World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Gray nodded. "Understood."

"Second, the navy will strengthen the blockade of the North Sea, especially the Norwegian Channel. If those two Bismarck-class ships dare to come out, make sure they never return."

Balfour: "Yes."

"Third," Asquith's gaze deepened, "and most importantly—we must have a direct dialogue with Chen Feng of Lanfang at the highest level. Not through the ambassador, not through diplomatic notes, but face-to-face, a 'frank' exchange between the highest levels."

"You want to invite Chen Feng to London?" Gray asked in surprise.

"No," Asquith shook his head. "I can't go to the Far East, and he might not dare to come to Europe. Let's find a neutral location. Egypt, Cairo. We'll ask His Majesty the King to personally intervene."

This statement stunned everyone. His Majesty the King? King George V going in person?

"The scale must be high enough to demonstrate our importance and to uncover Chen Feng's true intentions," Asquith explained. "We need to figure out what Lanfang's ultimate goal is. What do they really want? Is it purely for business, or do they have bigger ambitions? Only by figuring these things out can we formulate a real countermeasure."

He looked at Kitchener: "Lord, I know you're angry. I'm angry too. But anger can't guide strategy. What we need now is calm, calculation, and... patience."

Kitchener stared at the Prime Minister for a long time, and finally, his steely shoulders slumped slightly. He slowly sat down and wiped his face with his rough hands.

"Eight months, two hundred thousand men..." he murmured, "My lads, dying at the hands of these Eastern mercenaries..."

Silence fell over the meeting room once again. The sound of rain outside the window was exceptionally clear.

Asquith looked at Gray: "Draft a note to the Sakura Kingdom. The wording should be like a whip lashing their faces. Then, send a telegram to Chen Feng in Lanfang, inviting him to a meeting in Cairo in the name of His Majesty the King."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

Meeting adjourned.

Tokyo, Prime Minister's Official Residence, 11 p.m., July 31, 1916

The cicadas chirped incessantly in the summer night, and the humid, hot wind blew into the tatami room from the open veranda, but brought no coolness whatsoever. Saionji Kinmochi knelt on the tatami, a translated telegram spread out on the low table in front of him, and a cup of green tea that had long since gone cold beside him.

The 67-year-old prime minister wore a simple linen kimono, his gray hair meticulously combed, but the dark circles under his eyes and the deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth betrayed his sleeplessness and anxiety over the past few days. His back remained straight, a posture passed down through generations of nobles, but the fingers holding the telegram trembled slightly.

It wasn't fear. It was anger, shame, and a profound sense of powerlessness.

The telegram listed the original English text alongside the Japanese translation. It was a formal note personally signed by Sir Edward Grey, the British Foreign Secretary, and urgently delivered through the British Embassy in Japan. Saionji had read it five times already, and each time, the words felt like a red-hot iron branding his retina.

"...The British Empire Government, in the strongest terms, protests the Japanese Empire Government's betrayal of the spirit of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance..."

"...Disguising themselves as German troops to participate in the war against the British and their dominions' armies is an unacceptable betrayal..."

"...We demand that the Imperial Government of the Sakura Kingdom immediately recall all troops fighting on the western front and provide compensation for the casualties already incurred..."

"...If a satisfactory response is not received within twenty-four hours, the British Empire will reconsider all its policies toward Japan, including but not limited to abolishing the alliance treaty, imposing economic sanctions, and taking other necessary measures..."

Every word felt like a slap in the face.

The sound of wooden clogs approached from the corridor. Saionji didn't look up; he knew who it was.

The paper sliding door was gently pulled open. Army Minister General Kenichi Oshima appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a military uniform, clearly having just arrived from the Ministry of the Army, and beads of sweat still clung to his forehead. This 59-year-old general, from the Iwamura Domain, possessed the typical rugged features of a soldier, yet his eyes now gleamed with a complex light—stubbornness, anxiety, and a barely perceptible hint of guilt.

"Prime Minister." Oshima bowed slightly at the threshold, then entered the Japanese-style room and sat down opposite him.

Saionji didn't say anything, but simply pushed the telegram over.

Oshima picked up the telegram and quickly scanned it. His lips pressed into a straight line, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"The British...reacted more strongly than expected," he finally said, his voice hoarse.

"Intense?" Saionji finally raised his eyes, his gaze as cold as the waters of Lake Biwa in winter. "Oshima-kun, this isn't 'intense.' This is an ultimatum. Do you understand what 'reconsidering all policies toward Japan' means? It means that the British can stop exporting machine tools, steel, and ship engines to us. They can stop supporting our interests internationally. They can stand against us in the next war."

He paused, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth: "And all of this is because the Ministry of the Army sold eight divisions to the Germans behind the backs of the cabinet and the government."

"It was for the Empire!" Oshima suddenly raised his voice. "Prime Minister, do you know what that deal brought to the Empire? Eight million pounds in cash! Krupp's gun steel smelting technology! Siemens' electrical technology! And Germany's promise of postwar support for us on the Shandong issue! These are things that diplomatic rhetoric cannot buy!"

"So we're going to send two hundred thousand citizens of the Empire, dressed in enemy uniforms, to die ten thousand kilometers away in someone else's war?" Saionji's voice trembled. "You're going to make them lonely ghosts who can't even have their own names engraved on their tombstones?"

Oshima's face paled, but his soldierly stubbornness made him straighten his back: "They are soldiers! A soldier's duty is to obey orders and sacrifice! And they receive double pay, while the families of the fallen receive triple compensation! Prime Minister, go and ask those poor families in the countryside whether they would rather their son starve to death at home or go to Europe to earn enough money to support their entire family?"

"And then?" Saionji slammed his hand on the low table, making his teacup jump. "When the war ends, the whole world will know that Japan is a mercenary nation that sells out its soldiers' lives! Where will our international credibility be? How can we interact with other major powers on an equal footing in the future? Tell me, didn't we make the wrong choice?!"

"The future?" Oshima sneered. "Prime Minister, without the present, there is no future! After the East China Sea Battle, the Combined Fleet was completely annihilated, and the Navy will not recover for ten years! The Russians are eyeing us covetously in the north, and the Americans are expanding in the Pacific! The Empire is now like a stranded ship. We need money, we need technology, we need time!"