World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The head guard looked at Wang Wenwu. Wang Wenwu shook his head slightly. The head guard withdrew and closed the door again.

Chen Feng stood amidst the shards of metal, his chest heaving violently. His hair was disheveled, his shirt collar was open, and his hand was bleeding—he didn't know what had cut him.

"Commander-in-Chief, your hand..." Wang Wenwu said softly.

Chen Feng looked down, casually tore a piece of paper from the ripped document, and pressed it against the wound.

"It's nothing." His voice suddenly calmed down, and the calm that followed his rage was even more unsettling.

He walked back to his desk, sat down, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Once, twice, three times.

When he opened his eyes again, the calm Chen Feng was back. But Wang Wenwu saw something new in his eyes—a deep, cold determination.

"Minister Wang," Chen Feng began, his voice eerily calm, "notify the core members that there will be an emergency meeting in one hour. Zhou Tieshan, Zhang Zhen, Liu Qinian, Li Te, and you. The location... is right here with me."

"Yes."

"Also," Chen Feng added, "clean up the mess on the floor. Have the kitchen bring up two breakfasts; neither of us has eaten yet."

Wang Wenwu nodded and prepared to go out to call for help.

"Wait a minute," Chen Feng called out to him again.

Wang Wenwu turned around.

Chen Feng looked at him and said, word by word, "Don't spread what happened today. The Commander-in-Chief doesn't look good when he's angry."

"I understand," Wang Wenwu said, "but I think your reaction today... is very genuine. If even you are not angry about the fate of your compatriots, then this country is too cold."

Chen Feng did not respond, he just waved.

After Wang Wenwu left, Chen Feng sat alone in his office. Sunlight streamed in, and dust particles danced in the beams of light. The debris on the ground reflected fragments of light, like the remnants of stars.

He looked at his hand; the bleeding had stopped, but the wound was deep and might leave a scar.

"That's fine," Chen Feng thought. He'd keep this scar to remind himself why he was angry today, and to remind himself what he couldn't forget.

He stood up and walked to the broken window—when he was smashing things, a paperweight had flown out and cracked the glass in a spiderweb pattern.

Looking through the crack, Dubai Harbour was bustling with activity. Cargo ships came and went, cranes rose and fell, and workers busied themselves on the docks. Many of these people were Chinese, compatriots who had come from all over Southeast Asia and mainland China to seek refuge in Lanfang in recent years.

They have jobs, dignity, and a future here.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, 150,000 people are preparing to embark on a path of no return.

Chen Feng clenched his fist, and his wound began to bleed again.

No.

He absolutely will not allow it.

8:30 a.m., Presidential Office.

The broken glass had been temporarily boarded up, and the shards on the floor had been cleaned up, but ink stains remained on the walls, and tea stains lingered on the carpet. An unusual atmosphere permeated the office—tense, heavy, and with a suppressed anger.

Six people sat around the long conference table: Chen Feng, Wang Wenwu, Zhou Tieshan, Zhang Zhen, Liu Qinian, and Li Te. On the table lay the telegram, a map of the western European front, the full text of the Beiyang government's proclamation, and summaries of reports from British and French media.

Chen Feng sat in the main seat, his hands wrapped in white gauze. His expression was calm, but everyone could sense the storm raging beneath the surface.

"Everyone knows the situation," Chen Feng began, cutting to the chase. "150,000 Chinese laborers are going to the Western Front in Europe. I'd like to hear your opinions."

A brief silence.

Finance Minister Li Yongguang was the first to speak. He was in his fifties, a shrewd Guangdong businessman, and in charge of Lanfang's finances.

"From a purely economic perspective," Li Yongguang adjusted his glasses, "this isn't a bad thing for us. The departure of 150,000 young and middle-aged laborers from China will exacerbate the labor shortage in the North X-controlled area and drive up wage levels. Meanwhile, our plantations and mines in Borneo and Malaya have been trying to recruit workers from the mainland—now the opportunity has arrived. We can improve recruitment benefits to attract those who might have gone to Europe to join Lanfang instead."

"Go on," Chen Feng said expressionlessly.

"Moreover," Li Yongguang said, flipping through the ledger in front of him, "if these 150,000 people really went to Europe, at a rate of 20 silver dollars per person per month, that would amount to 36 million silver dollars in foreign exchange earnings per year. This money would be remitted back to Country X through banks such as HSBC and Standard Chartered, entering the financial market. We can find a way to intercept a portion of it, or at least earn it back through trade."

Typical businessman's mindset, Wang Wenwu thought to himself. But he couldn't be wrong; this was reality.

Minister of Industry Liu Qinian spoke up, his tone hesitant: "President, I... I may have to say something unpleasant."

"explain."

"It is indeed dangerous for 150,000 people to go," Liu Qinian said. "But what if they don't go and stay in China? In places like Zhili and Shandong, there were floods last year and famine this spring, and too many farmers are struggling to survive. Going to Europe is dangerous, but at least they can eat and earn money. Staying in China means they might starve to death, die of disease, or be conscripted into the army by warlords—that's also a dead end."

He paused. "I'm not saying the North Korean government did the right thing, I'm saying... for many of them, this may have been the best option."

The meeting room fell even quieter. Liu Qinian was speaking of a harsh reality—when it comes to survival, danger is secondary.

Rear Admiral Zhang Zhen cleared his throat. The general sat ramrod straight, his uniform impeccably tailored.

"From a military perspective, I have a question," he said. "Why did Britain and France need 150,000 Chinese laborers? Didn't they have their own?"

Chen Feng replied, "Yes, but not enough. Britain has a volunteer military system and has already mobilized three million people, resulting in a severe labor shortage. France has a small population, high casualties, and is even more short of manpower. So they have turned their attention to their colonies—India, Africa, and Country X."

"But Indians and Africans are cheap," Zhang Zhen said. "Why insist on Chinese? And why offer such a high price of twenty silver dollars?"

Wang Wenwu chimed in, "Because Chinese people are hardworking, disciplined, and quick learners. And... they're easy to control. Indians have nationalist sentiments, and Africans don't speak the language. Chinese people? They're obedient, submissive, and even if they die, no one causes trouble."

These words sounded cold, but everyone understood that it was true.

Zhou Tieshan, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up: "Commander-in-Chief, you summoned us here not to analyze the pros and cons, did you? You've already made your decision, haven't you?"

All eyes were on Chen Feng.

Chen Feng slowly stood up and walked to the wooden board temporarily sealing the window. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks, casting streaks of light on his face.