The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 1021 The New Leader of America

Late autumn of 1900, Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia.

The leaden clouds hung low, as if they might fall at any moment. The pines and cypresses of Arlington Cemetery swayed in the autumn wind, emitting a low, mournful sound. A solemn procession moved slowly along the main path of the cemetery—six black horses pulled a hearse draped with the Stars and Stripes, its wheels churning over the gravel road with a dull thud.

On the hearse lay William Tecumseh Sherman, the “Father of the Empire” of the United States, head of state, commander-in-chief of the Army and Navy, and a five-star general.

The newly appointed President Douglas MacArthur walked at the head of the hearse, his crisp military uniform adorned with medals, his stern face concealing an undisguised ambition. Behind him stood the United States Chief of Staff George Patton, Secretary of War Lincoln Jr., Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, Chief of Naval Staff Alfred Mahan, Secretary of State William McKinley, and CIA Director Sherman Jr.—all the high-ranking military and political figures present, silently escorting this departed giant.

Tens of thousands of army and navy officers in uniform stood solemnly on both sides of the road, their eyes fixed on the hearse. As the hearse passed, they all straightened their bodies, raised their right arms, and paid their final salute to the iron-willed leader who had led them in suppressing the Democratic Party rebellion, rebuilding industry, and reorganizing the army.

The hearse finally stopped at the designated location—right next to the graves of Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant. The graves had already been dug, and the pastor, Bible in hand, waited quietly.

Six soldiers in dress uniforms slowly lifted Sherman's coffin and gently placed it into the grave. The earth settled with a dull thud.

Sherman's designated successor, MacArthur, the new leader of the United States, stepped onto the podium, his gaze sweeping over everyone present, before he spoke in a deep and powerful voice: "Today, we have buried a giant."

"Thirteen years ago, Führer Sherman saved this country—he suppressed the rebellion, restored order, revitalized industry, and reorganized the army! He led the United States of America from the ruins of the Civil War to become the world's second strongest power!"

"But America is the chosen nation! We were born to be number one in the world!"

"Please believe in me and follow me! Give me fifteen years, and I will give you a greater America!"

His voice echoed through the cemetery, as powerful and awe-inspiring as thunder.

General Patton was the first to raise his right arm and shout, "Hey MacArthur!"

Immediately afterwards, all the officers in Arlington Cemetery raised their arms in unison, and a thunderous roar echoed through the sky: "Hey MacArthur!"

At the same moment, in his top-floor office in the Morgan Tower on Wall Street, J.P. Morgan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, watching his servants hang a portrait of MacArthur on the wall.

He stared for a moment, then slowly raised his right hand:

"Hey MacArthur!"

After the servants left, Morgan turned to look at the guests sitting on the sofa—Rockefeller, Carnegie, and Vanderbilt. These tycoons who controlled America's oil, steel, and railroad industries were gathered together.

“We don’t like Sherman,” Rockefeller said coldly, “and we like MacArthur even less.”

“Dictators,” Carnegie added, tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest, “control the country with the military and secret police, turning our factories into arsenals.”

Vanderbilt scoffed: "But what can we do? Rebel? Don't forget how Sherman dealt with the American People's Party—gallows and concentration camps."

Morgan turned around, his gaze sharp: "The issue isn't whether we like them or not, but whether we need them."

There was a brief silence in the room.

“MacArthur wants to expand the military,” Morgan continued, “to build more warships, tanks, and airplanes. Rockefeller, your oil will be sold all over the world; Carnegie, your steel mills will run day and night; Vanderbilt, your railroads will transport countless munitions.”

"But what if America loses the war?" Rockefeller countered.

Morgan's eyes turned cold: "Then we will lose everything. The people of color in the American Empire will confiscate our assets and nationalize our factories. The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom and British capital will kick us out of the global market."

“So,” Carnegie slowly stood up, “we had no choice.”

“It’s not that we have no choice,” Morgan corrected, “but that we are tied to them. If MacArthur wins, we are the masters of the world; if he loses, we can only kneel and beg for survival. In this day and age, capitalists have not only a country, but also skin color!”

There was a brief silence in the room.

Vanderbilt took a deep breath: "Then let him win. Only if he wins can we win."

Morgan raised his glass: "To America."

"For America." The others responded in unison, their voices devoid of joy, only cold resolve.

After the funeral, MacArthur remained standing before Sherman's grave, his gaze deep. Patton and Mahan walked to his side, and the three of them silently stared at the name on the tombstone.

"Your Excellency," Patton whispered, "what's the next step?"

MacArthur did not answer immediately, but looked at Mahan: "Is the Navy ready?" Mahan nodded slightly: "'Indiana'-class battleships are already in service, the design blueprints for the next generation of aircraft carriers are being finalized, and Wright's new aircraft are undergoing test flights. But we need time—at least another 15 years—to secure control of the Atlantic."

“Perhaps we won’t have fifteen years,” MacArthur said coldly. “The British are expanding their fleet, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom is eyeing us in the Pacific, and even Red France and People’s Will Russia are accelerating their preparations for war. War may not wait for us to be ready.”

Patton clenched his fist: "The army is ready to be mobilized at any time. If you give the order, we can sweep across the east of the Rocky Mountains in three months and take over the whole of Mexico in six months."

“No, now is not the time,” MacArthur shook his head. “We don’t want small-scale operations.”

His gaze swept over the Washington Monument in the distance, and a slight smile appeared on his lips: "What I want is a war that will allow America to dominate the world."

“The Navy must seize control of the Atlantic Ocean the moment war breaks out,” he turned to Mahan, his voice stern. “Without control of the sea, we will be locked down in the eastern United States.”

Mahan took a deep breath: "The Navy will make sure of that."

MacArthur then looked at Patton: "What the Army needs to do is dominate the east coast of America, from Quebec to Argentina, after the Navy controls the seas!"

Patton grinned. "Just what I wanted."

MacArthur took one last look at Sherman's tombstone and whispered, "Fifteen years."

“Fifteen years,” he repeated, “I will bring the whole world to its knees under the Stars and Stripes.”

Patton raised his right arm: "Hey! MacArthur!"

MacArthur did not respond, but simply turned and left.

Behind him, Sherman's tombstone stands silently, while the future of America is slowly unfolding amidst blood and fire.

Nanjing, at the southern foot of Zijin Mountain, lies the mausoleum of the princes of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom.

Autumn winds swept through the pines and cypresses of Zijin Mountain, swirling up a few withered yellow leaves. Luo Yaoguo stood before the tombstone of Feng Yunshan, the recently buried Prince of the South. Although he was over seventy, his posture remained upright, and his eyes were still as sharp as a hawk's. He reached out and touched the inscription on the tombstone, his fingertips lingering briefly on the words "Feng Yunshan, Prince of the South," as if touching a distant era.

Behind them, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom elders stood quietly—Wei Changhui sat in a wheelchair, his face slightly stiff from the stroke, but his eyes were still clear; Shi Dakai leaned on a cane, his age was about the same as Luo Yaoguo's, and he was in excellent health, the cane was just for displaying his authority; Hong Xuanjiao, though her hair was completely white, her back was straight as a sword, her eyes as sharp as ever, as if she were still the "Heavenly Sister" who led the women's battalion into battle.

Vice Premier Hu Wansheng—son of Hu Yihuang, and now a rising star in the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom—stood solemnly beside Luo Yaoguo.

The Prime Minister's adjutant, Navy Captain Li Yuanhong, strode over and whispered, "Prime Minister, news has come from the United States... MacArthur announced at Sherman's funeral that he would make the United States the world's number one superpower within fifteen years."

Luo Yaoguo did not respond immediately. He gazed at Feng Yunshan's tombstone, remained silent for a moment, and then slowly spoke: "Fifteen years, that was 1915..."

His voice was deep and calm, yet it made everyone present hold their breath.

"It seems this is no longer my war."

Hu Wansheng frowned slightly: "Premier?"

Luo Yaoguo turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone before finally landing on Hu Wansheng's face: "Wansheng, I've made my decision."

"I do not intend to seek re-election."

Hu Wansheng was taken aback, then solemnly said, "Premier, Heaven still needs you."

Luo Yaoguo shook his head, a faint smile appearing on his lips: "No, what the Kingdom of Heaven needs is a new leader."

He raised his hand and pointed to the distant city of Nanjing: "I'm old, it's time for me to retire. And you, Hu Wansheng, you will be the next premier."

Wei Changhui let out a muffled laugh, Shi Dakai gripped his cane tighter, and Hong Xuanjiao nodded slightly, a hint of approval flashing in her eyes.

Hu Wansheng took a deep breath and solemnly saluted: "Premier, I will certainly live up to your expectations."

Luo Yaoguo nodded, his gaze returning to Feng Yunshan's tombstone: "The Heavenly King and the Eastern King left too early to witness the Heavenly Kingdom's golden age. The Southern King and the Western King, however, witnessed our Heavenly Kingdom's glory in dominating the Pacific. I hope that we old folks can still see the day when the Heavenly Kingdom wins World War II and dominates the world."

The autumn wind rises again, swirling up fallen leaves everywhere. Luo Yaoguo gazes at the distant city of Nanjing, where the setting sun paints the city walls crimson.

“Fifteen years…” Luo Yaoguo said softly, “enough for you young people to prepare for a new world war.”

(End of this chapter)