World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

This question came as a surprise. Wang Wenwu hesitated for a moment before choosing to answer honestly: "Sometimes, yes. But I also understand that governing a country requires rationality, even ruthlessness. Emotions cannot save a nation."

Chen Feng nodded, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon outside the window.

"More than a decade ago, when we declared our nationhood in Dubai, we had so few people and so few ships. The Western powers mocked us, the Japanese wanted to destroy us, and even many Chinese people didn't believe we could succeed."

His voice was very soft, as if he were recalling something:

He turned around and looked at Wang Wenwu:

"It's not about kindness or morality, it's about calculation, about transactions, about making the right choice at the right time. The path Japan is on now is the one they chose themselves after the First Sino-Japanese War and the Russo-Japanese War. They wanted to become a great power, they wanted to gain benefits through force, and now that they've lost, they have to bear the consequences."

"And we," Chen Feng concluded, "are simply making this consequence... a little more valuable. For them, and for us."

Wang Wenwu bowed deeply and left the office.

After the door closed, Chen Feng stood alone in front of the map. His finger lingered on the Japanese archipelago for a long time.

Then he went to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a small glass of whiskey, and drank it down without ice.

The liquor was strong, burning my throat.

Just like what he just said, it's burning my conscience.

But he had no choice. History had given him this opportunity, given Lanfang this opportunity. He had to seize it, he had to utilize it, he had to ensure that this country survived and grew strong amidst the chaos of warring powers.

For this, he could make a deal with the devil.

You can even turn a part of yourself into a demon.

Outside the window, Dubai is bathed in sunshine, its port bustling with activity, the city thriving. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in East Prussia, snow continues to fall, and blood still flows.

All of this was within his calculations.

In Kanda Ward, Tokyo, smoke fills the air inside an izakaya called "Tsuruya".

It was eight o'clock in the evening, which should have been the busiest time for business, but only three tables were occupied. The owner, Miura, listlessly wiped the glasses, his eyes frequently glancing at two notices posted on the wall—one a government order to conserve food, the other today's Asahi Shimbun, its front-page headline in huge bold letters: "Imperial Army Triumphs in Europe! Great Victory at Augustov!"

"Hey, Miura-san, another jug ​​of sake, please."

A sound came from the table by the window. Miura looked up and saw Yoshida, a regular customer and a middle-aged employee at Marunouchi Trading Company. He was with two other people, both dressed like office workers.

"Coming right away." Miura took a pot of warmed sake from under the counter, carried it over, and casually asked, "Is there any happy occasion today? You all seem to be in good spirits."

"Have you seen the news?" Yoshida pointed to the newspaper on the wall. "Our army has won a victory in Europe! They annihilated a Russian army and captured over 80,000 prisoners!"

Miura nodded, but his expression remained calm: "I saw it. But... Europe is very far from us, isn't it?"

"You just don't understand," said the young man opposite Yoshida. His name was Nakajima, and he worked at a bank. He spoke with an intellectual air. "This isn't just a victory; it's the empire's resurgence on the international stage! Westerners always say we Asians are no good, but look at us now! Our soldiers have defeated white soldiers on the world's most brutal battlefield!"

"And there's money too," the third person, a portly man named Yamashita, added. He was in the import/export business. "I heard the government received a large sum of foreign exchange, paid by the Germans. Now that food imports are secured, rice prices might even come down."

Miura poured them drinks and casually asked, "But a lot of people died, right? The newspapers said there were 25,000 casualties..."

"What war doesn't kill people?" Yoshida downed his drink in one gulp. "Even more died in the Russo-Japanese War! But the result was that we gained international respect and secured our rights in Manchuria. It will be the same this time!"

Nakajima nodded, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol: "That's right! And this time it's different. Our soldiers went as 'volunteers,' what does that mean? It means the Imperial Army's fighting power has been recognized by the world! Even the proud Germans are asking us for help!"

Two out of the three tables of guests were discussing the same topic. Their voices grew louder and their emotions more agitated.

At the far corner table, a man in an old suit with graying hair sat alone, quietly drinking the cheapest liquor. A folded newspaper sat on the table in front of him, but he remained unopened.

Miura noticed him and walked over: "Mr. Matsuo, is it just shochu again today?"

The man called Matsuo looked up. He was probably fifty years old, with deep wrinkles on his face and heavy dark circles under his eyes.

"Hmm," Matsuo replied briefly, his voice hoarse.

Miura hesitated for a moment, then asked in a low voice, "Have you heard anything about your son?"

Matsuo's hand trembled, spilling a few drops of sake from his glass. He remained silent for a long time before finally saying, "The death notice came last month. Augustov Forest...it says he died a heroic death."

Miura's heart sank. He wanted to say something comforting, but he couldn't say anything.

"They gave us a pension," Matsuo continued, speaking as if he were talking about someone else. "Three hundred yen. That's one hundred more than the usual death penalty pension because it's a 'special allowance for overseas operations'."

Three hundred yen, two years' wages for an ordinary worker. It was earned at the cost of a twenty-year-old's life.

"Mr. Matsuo, I..."

"Don't try to comfort me," Matsuo interrupted him, pulling a crumpled banknote from his pocket and placing it on the table. "Check, please."

He stood up, swaying slightly, but still walked steadily towards the door. As he passed Yoshida's table, Nakajima was loudly proclaiming, "...So, those sacrifices were worthwhile! For the honor of the Empire, for the future of the nation!"

Matsuo stopped and turned around.

His eyes were fixed on Nakajima, and that look made the young bank clerk involuntarily shut his mouth.

"My son," Matsuo said, enunciating each word clearly, but the shop suddenly fell silent. "My son, Matsuo Kenichi, is twenty years old this year. Before he left, he said he was going to fight in Europe to earn money to support the family because I was sick and couldn't do heavy work."

He took a step forward:

"Now that he's dead, I got three hundred yen. With that money, I can buy medicine, pay rent, and live a little longer."