World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Liu Yongfu remained silent for half a minute before finally nodding: "I will do my best."

"It's not just about trying our best, it's about having to." Chen Feng looked at everyone. "Gentlemen, we've prepared for so many years, built a fleet, trained an army, and reclaimed our homeland. But this is just the beginning. What we're about to face may be a completely different world."

He walked to the window and looked at the bustling city outside:

Dubai was a desert ten years ago. Now half a million people live here. Borneo was under Dutch rule four months ago, and now it is our territory. All of this is because we dared to dream and dared to fight.

He turned around, his eyes sharp:

"Now, new challenges have arrived. It could be a crisis, or it could be an opportunity. But whatever it is, we must be prepared. Because this time, we are not bystanders, we are participants."

The meeting lasted until 1 p.m.

After the meeting, Chen Feng kept Zhou Tieshan behind alone.

"There's one more thing." He closed the door. "Is there any real-time information channel in Seraev?"

Zhou Tieshan hesitated for a moment: "Yes... but it's very unreliable. We relay the information through an informant in Vienna, and the information is delayed by at least two hours."

"Two hours..." Chen Feng glanced at the clock on the wall—1 PM Dubai time, which should be 10 AM in Sarajevo. "That's enough. From now on, report to me about Sarajevo every hour. Any news, big or small."

"Yes." Zhou Tieshan paused. "Commander-in-Chief, do you really think... something bad will happen today?"

Chen Feng did not answer. He walked to the world map and pointed to the location of Seraphim.

The sun was shining brightly in that Balkan city. The streets were packed with people, a military band was playing, and the Austro-Hungarian flag was fluttering in the breeze.

On a street corner, a nineteen-year-old Serbian youth, with a pistol in his pocket, was waiting.

History sometimes hinges on moments like this: a turn, a pause, a pull of the trigger.

"I don't know," Chen Feng finally said, "but I do know that some changes only require a single gunshot."

At 3 p.m., Chen Feng was reviewing documents in his office.

These were all routine administrative matters: the Ministry of Education's school expansion plan, the Immigration Bureau's new resettlement scheme, the Ministry of Finance's quarterly budget... But he found it difficult to concentrate. His eyes were on the text, but his mind was wandering far away.

Every hour, Zhou Tieshan would knock on the door and come in to report on the latest situation in Seraev—actually, there wasn't much new information. The Grand Duke visited the city hall, gave a speech, and then went to the hospital to visit the wounded as planned. Everything was normal.

That's perfectly normal.

Chen Feng put down his pen, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He rarely drank during the day, but he made an exception today.

The amber-colored liquor swirled in the glass. He recalled many things: the resolute decision he made when he set sail three years ago, the excitement of building his first warship, the joy of a successful test flight, and the tears he shed on the day he recaptured Pontianak.

Now, things may change again.

A knock sounded at the door. This time it wasn't Zhou Tieshan, but Wang Wenwu.

"President, the German consulate has called. Major General Müller wants to see you. It's urgent."

"Let him come over."

"Now? This is the Presidential Palace..."

"Right now." Chen Feng downed his drink in one gulp. "Tell him to go through the back door, and don't let anyone see him."

Twenty minutes later, Mueller entered the presidential palace through the back door. He was dressed casually today, but his expression was even more somber than that night.

"Mr. Chen," he said without even sitting down, "Berlin just sent a coded message. Our intelligence agents reported back from Serrajevo... Something's happened."

Chen Feng's heart sank: "Go into details."

"Around 11 a.m. this morning—Serrajevo time—Archduke Franz Ferdinand's motorcade was shot at close range by a Serbian youth as it turned a corner on its way to the hospital."

Muller's voice was dry:

"The Grand Duke was shot in the carotid artery, and his wife was shot in the abdomen. Both were rushed to the hospital, but... but they were confirmed dead half an hour ago."

The office was deathly silent.

The city noise outside the window—car horns, port whistles, and distant construction machinery—suddenly seemed very far away.

Chen Feng slowly sat down. The whiskey was kicking in, but he felt a chill run through his body.

"Where is the killer?" he asked, his voice unusually calm.

"He's been arrested. His name is Gavrilo Princip, nineteen years old, Serbian, a member of the Mafia. He attempted suicide by poisoning himself after shooting, but was subdued."

"What was Austria-Hungary's reaction?"

"It hasn't been officially announced yet. But in Vienna... things are in an uproar. Emperor Franz Joseph is said to have fainted three times. The military's pro-war faction is holding an emergency meeting."

Müller walked to the window and looked out at Dubai:

"Mr. Chen, you said the other day that all you needed was a spark. Now... the spark has appeared."

Chen Feng didn't speak. He picked up the phone and cranked the dial.

"Connect Director Zhou of the State Security Bureau. Immediately."

A few seconds later, Zhou Tieshan's voice came through: "Commander-in-Chief?"

"Has the news from Seraev been confirmed?"

"Just...just confirmed." Zhou Tieshan's voice trembled. "Our informant sent a message ten minutes ago. Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife...confirmed dead. The Austro-Hungarian military has been placed on high alert."

"Okay." Chen Feng hung up the phone.

He looked at Müller. The German major general stood by the window, his silhouette somewhat blurred against the light.

"Major General," Chen Feng began, "you should return to the consulate now. Berlin will issue new instructions soon."

"I know," Muller turned around, "but before that, I want to ask you a question."

"Please speak."

"If...if war really breaks out, will Lanfang keep her promise from that night?"

Chen Feng looked at him. This German naval officer, this man who might soon be on the battlefield, had a complex look in his eyes—not fear, not excitement, but a kind of… resignation.

"I will keep my promise," Chen Feng said. "Oil, submarines, border pressure. But I've also said that Lanfang will not formally participate in the war. That's the bottom line."

Müller nodded, as if relieved, yet also as if his voice grew heavier.

"Thank you," he said. "Then I'll take my leave."

"Wait a minute." Chen Feng called out to him, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, and said, "Finish this glass before you leave."

The two clinked glasses and drank it all in one gulp.

The liquor was very strong; it burned from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

"Major General," Chen Feng put down his cup, "I have something to say, which is my personal suggestion."

"Speaking."

"If war breaks out, tell your naval commanders: do not easily challenge British naval supremacy. Tell your army commanders: do not underestimate France's will to resist. Tell your Emperor... some victories come at too high a price."

Muller gave him a deep look: "I will pass on the message. Although... it may be too late."