The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1003 It's America's Turn

The thick fog of the Baltic Sea, like a rag soaked in coal dust, clung damply to the steel hull of the armored cruiser "Bering Sea." Luo Xinbei stood on the bridge, his fingers constantly wiping the lenses of his brass binoculars. The condensation on the lenses blurred the distant horizon, making it as indistinct as the future of the Russian Empire.

“Your Highness,” the footsteps of the first mate, Petrov, were particularly clear on the metal deck as he held a newly translated telegram in his hands, “Kronstadt has fallen. The entire Baltic Fleet has raised its red flag.”

Luo Xinbei's fingertip paused on the lens barrel. He had foreseen this outcome when he left St. Petersburg three days ago, but hearing the news still felt like an invisible hand was gripping his throat. He was different from Luo Xinhua and Luo Xinzhong; he had half Romanov blood and was the Grand Prince of Siberia! He even had a chance to inherit the Tsar's throne!
"Is Pastor Antonov ready?" he asked, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the ship’s chapel. But,” Petrov said in a low voice, “that paper crown isn’t even gilded.”

Luo Xinbei sneered, his military boots making a dull echo on the iron steps: "Petrov, I saw an old oil painting in the Winter Palace? When Mikhail Romanov was elected Tsar, he didn't even have a paper crown; he was crowned by pressing his head down with his hand."

In the cramped ship's chapel, candlelight flickered on the gold leaf of the icons. Reverend Antonov's white beard was tinged with amber, and the edge of the yellow paper crown in his hand was still stained with ink—a temporary design drawn on with a pen by the ship's clerk.

When Nikolai Alexandrovich was helped in by two sailors, his trousers were still dripping wet. The eighteen-year-old boy was as pale as an angel in an icon, with only the bloodshot eyes proving he was still alive. There was a tear in the collar of his uniform, revealing a blood-stained shirt underneath (Luo Xinbei's blood).

"Kneel down," Luo Xinbei said.

As the paper crown landed on Nikolai's head, a bead of sweat slid down the boy's temple, staining the yellowed paper with a dark sheen. Antonov's voice trembled: "In the name of God, in the blood of Romanov..."

“Too hasty!” Petrov whispered in Luo Xinbei’s ear. “Without even a proper ceremony, can this really count?”

Luo Xinbei's fingers traced the gilded revolver at his waist—a gift from his mother, Natalia, on his eighteenth birthday. "Do you know how Siberian tigers fight for territory?" he suddenly said. "Zoologists say that when wild animals fight for territory, whoever marks their territory first with urine is the master." His gaze swept over the sailors in the cabin, their expressions varying. "Now all of Russia is watching. Whoever declares themselves master first will have a better chance of winning. Besides... the new Tsar is still an innocent boy!"

In the telegraph room, the clicking of the telegraph key was like a death knell. The telegram dictated by Luo Xinbei reeked of blood: "The traitors who murdered the Tsar will be punished by the Scourge of God! All loyal knights, this Tsar commands you to defend the fortress to the death, burn the railway, and sink the ships!"

A piercing battle alarm suddenly tore through the air.

"German ships! Two Scharnhorst-class destroyers, eight nautical miles away!"

As Luo Xinbei rushed toward the bridge, a shell had already exploded 500 meters to starboard. Salty seawater poured onto the deck like a torrential downpour. Through his binoculars, he could clearly see the menacing rotating main gun turrets of the German ship "Westfalen" emerging from the thick fog.

"Full speed ahead! Charge into the Skagerrak Strait!" His roar echoed across the bridge. "The Germans dare not fire in Danish territorial waters."

But this time, he was just talking nonsense.

The fourth salvo landed closer, causing the Bering Sea to groan in pain. Luo Xinbei gripped the brass handrail tightly, staring at the markings on the nautical chart—they had already crossed the Danish territorial waters, but the German gunfire showed no sign of stopping.

"Aren't they afraid of causing an international dispute?" Nicholas II slumped in a corner, his paper crown long since slipped off and soaked in seawater seeping in through the gaps in the hatch.

Luo Xinbei looked at the Tsar with a hint of sympathy—the Germans had already invaded neutral Norway, so why would they care about having an international dispute with Denmark?
And what is Denmark using to fight Germany? Cookies?
"Full speed ahead!" he suddenly ordered. "The Royal Navy's battlecruisers are waiting for us ahead!"

"British?" The navigator looked up in astonishment. "How did the British know we were here?"

“They know! Believe me!” A gambler’s fervor flashed in Luo Xinbei’s eyes. His gaze swept over a marker on the nautical chart. “This is the Dogg Bank area. The British fleet frequently patrols this area.”

As the sixth volley of shells exploded at the stern, the Bering Sea's steering gear emitted an ominous screeching sound. Through the mist-filled porthole, Luo Xinbei saw that two German battlecruisers had changed course and were closing in on him in a pincer formation.

At this critical moment, the lookout's scream came through the loudspeaker: "Smoke column! Northwest! It's a British warship!" Luo Xinbei snatched the binoculars. On the distant horizon, three thick smoke columns stood like towering pillars, and beneath the smoke were familiar silhouettes—those distinctive triangular masts and superfiring turrets could only belong to the Royal Navy's newest "Invincible" class battlecruisers.

"Send a signal!" Luo Xinbei's voice was hoarse with excitement. "Use the internationally recognized distress code!"

In a brief pause between the flashing traffic lights, he turned to the pale-faced Nicholas II: "Your Majesty, you may have to accept a fact for now—from this moment on, your most important title is not Tsar of Russia, but the number one enemy of the German Empire!"

The night in Rome hung like a heavy velvet curtain over the Gothic spire of the German Embassy. Inside the embassy's secluded chambers, cigar smoke billowed under the chandeliers, forming a blue cloud that mingled with the rich aroma of aged whiskey.

Bayard wiped the sweat from his bald head with a handkerchief; the ice in his glass had melted completely. “Russia is finished,” he said hoarsely, devoid of any joy. “The specter of Red France is haunting the docks of New York. Last week, the workers’ union rallied in Chicago, singing The Internationale!”

Bismarck's fingertips tapped lightly on the oak tabletop, the Iron Cross gleaming coldly under the lamplight. He suddenly began to tell a seemingly unrelated story: "In ancient China, there was a fool who found a tiger in the countryside and fed it meat every day. Soon the tiger grew up, became wild, and swallowed the fool whole."

Bayard's wine glass stopped in mid-air.

“The American Workers Union is that tiger cub,” Bismarck Jr. continued. “If we don’t break its spine now,” his gaze swept across the red lines on the map of Europe on the wall, “it will be too late once it grows up.”

The door to the secret room slid open silently, and Brigham Young appeared like a ghost at the edge of the lamplight. This Mormon charlatan and former Foreign Secretary of the United States had somehow managed to appear in the secret room of the embassy of the opposing camp—perhaps this is the allure of secret diplomacy?

“Mr. Secretary of State,” his voice was eerily calm, “now our two nations have a common enemy. You do not want to see a red America, and we need a white supremacist United States. Only in this way will blacks, reds, and yellows unite around His Majesty the Emperor!”

Young Brigham Young's finger lightly traced the military demarcation line between the American Empire and the United States on the map: "I propose a new concept—'hostile truce.'" His fingernail left a shallow indentation on the map. "The American Empire and the United States do not recognize each other, continue to be hostile, but temporarily cease hostilities. Like two boxers returning to the corner to rest between rounds."

Bayard frowned: "I'm afraid Parliament won't agree."

“Then let’s find a way to persuade them!” Young Brigham Young pulled a telegram from his pocket. “This morning, a shipment of Lee-Metford rifles was unloaded in New York Harbor. Guess where they came from? Britain? Or Red France?”

The room suddenly became eerily quiet, with only the occasional crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.

“Three months,” Bismarck Jr. suddenly began, “The German Reich needs the United States of America to complete its internal reforms within three months. Suppress the workers’ unions, purge the progressives from the army, and then,” he pointed heavily at the map of Red France, “to fully support our offensive against Red France.”

Bayard's gaze shifted between the two men. He recalled the gold donated by the KKK in the White House basement, and the terrified faces of the Wall Street bankers. Finally, he slowly nodded: "'Hostile truce'. Fine. But the American Empire must guarantee not to cross the current line of actual control."

Young Brigham's lips curled up slightly: "Of course. In fact, the Prime Minister of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom also doesn't want us to continue eastward!"

The tungsten filament lamps in the Wu Prince's Mansion in Tianjing cast Luo Yaoguo's shadow onto the "Complete Map of the World." He held two newly translated telegrams in his hands—one from Natalia in London, and the other from Wu Chaoyue in Rome.

“Natalia and New North are more ambitious than we thought,” he murmured to himself. “They want to be the masters of Russia.”

The contents of the second telegram made him frown even more. Wu Chaoyue reported the details of the secret meeting in Rome: "The two American factions reached a 'hostile truce' under the mediation of Bismarck, the State Secretary for Foreign Affairs of the German Empire!"

Luo Yaoguo walked to the window, looked at the myriad lights of Tianjing City, and remained silent for a moment.

The brass bell on the desk was gently rang. When the adjutant Wu Peifu pushed open the door, he saw Luo Yaoguo writing instructions on the telegram receipt: "To the Atlantic Squadron of the Navy: Immediately transfer the weapons and equipment originally intended for the Tsar to Red France."

(End of this chapter)