The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1001 The July Revolution
After years of war, the Russian Empire in 1887 was like a giant building hollowed out by termites. It looked alright on the surface, but it was rotten inside; one wrong kick and it would collapse!

Tsar Alexander III stood in his study in the Winter Palace, gazing out the window at the cargo ships coming and going on the Neva River. These ships were supposed to be laden with grain and coal heading to St. Petersburg, but now, most of them were empty.

"Your Majesty, a report from the Kiev province." The attendant carefully handed over a document, "Another granary has been looted by a mob."

The Tsar's fingers tapped on the documents. Three months ago, in preparation for the autumn offensive, he ordered the requisitioning of one-third of the nation's grain reserves to the front lines. Now, the price of flour in St. Petersburg had tripled, and bread on the black market was outrageously expensive.

“Send the Cossack cavalry to suppress it,” he said coldly, his gaze sweeping over another telegram on the table—the latest news from the Rome Peace Conference. Negotiations had reached a stalemate; the British were evasive, and the Germans were unyielding.

Finance Minister Ivan Vishnegratsky spoke hesitantly: "Your Majesty, the national treasury's gold reserves are already..."

"Enough!" The Tsar slammed his fist on the table. "Impose another 30 million rubles, no, 300 million rubles, it should be 3 billion rubles in special taxes! Tell those merchants, either pay up or go to war!"

The Tsar's demand for 3 billion rubles wasn't due to greed; rather, it was because the ruble's value had plummeted by 99% in less than two years. The current 3 billion rubles was equivalent to 30 million rubles in two years.

Outside the window, a troop of newly conscripted soldiers marched in formation across Palace Square. They wore ill-fitting uniforms, their steps unsteady. Their gazes, fixed on the Winter Palace, were filled with resentment—the Tsar, who failed to win battles and left everyone starving, deserved to die!

Meanwhile, hungry workers were gathering in the streets around Palace Square.
Dawn broke over Kronstadt, shrouded in thick fog. On the deck of the battleship Peter the Great, sailors were unloading the last batch of shells. These shells were supposed to have been loaded three days ago, but due to a strike by the dockworkers, they had only arrived today.

"Hurry up! We must set sail by noon!" the first mate shouted sternly, cracking his whip on the back of a sailor who was a little slower.

Alexander Ulyanov watched this scene from behind a crane, his fingers gripping the revolver tightly in his pocket. He also carried a secret order stolen from the Admiralty—the Baltic Fleet was to launch an attack immediately after the armistice ended to engage the German High Seas Fleet in a decisive battle.

“They don’t know,” Ulyanov, now dressed in a sailor’s uniform, whispered to his companion, “that the British have agreed to send a fleet to assist, but this intelligence, which the Germans already know, is classified as top secret.”

In the distance, a transport ship slowly entered the harbor. The deck was piled high with wooden crates labeled "machine parts," but Ulyanov knew they were rifles smuggled in by the Germans through Sweden.

"The signal has come." His companion suddenly tugged at his sleeve.

Inside the porthole of the Peter the Great, a kerosene lamp flickered three times. Ulyanov took a deep breath: "Move! Split up! Remember, we have men on every battleship! And the sailors are the most war-weary."

The gunfire was particularly jarring in the early morning harbor. Ulyanov's six-man team quickly took control of the bridge. The commotion on deck attracted more sailors, who watched in bewilderment.

No one attempted to suppress the rebellion that was taking place before them. In fact, most people were looking forward to a rebellion or mutiny—everyone felt that someone needed to stir things up.

"Brothers!" Ulyanov jumped onto the turret, holding up the secret order. "Look at this! The Admiralty wants us to set sail the day after tomorrow to fight the Germans!"

An uproar erupted from the crowd.

“Damn it, this is the sacred duty of a soldier.” An officer had barely opened his mouth when Ulyanov interrupted him.

"What kind of bullshit duty is this?" he sneered. "Since we went to war with the Germans, how many men have died in the Baltic Fleet? Sailors, tell me why?"

"It's all because the Germans' battleships are better than ours."

A Russian naval officer answered with a long face—officials are also afraid of death. Even if some people have heard rumors that the British fleet will be dispatched, they know that this battle is likely to end badly—the British fleet may not be able to break into the Baltic Sea!

At this moment, Ulyanov pulled out another document and waved it forcefully: "Take a look, this is an audit report stolen from the Ministry of Finance. It shows that most of the navy's funds have been embezzled. Look! Our warships can't even repair their main guns, how are we supposed to fight the Germans?"

The audit report stolen from the Ministry of Finance was obviously fake, but it was true that many battleships had various problems with their main guns that couldn't be repaired. As for the reasons, one was industrial backwardness, and another was that shipyard workers went on strike because the ruble was devalued and their wages weren't enough to eat.

The sailors' expressions gradually changed. Suddenly, an old soldier slammed a wrench on the ground: "I quit!"

This was like toppling the first domino. In the blink of an eye, dozens of sailors joined the mutiny, and then more.
“Now,” Ulyanov pointed to the Winter Palace in the distance, “let’s send a message to the Tsar!”

The 254mm main gun slowly rotated, aiming at the direction of St. Petersburg.

Rumble.
Alexander III was holding a military council when the shells landed in Palace Square. The explosion shattered windows, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

"What happened?" Army Minister Pyotr Vanovsky was ashen-faced.

The aide-de-camp stumbled in: "Your Majesty! The fleet has mutinied! Kronstadt!"

Another loud bang interrupted him. This time it was closer, causing the crystal chandelier to shake violently.

The Tsar's face turned ashen. He glanced at the report that had just arrived on his desk—strikes had broken out in Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, and other major cities across the country. Railways were paralyzed, food supplies couldn't be transported, and even the Guards' rations were in trouble. "It's all those damned People's Will parties' fault!" he roared, grabbing the phone only to find the line had been cut.

Outside the window, the sky over St. Petersburg was already dyed red by the flames. Gunshots rang out in the distance, growing ever closer.

"Prepare the car," the Tsar suddenly said calmly. "To Moscow."

But when he turned around, he found the attendant gone, and the sound of hurried footsteps and shouts echoed down the corridor. "The people have rebelled! God!"

Suddenly, from outside the window, a furious roar erupted: "Seize the Tsar!" "For freedom!"

Revolution! This is revolution!

Alexander III slowly drew his gilded pistol. He knew he might never reach Moscow.

The uprising spread like wildfire. Ulyanov's sailors seized control of the port and were advancing towards the city center. Along the way, more and more workers joined their ranks.

"The telegraph office has been taken!" a railway worker covered in coal dust ran up to report, "but the train station is still guarded by Cossack cavalry."

Ulyanov nodded. His left arm had been injured in the fierce fighting, but he couldn't worry about that now. "Split into two groups, one to the armory, the other with me to the Winter Palace!"

On the street, rioting mobs were looting a bakery. A ragged old woman, clutching a loaf of black bread she had managed to steal, was struck to the ground by a patrolling policeman. Ulyanov witnessed this scene.

"Stop them!" he shouted sternly.

The insurgents charged at the police, and a fierce battle ensued in the narrow streets. Bullets shattered the walls, sending up shards of stone.

When Ulyanov finally reached Palace Square, the sight before him stunned him—the magnificent building, a symbol of the Tsar's power, was now engulfed in flames. Marble columns had collapsed, and exquisite reliefs had turned to scorched earth.

"The Tsar is still inside!" someone shouted. "Some noble cadets are still protecting the Romanov dynasty!"

Ulyanov gripped his pistol and led a group of men into the smoke-filled palace.

They eventually found the Tsar in the portrait hall. Alexander III stood alone before the portrait of Peter the Great, his back to the viewer appearing exceptionally lonely.

Hearing footsteps, he didn't turn around: "You've finally arrived."

Ulyanov raised his pistol: "Alexander Romanov, your era is over."

The Tsar slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the ragged insurgents. His eyes finally settled on Ulyanov's face: "I recognize you. You're the leader of the People's Will Party, the one wanted throughout Russia."

“Yes,” Ulyanov’s voice trembled with victory, “Now, our People’s Will Party has won!”

The Tsar suddenly laughed: "Victory? You think killing me means victory? That Russia will become better?" He pointed to the burning city outside the window, "Look what you've done!"

"This is your fault!" a young worker roared. "You're the one who caused prices to skyrocket, you're the one who sent our fathers and brothers to the battlefield!"

Did I send them to the battlefield, or did they march to it cheering?

Alexander III muttered something under his breath. He glanced one last time at the portrait of Peter the Great and said softly, "Do you see it? This is the empire you built."

Gunshots echoed through the empty hall. The Tsar slowly fell, his blood soaking the expensive carpet.

News of the revolution in Russia spread across Europe like lightning.

In Berlin, Bismarck sent a telegram to his staff, saying, "Prepare to take over Poland and Ukraine, but do not rush to march on Moscow."

Gladstone, in London, locked himself in his office, staring blankly at a map of Europe: "We've lost Russia."

Meanwhile, in Tianjing, Luo Yaoguo stood atop the city wall, gazing westward: "Order the South Sea Fleet and the East Pacific Fleet to enter first-level combat readiness. The chaos in Europe has only just begun."

Meanwhile, in burning St. Petersburg, Ulyanov stood atop the ruins of the Winter Palace, gazing at the cheering crowds. He muttered to himself, "It will be there, there will be bread, there will be milk, there will be everything."

(End of this chapter)