium' as the primary infrastructure and technical partner."
Rajendra's mind raced. It was exactly the consortium play he'd envisioned, but coming from the General's mouth, it was not an offer. It was a directive.
"And in return?" Rajendra asked, his own voice sounding small in the room.
The General's lips thinned, the ghost of a smile that held no humour. "In return, the Consortium's security arm—your Zashchita—will have a permanent PLA liaison officer embedded in its high command. For coordination. And you will grant CNPGC a right of first refusal on fifty-one percent of the hydrocarbons produced from any concession secured east of the Urals for the next twenty years."
It was a masterstroke. It gave China control without a messy invasion. It gave them a legal claim to the future wealth of Siberia. And the PLA liaison was a leash, thin and strong, wrapped around the throat of his private army.
Huilan translated, her voice now barely a whisper, as if the words were ash in her mouth. She was translating the terms of her own country's soft annexation of her husband's empire.
Rajendra met the General's gaze. The Dragon was not asking for tribute. He was offering a partnership where he owned the land, the resources, and had a key to the office.
The silence in the situation room was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the screen.
The General was waiting. He had laid out the future. Rajendra's choice was simple: become a junior partner in the Chinese century, or have his nascent kingdom strangled in its crib by the very chaos he sought to master.
The Dragon had summoned him not to negotiate, but to hear his new place in the order of things. And the order was clear: kneel, and be given a province. Stand, and be erased.