World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"What about Lanfang?" Haig asked. "They're in the division in Hurdsa, about fifty kilometers to our flank."

Kitchener was silent for a few seconds. He remembered the message Asquith brought back from Dubai, Chen Feng's unfathomable smile, and the two Hood-class battlecruisers that had already been handed over.

"Don't move for now," he decided, "but keep a close watch. If they cross the concession zone's red line, even by a kilometer, retaliate immediately. If not... just treat it as a mirage in the desert."

He paused, then added, "In addition, MI6 is going to launch 'Operation Eastern Dragon.' We'll fully infiltrate Lanfang's industrial system, find out exactly what they gave the Germans, and whether we can acquire the same technology."

"What if we can't get it?"

"Then let's develop it ourselves." Kitchener slammed his fist on the map. "If the British Empire can build dreadnoughts and airplanes, they can definitely build tanks better than the Easterners!"

That being said, he knew in his heart that time was the scarcest resource. The Germans wouldn't wait for him to slowly develop the technology, and the soldiers on the Western Front wouldn't wait for him to slowly experiment with it.

Every minute, someone dies.

Every hour, the empire's power is being depleted.

"Send a telegram to the Sinai front." He turned to his adjutant and said, "Order: The 42nd, 51st, and 63rd Divisions to assemble immediately and prepare to be shipped to France. The evacuation process must be covert, and sufficient decoy troops must be left on the front lines to prevent the Turks from noticing."

"The defense zones of those three divisions..."

"The remaining five divisions will share the burden, shortening the defensive line." Kitchener looked at the long Sinai Line on the map. "Tell General French: now is the time to test his command abilities. Hold a longer defensive line with fewer troops."

The adjutant finished taking notes and left in a hurry.

Only Kitchener and Hager remained in the operations room. The rain intensified, and the sky darkened like dusk.

"Lord," Haig said softly, "I have a feeling...we are losing the initiative. Not on the battlefield, but on...the bigger chessboard."

Kitchener didn't respond. He went to the window and watched the pedestrians hurrying by on Whitehall Street. The citizens with umbrellas, the coachmen driving their carriages, the people who were still trying to maintain a normal life in the third year of the war.

Unbeknownst to them, the empire was standing on the edge of a precipice.

Unbeknownst to them, in the distant desert, an Eastern army was taking root within the empire's traditional sphere of influence.

They didn't know that this war might change the world order, and that the British Empire... might no longer be the empire on which the sun never sets.

"Hagger," Kitchener suddenly spoke up, "do you remember Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee celebrations in 1897?"

"I remember. I was a young officer then, serving in India."

"The British Empire back then," Kitchener's voice held a distant nostalgia, "covered a quarter of the world's territory, had a navy tonnage exceeding the combined tonnage of the world's second to fifth largest, London was the world's financial center, and the pound sterling was the world's currency. Everyone believed that this empire would shine forever."

He turned around, a flash of pain in his eyes: "Only twenty years. Just twenty years."

Haig didn't know what to say. He was a soldier and didn't understand politics, but he knew the numbers: since the start of the war, Britain's national debt had soared from £600 million to £3 billion; gold reserves had fallen from £200 million to less than £50 million; voices of independence were beginning to emerge in the colonies; and while President Wilson of the United States was constantly chanting "national self-determination," he was secretly challenging British hegemony.

"We will win, Lord," he finally said. "We will win this war."

"And then?" Kitchener asked. "Winning against a weakened Germany, facing a rising America, an ambitious Lanfang, and a Japan eyeing us with predatory intent... could that still be considered a victory?"

There is no answer.

Only the sound of rain, continuous and incessant, like a lament for a certain era.

Meanwhile, in Tokyo, Saionji, who had already obtained permission from the Heavenly Locusts, immediately signed an agreement with the British. Saionji also followed Chen Feng's explanation—this was not sending troops, but exporting labor.

It was only after Saionji's "explanation" that the British consul finally understood what labor export meant.

He said, "Lord Saionji, your Eastern writing system is so charming!!! Yes, it's about labor export, I love that word!"

Anatolian Plateau, Konya Training Camp, September 28, 9:00 AM.

Enver Pasha stood on the reviewing stand, looking down at the Ottoman 3rd Division training below. This was the first batch of troops to receive training from Lanfang, and they had already undergone three months of modernization.

Three months ago, these soldiers wore tattered uniforms, carried outdated Mauser rifles, and performed tactical maneuvers standard for thirty years. Now, they wear new khaki uniforms—though the material is inferior, the style is modern. They carry Mauser rifles provided by Lanfang.

On the training field, a company of soldiers was practicing an attack. Machine gun crews seized high ground to provide cover, infantry squads advanced in skirmish lines, and mortar crews provided fire support from behind. Although their movements were still a bit clumsy and their coordination not yet perfect, they were already showing promise.

"How is it?" Enver asked the German military advisor beside him, von der Gortzpasha—the 68-year-old German general had served in the Ottomans for 30 years and had almost become half-Turkish.

"There has been great progress," Golds commented honestly. "Especially the junior officers, whose command abilities have improved significantly after receiving systematic training from Instructor Lan Fang. But there are also many problems: equipment is not standardized, logistics are chaotic, and the soldiers' education level is too low—many can't even read a map."

Enver nodded. He knew about these problems, but there was nothing he could do. The empire was so poor that it couldn't even pay its soldiers' salaries properly; the fact that they could scrape together this equipment was thanks to Lanfang's "aid loan."

"Where are Lanfang's instructors?" he asked.

"Very professional, but... keep your distance," Goltz said meaningfully. "They only teach tactical maneuvers, not strategic thinking; they only train how to use the equipment, not why it's designed that way. And all training records are copied and sent back to Dubai via encrypted radio."

Enver frowned: "Are they collecting data?"

"Obviously. The Ottoman army's fighting strength, weaknesses, and habits will all become assets for Lanfang's intelligence services." Gortz paused. "Pasha, you must understand—Lanfang isn't helping us; it's investing. Investing in an Ottoman that can restrain Britain and Russia, investing in future influence in the Middle East."

"I know," Enver said with a wry smile, "but at least they gave us something real. What did the Germans give us? A few empty words, a few outdated blueprints, what else?"

He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear: Germany was too far away; distant water couldn't quench immediate thirst. Although Lanfang had her own calculations, she at least invested real money.

Training concluded, and the soldiers assembled. The division commander—a young general in his thirties—ran to the reviewing stand and saluted: "The Third Division has completed training. Please inspect it, Minister of War!"