Three days later, Kijima Takashi's reply arrived.
"Mr. Nangong, I am willing to talk. You decide the time and place."
Looking at this line of text, a slight smile touched Nangong Wentian's lips. No unnecessary pleasantries, no haggling, just a simple confirmation. He was growing to appreciate this person's style more and more.
He replied: "Tomorrow at 3 PM, the same cafe as last time."
This time, he arrived an hour early.
The "Dawn" cafe was located on the edge of the station square, an inconspicuous little shop. But Nangong Wentian had his reasons for choosing this place—it wasn't too remote, but it didn't get many customers; the corner seat by the window offered a wide field of view, allowing him to observe everyone entering and leaving; most importantly, the cafe's owner was deaf and mute, and wouldn't eavesdrop on customers' conversations.
He sat in the same seat as last time, ordered a coffee, and began to wait.
His disguise today was more meticulous than last time. A voice modulator was fixed to his collar, disguise glasses made his eyes appear more mature, and a wig covered his signature black short hair. The suit was deliberately chosen in dark gray, neither too flashy nor too shabby. He had practiced in front of the mirror many times, until every movement and every expression flowed naturally.
But he knew the hardest part of the disguise wasn't his appearance, but his demeanor. For a twelve-year-old boy to disguise himself as a twenty-six-year-old investor, what he needed wasn't clothes and props, but insight into worldly affairs and an understanding of human nature. Fortunately, during his years growing up in the orphanage, he had seen too many people—the kind, the hypocritical, the desperate, the greedy. Those experiences had allowed him to read people's hearts earlier than his peers.
At exactly three o'clock, Kijima Takashi pushed open the cafe door and walked in.
He looked even thinner than last time, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eye sockets, but his eyes were still bright. He wore a faded shirt, missing a button at the cuff, but the clothes were clean. He carried an old briefcase, its corners worn but polished clean.
He stood at the entrance for a moment, scanning the entire cafe. When his gaze swept past the corner where Nangong Wentian sat, it paused slightly, then he walked over.
"Mr. Nangong." He gave a slight bow.
"Please, have a seat." Nangong Wentian gestured to the seat opposite. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Black coffee, thank you."
The server brought the coffee. Kijima Takashi didn't rush to drink it. Instead, he looked at Nangong Wentian, waiting for him to speak. This composure made Nangong Wentian think even more highly of him.
"Mr. Kijima," Nangong Wentian got straight to the point, "As I mentioned last time, I want to establish a company focused on new energy and aerospace technology. I need someone to manage the public-facing operations. Have you given it some thought?"
Kijima Takashi didn't answer immediately. He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and set it down. "Mr. Nangong, before I answer, I have a few questions."
"Please, go ahead."
"First, why did you choose me?"
Nangong Wentian was prepared for this. "Because you have a technical background, management experience, and a sense of responsibility. Also because you have someone you need to protect. A person who refuses to give up for his daughter's sake won't easily betray a partner."
Kijima Takashi's expression remained unchanged, but his fingers tapped lightly on the coffee cup twice. "Second, what exactly are you trying to achieve? New energy and aerospace technology—that's too broad a scope."
Nangong Wentian took a document from his briefcase and slid it across the table to Kijima Takashi. It was the "technical blueprint" he had spent a week preparing—not for a Mobile Suit, not for a GN Drive, but a comprehensive solar power optimization plan.
"This is the preliminary technical concept," he said. "A high-efficiency solar power generation system with a 50% improvement in conversion efficiency over existing technology and a 30% reduction in cost. If successful, it will completely transform Orb's energy structure."
Kijima Takashi opened the file and began reading page by page.
His expression shifted from calm to focused, then from focused to astonished. The data, the formulas, the design diagrams—they far exceeded his expectations. This was not the vision of an ordinary investor; it was a genuine technical proposal, backed by theory, experimental data, and even cost calculations.
"This..." He looked up at Nangong Wentian. "Did you design this?"
"It was my team," Nangong Wentian replied. "I'm just the representative."
Kijima Takashi fell silent for a long time. He lowered his head again, turning the pages one by one, reading every word carefully. Occasionally, he paused to scribble calculations on the paper, verifying the reliability of the data.
Nangong Wentian did not rush him. He picked up his coffee, sipped slowly, and waited patiently.
Ten minutes later, Kijima Takashi closed the file and looked up. His eyes were brighter than before, gleaming with the excitement and focus unique to an engineer.
"This plan is theoretically feasible," he said. "But to implement it, it will require extensive experimentation and funding. Moreover, there are several key points where current manufacturing processes may not meet the requirements."
"I know," Nangong Wentian said. "That's why I need you. You have extensive experience in materials science and manufacturing processes—exactly what we need."
Kijima Takashi did not respond. He stared at the table, seemingly deep in thought.
"Third question," he said, looking up. "What is your ultimate goal? To make money? Or something else?"
Nangong Wentian looked into the man's eyes. They held weariness, resignation, but above all, sincerity. A person repeatedly beaten down by life, yet still searching for meaning—it reminded him of himself.
"My goal," he said slowly, "is to change this world. To use technology to promote peace and to end hatred with peace. Making money is just a means, not the end."
Kijima Takashi stared at him for a long time, as if judging the truth of these words.
"Do you think technology can bring peace?" he asked.
"Technology itself cannot," Nangong Wentian replied, "but the people who use it can. If our technology can improve the lives of more people and help Naturals and Coordinators stop hating each other, then peace becomes possible."
Kijima Takashi remained silent for a long while.
Outside the window, the fountain in the square sparkled in the sunlight. A few children chased pigeons, their laughter drifting through the glass. The sunlight fell on Kijima Takashi's face, making him look much older than his actual age. But his eyes still shone brightly.
"Mr. Nangong," he finally spoke, "I'm not very good with words. But I want to tell you something."
"Please go ahead."
"I used to work in materials research and development at a company. The boss wanted to secure military contracts and asked me to design a new type of armor material. I refused. Not because I couldn't do it, but because I didn't want to. My technology should not be used for killing."
He paused, then continued, "Later, the company went bankrupt. Some said I was foolish, that I was putting on airs. But I have no regrets. Technology should be used to benefit people, not to kill them."
He looked into Nangong Wentian's eyes and said word by word, "If what you're doing is truly good, I'm willing to work with you. But if one day I discover your technology is being used to create slaughter, I will leave."
Nangong Wentian looked at this man. His thinness, his weariness, his stubbornness, his persistence—all became clear in this moment. This was a man with principles, someone who would not sell his conscience for profit.
"I promise you," Nangong Wentian said, "Colossus Group's technology will never be used for aggression or killing."
He extended his hand.
Kijima Takashi looked at that hand, hesitated for a moment, then grasped it. His hand was rough, with prominent knuckles—marks of long-term labor. But his grip was firm and resolute.
"Then," Nangong Wentian withdrew his hand and took another document from his briefcase, "let's discuss the specific cooperation plan."
The document was thick, densely packed with clauses. Kijima Takashi read it page by page, carefully. Nangong Wentian did not rush him, waiting patiently.
"You will serve as the legal representative, with an annual salary of 5 million Orb Yuan, plus 5% dividends," Nangong Wentian explained beside him. "For your daughter, Kijima Mayu, we will arrange the best hospitals and doctors, with all expenses covered by the company."
Kijima Takashi's hand paused. He looked up at Nangong Wentian, his expression complex.
"You investigated me."
"Yes," Nangong Wentian admitted frankly. "I needed to know if the person I trust is worthy of trust."
Kijima Takashi was silent for a while, then continued reading.
"Aren't you going to ask what I found out?"
"No need," Kijima Takashi said. "My conscience is clear."
A faint smile touched the corner of Nangong Wentian's mouth. This openness made him even more certain of his choice.
"Confidentiality agreement," Kijima Takashi read the final section of the document. "You may not inquire about core technical details, may not disclose the company's technological sources to anyone, may not..."
"This is necessary," Nangong Wentian interrupted him. "Not because I don't trust you, but to protect everyone. Some technologies, once leaked, could have unimaginable consequences."
Kijima Takashi stared at that text for a long time. He knew that signing this agreement meant entrusting his future entirely to this young man before him. He did not know his real name, his background, or even what truth lay beneath that disguised face.
But he thought of his daughter. Her pale face, the way she smiled, her stubbornness when she woke in pain at night, biting her pillow to keep from crying out.
He picked up the pen and signed his name.
"Pleasure working with you," Nangong Wentian collected the documents and stood up. "Mr. Kijima, from today onward, Colossus Group is your home."
Kijima Takashi stood up and bowed deeply.
"Mr. Nangong," he said, "I don't know who you are, or where your technology comes from. But I will do my best to handle the tasks you've assigned."
"Just call me Nangong," Nangong Wentian replied. "We're in the same boat now."
The two walked out of the café. The setting sun was sinking in the west, painting the fountain in the square a golden hue. A few children were chasing pigeons, their laughter crisp and clear.
Kijima Takashi stood at the entrance, taking a deep breath. It had been a long time since he felt this relaxed.
"Mr. Nangong," he suddenly spoke up, "may I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"How old... are you?"
Nangong Wentian fell silent for a moment, then smiled.
"Is it important?"
Kijima Takashi looked at him. The sunlight fell on that disguised face, making it hard to discern his true expression. But those eyes—the eyes behind the disguise glasses—held a depth and resolve that seemed beyond his years.
"It's not important," Kijima Takashi said. "I just need to know that you're someone worth following."
The two parted ways in the square. Kijima Takashi headed toward the subway station, his silhouette still slender, but his steps noticeably lighter than when he had arrived.
Nangong Wentian stood in the square, watching his figure disappear into the crowd. The sunset bathed everything in gold, and the mist from the fountain refracted tiny rainbows in the sunlight.
He removed his disguise glasses and rubbed his slightly tired eyes.
"Shadow Warrior Project, first step complete," he murmured softly.
Back at the apartment, he opened the "Star Core" and updated the status on Kijima Takashi's file.
Trust Level: A. Status: Contracted. Next Steps: Company registration, laboratory site selection, technical documentation preparation.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
Outside the window, the Morgenroete building gleamed golden in the sunset. Inside that building, people like Erica Simmons were struggling with Orb's Mobile Suit project. They had no idea that in some corner of this city, a twelve-year-old boy had already taken the first step toward changing the world.
He picked up the talisman on the desk and held it in his palm. It was a pendant Xiao Guang had made from scrap circuit boards—crude but warm.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wait for the day I succeed."
Outside, the sun gradually sank below the horizon, and the lights of Orleans began to flicker on one by one. The city breathed in the night, and he had already become a part of that breath.
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