The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 985 The Russian Emperor and the President of the United States
Catherine Hall, Winter Palace, St. Petersburg.

Beneath the resplendent Baroque dome, the ministers of the Russian Empire stood breathlessly, like a group of prisoners awaiting a thunderous trial. Alexander III, like a giant bear cornered in a desperate situation, sank deep into his throne. Outside, the wind howled from the Baltic Sea, while inside, a suffocatingly oppressive atmosphere filled the air. A confidential report from diplomatic channels was presented to the emperor by the trembling hands of the Minister of the Interior.

“The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom…and the British Empire…” Alexander III’s knuckles clenched so tightly they turned white, his voice low and deep like a glacier exploding, “They actually want to negotiate peace?!”

"Crash!" He violently overturned the enamel teacup inlaid with the imperial double-headed eagle emblem, splashing the precious porcelain and brown tea onto the huge Persian carpet.

“Yes… Your Majesty…” Russian Foreign Minister Giles stammered, “The news is conclusive… It is believed that the peace talks were initiated by Pope Leo XIV… As everyone knows, this old fellow has close ties with Luo Yaoguo, and all the funds he used to bribe the Pope were provided by Luo Yaoguo!”

"And Britain?" the Tsar pressed. "Did the British agree?"

"Yes, it is."

"Wow!"

No sooner had Giles spoken than the Tsar violently overturned an enamel teacup inlaid with the imperial double-headed eagle emblem, splashing the precious porcelain and brown tea onto the huge Persian carpet in a mess.

A brief, chilling silence enveloped the hall. The birchwood in the heavy fireplace crackled and sparks flew, but could not dispel the bone-chilling cold.

"Damn it! Shameless traitors!" Grand Duke Alexei Alexandrovich, the Tsar's brother and a naval marshal, could no longer contain himself and roared in fury, "That old woman Victoria! Has she forgotten who was holding back the Prussian hooves on the Eastern Front with the blood of Slavic warriors! Who was tying down the massive Taiping Heavenly Kingdom army for her! And she actually turned around and made peace with those yellow-skinned infidels! What does she take us for? A rag she used and then threw away?"

War Minister Vanovsky's face was even more ashen than the overcast sky outside the window. He stated the suffocating reality in a desperate tone: "Your Majesty! Your Highness! Once the British fleet withdraws from the Pacific, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's forces will be like wild horses! They...they will immediately exert pressure on the Empire's vast Far Eastern territories! Our army and navy in the Far East...are utterly powerless to resist!" He swallowed hard. "Even worse is the situation domestically...the ongoing war mobilization and maritime blockade have...our rubles are becoming worthless day by day! The front lines need enormous amounts of supplies, but factories not only lack raw materials but also..." Labor shortages are severe; many young workers have been sent to the front lines! Bread supplies in cities have fallen below the minimum wage… Black market bread prices in Petrograd and Moscow have increased tenfold! Citizens are queuing all day and still might not be able to buy food! The countryside is also facing a labor shortage; vast tracts of land are lying fallow, and farmers are unwilling to sell their produce due to the ruble's devaluation. Forced expropriation by local governments has sparked protests… growing larger every day! Sporadic but extremely dangerous riots have even broken out in Ukraine… even along the Volga River! Perhaps, perhaps we should consider peace talks.

"Bang!" Alexander III slammed his fist heavily on the conference table, the sound so loud it hurt everyone's eardrums! His Slavic face turned a deep purple with rage, the veins on his neck bulged like earthworms, and his eyes were so fierce they looked like he wanted to devour someone.

"Peace?! That's surrender!!" The Tsar's roar echoed terrifyingly in the empty hall. "You actually want peace?! Do you know how many we've sacrificed?! Five hundred thousand! Five hundred thousand sons of Russian mothers shed their blood on the battlefields from the muds of Poland to the mountains of Asia Minor! Their spirits are waiting for the Imperial flag to be raised over Hagia Sophia in Constantinople! We've staked the foundation of an empire for three centuries! And now, just because of a few damned loaves of bread? Just because of a few rioters? We're going to hand over that priceless victory, that key to the warm sea, that holy city of Orthodox Christianity to the Turks?! Absolutely not!"

He stood up abruptly, his massive body like a volcano about to erupt, his hawk-like gaze sweeping across the entire area, exuding an overwhelming sense of oppression.

"Reinforcements! Pour the last of our strength into Asia Minor! Crush the last resistance of the Ottomans at all costs! Constantinople! Constantinople must belong to Russia! It must belong to us! If we do not take that great city, we will all be sinners in the history of our nation! Our blood must not be shed in vain!"

“But,” the Minister of War reminded him, forcing a smile, “our winter offensive in Lithuania, Poland, and Romania has run into trouble. The Germans are very likely to launch a fierce attack after the spring frost season ends.” The Russian Tsar, his eyes red, glared at his Minister of War and said, enunciating each word clearly, “Remember this: the Russian people are willing to endure hardship for victory. They don’t oppose the autocratic and warlike Tsar; they oppose a Tsar who cannot win! Since war has befallen us, we have no choice but to win! Now we know the Germans will attack after the frost season ends, and we know the Turks are exhausted. So let’s devise a targeted plan to hold off the Germans on the western front and capture Constantinople on the southern front! Put all our forces into it. As long as we can hold the western front and capture Constantinople, Russia can negotiate a dignified peace!”

He suddenly turned to his Foreign Minister Giles: "Take men to Rome. Remember, Russia only accepts peace achieved through victory!"

Washington, D.C., the Oval Office of the White House.

A continuous drizzle blanketed the sky over Washington, seemingly foreshadowing the nation's bleak future. President Grover Cleveland—the Democratic leader who had only been in office for a year—looked out at the desolate scene and felt the weight of the entire United States pressing down on his weary shoulders.

Reports piled up on the oval desk, each page filled with words written in blood and tears.

"On the Mexican side, the Southern Army is constantly being harassed by the Free Mexican Army (officially known as the Free American Army)! Supply lines have been cut off, casualties have exceeded expectations by 20 percent, and the anti-banditry plan has been thwarted! A detailed list of losses is attached..." — This is bad news from the quagmire of the Southern war.

"Missouri Front! The Union Army suffered 42 percent non-combat casualties this past winter due to frostbite, pneumonia, and ammunition shortages! Currently, less than 30 percent of its combat strength remains! The Anglo-American Allied Command is deeply concerned about the Union Army's combat capabilities!"—This is the lament from the icy front lines of Montana and Dakota.

"The latest report from the Economic Advisory Committee: The national composite price index surged 420 percent year-on-year this month! The price increases for basic food items such as bread, milk, meat, and flour were particularly alarming, averaging more than double! Several riots broke out in major southern cities targeting bakeries and government rationing points. The New York Stock Exchange plummeted again yesterday..."—This is a diagnosis of impending societal collapse.

"The FBI has issued an urgent report: The Boston area has seen a significant increase in activity from the Ku Klux Klan, an armed group secretly organized by former Confederate officers! They are inciting the public with the slogan 'Defend America from the influence of Latinos and Asians (with Taiping Rebellion background)'! In Houston, a large-scale white supremacist march has erupted again! Slogans include demands for the government to end all overseas wars, withdraw troops from Mexico and Nicaragua, then concentrate its efforts on resisting people of color in the West, and impose stricter control over domestic minorities!"—The Ku Klux Klan is just one of two deeply buried time bombs; the other is called the "United States of America."
The flickering firelight in the fireplace illuminated Cleveland's increasingly pale face. Treasury Secretary Daniel Manning handed him another top-secret document, his voice bitter: "Mr. President, signs of capital flight from Wall Street and major Eastern financial groups have accelerated significantly. At least £30 million worth of gold has flowed to Canada and the UK through underground channels this week..."

The air was deathly still, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the mingled sounds of rain and snow outside the window. Cleveland closed his aching eyes. Three battlefields (the Nicaragua Canal front wasn't solely the responsibility of the East Coast and therefore not mentioned in the report, but the pressure was equally immense), astronomical military spending, a national teetering on the brink of collapse, a population on the verge of starvation, and social unrest boiling like a volcano… And there was also a venomous snake of "white supremacy" rooted in the very marrow of America, and another red venomous snake from Europe, poised to overturn everything, ready at any moment.
Peace? How do you explain the cost of peace to the vampires of Wall Street and to angry white supremacists?

War? How to deal with the ever-rising death toll and the endless financial black hole? And how to deal with the incitement of the suffering lower classes by that red serpent?
No matter which choice you make, it seems like the path ahead leads to the gates of hell.

He turned away, his eyes vacant as he gazed out the window at the spring rain. The magnificent dome of the Capitol now felt like the lid of a cage, heavy and suffocating. This nation was like a giant ship, the helm held tightly in his hands, yet the keel had broken in the raging storm, and it was irrevocably sliding into the abyss known as "white supremacy" or the workers' revolution.

Yet, through the spring rain outside the window, a few scattered slogans of protest drifted in, their sounds spreading through the damp air. They were angry shouts, indictments of bread shortages, the unfavorable war situation, and the government's incompetence—but ultimately, they were still just shouts. There were no red flags, no KKK flags, no barricades yet.
Secretary of State Thomas F. Bayard then whispered in the president's ear: "Mr. President, the British ambassador strongly recommends that we send representatives to Rome to participate in the peace conference. Even if the United States is not willing to compromise, it's never a bad thing to have some talks."

(End of this chapter)