World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Lanfang cannot take that path. We must take a smarter, more sustainable path: not selling flesh and blood, but selling wisdom and technology; not seizing territory, but acquiring concessions; not confronting all the great powers, but finding a balance among them.

The moon rose high in the sky outside the window, its light spilling across the desert like a silver veil. The train continued westward, toward the Bosphorus Strait, toward that ancient capital connecting Europe and Asia, toward the talks that would determine the future of the Middle East.

Chen Feng closed his eyes, and images of Istanbul appeared in his mind: the sunset over the Golden Horn, the dome of Hagia Sophia, the spire of the Sultan's Palace, and the diplomats, soldiers, and businessmen bustling about in the afterglow of the empire.

Five hundred years ago, this was the heart of the Ottoman Empire, a power revered by the world. Now, it is the capital of a dying empire, a piece of cake to be carved up by the great powers. And three days later, he will enter that city, not as a beggar, not as a bystander, but as… one of those who will share the cake.

History always repeats itself, but each time there are new participants.

This time, it was Lanfang's turn from the East.

Chen Feng opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening once more. He put away the map, locked the documents, and turned off the desk lamp. The carriage fell into darkness, broken only by the steady, powerful clatter of the wheels on the rails, like the pulse of the nation's progress.

Tomorrow, the train will enter Türkiye. The day after tomorrow, it will arrive in Istanbul.

The grand show is about to begin.

The morning mist over the Bosphorus Strait had not yet completely dissipated, and the surface of the Golden Horn shimmered with a leaden, cold light. The Dolmabahçe Palace, the new imperial palace of the Ottoman Empire—a colossal structure built at a cost of five million gold lira and modeled after Versailles in Europe—revealed a pale and weary splendor in the August morning light. Marble facades, gilded decorations, a forty-five-meter-long crystal chandelier…all these spoke of the empire's former supreme glory. But now, the soldiers stationed every few steps around the palace, the recently repaired bullet holes in the walls, and the faint atmosphere of anxiety in the air all revealed a cruel reality: this giant spanning Eurasia and Africa was bleeding, was crumbling.

The "Diplomatic Hall" in the west wing of the palace was hastily set up overnight as a venue for tripartite talks. A long, mahogany conference table was covered with a deep red velvet tablecloth, and on it were the flags of the three nations: the German Empire's eagle flag (black, red, and gold) on the left; the Ottoman crescent flag (red with a gold star) in the center; and the Lanfang Republic's dragon flag (red with a gold dragon) on the right. Many people were already seated around the table, but the atmosphere was oppressively tense.

The German delegation was seated on the left. At the head of the delegation was not the originally expected Chief of the General Staff, General Falkenhahn, but someone no one had anticipated—Kaiser Wilhelm II himself.

The fifty-seven-year-old emperor wore the uniform of a Prussian field marshal, the dark blue wool fabric adorned with medals, the Iron Cross First Class and the Order of Merit prominently displayed on his left breast. He sat in a high-backed chair, chin slightly raised, his right hand unconsciously stroking the famous marshal's scepter, his left hand resting on the table, his fingers rhythmically tapping the surface. His face was pale, his eyes heavily puffed out, but a stubborn light still burned in his pale blue eyes—a light mixed with arrogance, anxiety, and a final hope.

Behind Wilhelm II stood General Falkenhayn, bowing slightly. The Chief of the General Staff looked more haggard than he had been two months earlier in Verdun, his uniform hanging loosely on his body, making him appear like a walking skeleton. Beside him were Lieutenant General Fritz von Bayer, the Director of the Ordnance Office, and several staff officers with somber expressions.

The Ottoman delegation sat in the middle. The nominal head of the delegation was War Minister Enver Pasha—the thirty-four-year-old leader of the Young Turks Party, dressed in a well-tailored European-style military uniform, his chest adorned with medals, but most striking was the jewel-encrusted saber at his waist, an honor bestowed upon him by the Sultan. Enver sat ramrod straight, chin held high, striving to maintain the dignity of an imperial general, but his frequent glances toward the door betrayed his nervousness.

The one who truly made the decision sat beside Enver: Grand Vizier (Prime Minister) Said Halimpasha. This 52-year-old veteran bureaucrat, dressed in traditional Ottoman robes and wearing a red Fez hat, had a calm, almost serene face, with only deep wrinkles around his eyes and occasional trembling fingers revealing the pressure he endured. A document lay open before him, but he didn't look at it; he simply closed his eyes to rest, as if gathering his last strength.

The Lanfang delegation sat on the right. Chen Feng sat at the head of the table, still in a simple dark gray suit, without any medals or decorations. Beside him was Foreign Minister Wang Wenwu, and behind them were two recorders and an interpreter. Compared to the large and solemn delegations of Germany and Austria, the Lanfang delegation appeared streamlined and composed.

The gilded clock on the wall pointed to 9:15. The meeting was scheduled to begin at 9:00, but no one spoke, and no one urged anyone on. The only sounds in the air were the ticking of the clock, soft coughs, and the distant whistles of ships coming from the Bosphorus.

Finally, Enver Pasha cleared his throat and spoke in heavily accented German: "Your Majesty, Your Excellency the Grand Commander, thank you all for coming to Istanbul. In this difficult time, the Ottoman Empire cherishes every sincere friend."

Wilhelm II nodded slightly in response. Chen Feng replied in standard German, "Thank you for the kind invitation from our hosts. Lanfang is willing to contribute to regional peace and stability."

It was very diplomatic rhetoric, but everyone present knew that what was about to be discussed had little to do with "peace."

Halim Pasha opened his eyes and spoke slowly, his voice low and weary: "Well then, let's begin. As per the pre-arranged agenda, this morning Lanfang will first demonstrate... some kind of 'new equipment'?"

His gaze fell on Chen Feng, a hint of barely perceptible doubt and... expectation in his eyes? A dying empire will cling to any possible lifeline, even if that lifeline comes from the distant East.

Chen Feng nodded and looked at Liu Yongfu. The Minister of Industry immediately stood up: "Yes, Your Excellency Pasha. We have prepared a secret testing ground, about fifteen kilometers from the palace. If it is convenient for you, you may proceed there now."

Wilhelm II finally spoke, his voice sharp and urgent, with a typical Prussian aristocratic accent: "What equipment? Tanks? You mean the 'armored vehicles capable of breaching trenches' you mentioned in your telegram?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty," Chen Feng replied calmly. "We call it 'Armored Assault Vehicle No. 1,' but its more interesting name is 'Tank.'"

“The name doesn’t matter,” Falkenhayn couldn’t help but interject, the Chief of the General Staff’s voice hoarse like sandpaper. “Performance! I need to know what it can do! How fast can it go? What caliber of shells can it withstand? How wide of trenches can it cross?”

His urgency was almost undisguised. The stalemate on the Western Front had brought the German supreme commander to the brink of collapse. Every day, looking at the casualty reports, the stagnant maps, and the increasingly strained supply lines back home, what he needed now was a miracle, or at least something that looked like a miracle.