The war in Ukraine, already a crucible for shifting alliances and covert operations, has entered a new and unsettling phase. Recent investigations have revealed that China is no longer content to watch from the sidelines. Instead, it is quietly embedding itself within Russia’s military-industrial complex, especially in the burgeoning field of drone warfare. This revelation, first brought to light by a Financial Times exposé on November 29, 2025, and further analyzed by geopolitical experts, is sending shockwaves through global capitals and raising urgent questions about the future of international security.
At the heart of these revelations is the Chinese businessman Wang Dinghua, owner of Shenzhen-based drone parts supplier Minghuaxin. According to Financial Times records, Wang acquired a 5% equity stake in Rustakt, a Russian company that has become a linchpin in Moscow’s drone war effort. Rustakt manufactures the VT-40 first-person-view (FPV) kamikaze drone, a mass-produced weapon that Russian forces have deployed by the thousands along the Ukrainian frontlines since 2023.
The significance of this investment cannot be overstated. As the Financial Times documented, this is the first known instance of direct Chinese ownership in a sanctioned Russian defense company. The move marks a shift from plausible deniability—where Chinese firms could claim their exports were for civilian use—to a clear financial interest in the success of Russia’s war machine. Within a day of the FT accessing Russian company filings, all of Rustakt’s shareholder data vanished from official registries and intelligence databases, highlighting the sensitivity and secrecy surrounding the transaction.
The money trail is staggering. Between mid-2023 and late 2025, Minghuaxin shipped $304 million worth of drone parts to Rustakt and $107 million to a related company, Santex, totaling $411 million in documented transfers. Customs records show Rustakt purchased $110 million in lithium-ion batteries, $87 million in motors, and $64 million in controllers from Minghuaxin. Santex, meanwhile, bought $66 million in controllers and $37 million in DC motors from the same Chinese supplier. These figures align with earlier intelligence, such as Sayari’s October 2025 report, which noted $577 million in Chinese imports to Rustakt over an 18-month period.
Rustakt’s role in Russia’s drone program is pivotal. The Centre for Defence Reforms, a Ukrainian think tank, identified Rustakt as the largest importer of FPV drone components between July 2023 and February 2025. The company has been sanctioned by both Ukraine and the European Union for its central role in Russia’s so-called “Judgment Day” drone program. As Oleksandr Danylyuk, head of the Centre for Defence Reforms, told the Financial Times, “Russia has moved to industrial-scale use of FPV drones. We are talking about thousands of units per day and tens of thousands per month. These were produced through the ‘Russian Drone’ network in conjunction with Rustakt and other firms.”
The VT-40 drone itself, named after the slain pro-war propagandist Vladlen Tatarsky, has become a workhorse for Russian forces. A former Ukrainian officer, now with the analytical group Frontelligence Insight, described to the FT how the drone has undergone several upgrades since its 2023 debut, improving its electronic-warfare resilience and control systems. “While it isn’t exceptional in any single area, its mass production, low cost, and availability make it a consistent workhorse for Russian forces,” he said.
The ownership structure behind these operations is labyrinthine. At the time Russia deleted the records, Rustakt was 95% owned by Pavel Nikitin, who previously worked at Santex, now led by Egor Nikitin—possibly Pavel’s twin brother, according to matching names and birthdates in Russian filings. On the Chinese side, Wang Dinghua holds a 10% stake in Shenzhen Nasmin Investment, with Egor Nikitin holding the remaining 90%. When the Financial Times visited Minghuaxin’s registered address in Shenzhen, they found it occupied by another company, Shenzhen Kiosk Electronic, also majority-owned by Wang. A staff member described Minghuaxin as a business partner of Shenzhen Kiosk’s boss, confirming the tangled web of connections at play.
China’s official response has been predictable. The foreign ministry in Beijing denied any provision of lethal weapons to either side in the Ukraine conflict and insisted that China “strictly controls and manages civil-military dual-use technologies.” But as DroneXL and geopolitical strategist Velina Tchakarova have pointed out, this story is not about the sale of dual-use parts—it is about direct ownership and strategic entanglement. As Tchakarova wrote on November 30, 2025, “China is no longer a ‘neutral’ actor in the Ukraine war. It is now getting embedded inside Russia’s drone war machine and war economy.”
According to Tchakarova’s analysis, China’s involvement has evolved from mere political signaling to material co-production—a “silent co-production” model that is characteristic of what she calls the DragonBear strategy. Chinese inputs now account for up to 90% of Moscow’s dependency on foreign suppliers for critical components such as motors, batteries, controllers, optics, machine tools, and microchips. Teams of Chinese engineers have reportedly made on-site visits to Russian weapons facilities, further deepening the operational partnership. After the Financial Times revelations, Russian entities scrambled to delete shareholder records, underscoring the covert and sensitive nature of the collaboration.
For Europe and the West, these developments are a strategic wake-up call. The European Union has long treated China as a “partner-rival-systemic competitor,” but as Tchakarova warns, this balancing act is becoming unsustainable. “When your soldiers and Ukrainian partners are hit by drones whose components and capital originate in China, the ambiguity becomes strategically unsustainable,” she writes. She calls for an immediate recalibration of Europe’s approach, arguing that the war in Ukraine and China policy can no longer be treated as separate issues. What is unfolding, she insists, is a new Cold War—not just between Washington and Beijing, but involving a broader DragonBear axis with Europe caught unprepared.
The implications stretch even further. Tchakarova and other analysts warn that the experience China is gaining from sustaining Russia’s drone war under sanctions could be transferred to a future conflict in the Indo-Pacific, particularly around Taiwan. The Ukraine conflict, in this view, is a live laboratory for China, offering real-time lessons on circumventing sanctions, stockpiling critical components, diversifying suppliers, and building resilient wartime supply chains. “The experience gained from sustaining Russia’s drone war can be transferred to a future Taiwan scenario,” Tchakarova cautions.
As the evidence mounts, the world is forced to reckon with a new reality: China is no longer a bystander in the Ukraine war. Through covert investments, critical technology transfers, and operational collaboration, Beijing is now structurally tied to Russia’s war economy. The deletion of Russian shareholder records within hours of exposure only serves to confirm the significance—and the secrecy—of this partnership. For policymakers in Europe, the United States, and beyond, the question is no longer whether China is involved, but how the West should respond to an adversary that is learning, adapting, and embedding itself deeper into the machinery of modern conflict.