World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

A new day is about to begin.

On this long, rainy night, the British Empire, a giant ship that had sailed for three hundred years, began to slowly adjust its course, heading towards the unknown shores of the Atlantic.

The price has been paid.

The bet has been placed.

Now, all that remains is to wait for the dice of fate to fall.

Asquith took one last look out the window at London, the heart of the empire. Then he drew the curtains, returned to his desk, and began reviewing the draft of the statement to be published the next day.

Every word must be carefully considered, and every sentence must be balanced. We must admit defeat without causing panic, call for unity without damaging morale, and seek change without exposing weaknesses.

This is the art of politics, and the duty of the prime minister.

But when his gaze swept over the name "Hood" again, what came to mind was not political considerations or strategic weighings, but the faces of millions of mothers like Margaret Wilson.

Their son will not be coming back.

All he could do was ensure that such sacrifices would not become meaningless in the future.

Asquith picked up his pen and wrote the last line on the manuscript paper:

"Their sacrifice will forever illuminate our path forward."

Then he put down his pen and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

Berlin, Sanssouci Palace, 8 p.m.

The crystal chandelier cast countless dappled patterns of light on the marble floor, illuminating the uniforms of the officers, the evening gowns of the ladies, and the gleaming silver trays carried by the waiters. The air was thick with the mingled scents of cigars, the sweetness of perfume, and the aroma of roasting meat. In a corner, a band played Wagner's "Siegfried March," the brass instruments soaring and powerful that they seemed to threaten to lift the painted ceiling of the banquet hall.

Wilhelm II stood on the steps in the center of the banquet hall, holding a crystal glass full of champagne in his left hand and waving his right hand in the air as if commanding an unseen army. Today, he was specially dressed in the full dress uniform of a Prussian Field Marshal: a dark blue jacket with gold trim, a scarlet sash hanging diagonally from his left shoulder to his right waist, and his chest adorned with medals—the Black Eagle, the Order of Merit, the Iron Cross—which gleamed under the lights.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The emperor's voice pierced through the music and noise. The banquet hall fell silent, and everyone turned to him, their faces bearing carefully rehearsed smiles.

"Today," Wilhelm II raised his voice so that everyone could hear, "Germany has proven one thing to the world!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. The naval officers stood tall, the army officers were slightly reserved but equally proud, the politicians applauded enthusiastically, and the ladies covered their mouths with fans as they smiled.

"We have proven it," the Emperor continued, each word like a hammer blow on a drum, "that German technology, German courage, and German spirit are unmatched! In the storm of the North Sea, our warship—our proud 'Bismarck'—sent the British pride, the 40,000-ton 'Hood,' to the bottom of the sea to feed the fish with just five salvos!"

Cheers erupted.

"Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor! Long live Germany!"

The clinking of glasses filled the air, and no one seemed to care about the champagne spilled on the carpet. Wilhelm II downed his drink in one gulp, and a waiter immediately refilled his glass. His cheeks were flushed with alcohol and excitement, and his wide grin stretched almost to his ears.

"This is not just a victory for the navy!" the Emperor declared again, waiting for the cheers to subside. "This is a victory for the entire German nation! It is a victory of technology over arrogance, courage over tradition, and new power over a decaying empire!"

More cheers erupted. Someone began singing "Germany Above All Else," and soon the entire banquet hall joined in the chorus. The singing was deafening.

At the edge of the crowd, Field Marshal Alfred von Tirpitz held a glass of water, quietly observing everything. He wasn't wearing a dress uniform, but rather a simple navy navy navy service uniform, with only an Iron Cross pinned to his chest. The sixty-eight-year-old's back was still straight, but the wrinkles around his eyes appeared particularly deep under the light.

"Marshal, aren't you going to celebrate together?"

The speaker was Colonel Erich Raeder, a rising star in the Admiralty, thirty-eight years old. The ambitious officer held a glass of champagne, his face radiating a fervor beyond his years.

"I'm thinking, Colonel," Tirpitz said calmly.

"What are you thinking about? We won! We won beautifully! We won cleanly and decisively!" Raeder took a big gulp of his drink. "The British must be crying in Downing Street right now! Their myth of the 'Invincible Armada' has been shattered!"

"A myth is never shattered by a single defeat." Tirpitz turned to him. "We won tactically at Jutland, but did the British naval blockade loosen? Did their fleet shrink?"

Raeder paused, stunned. "But this time is different, Marshal! We sank their most advanced warship! This proves our technology has surpassed theirs!"

"Technology..." Tirpitz repeated the word, his voice so low that only the two of them could hear, "Do you know where the Bismarck's technology came from, Colonel?"

"From our engineers—"

“From Lanfang,” Tirpitz interrupted him. “The design is Lanfang’s, everything is made by Lanfang, even the tactical thinking bears the mark of the East. We are merely… users.”

Raeder's expression froze. He opened his mouth, wanting to retort, but Tirpitz had already turned and left, heading towards the balcony on the side of the banquet hall.

The moment the balcony door closed, most of the indoor noise was shut out. November nights in Berlin are cold; Tirpitz's breath condensed into white mist. He leaned against the white marble railing, gazing at the meticulously manicured hedges and statues in the Sanssouci Palace gardens. In the distance, the lights of Berlin blended seamlessly into the night sky.

The door opened again.

Chief of Naval Staff Admiral Paul Behnke came out, carrying two glasses. He handed one to Tirpitz: "Brandy. It's cold outside."

Tirpitz took it, but didn't drink it. "It's too hot in there. Too hot to think."

Behnke gave a wry smile: "His Majesty the Emperor needs a celebration. The country... needs one too. You know, the potato harvest is poor, there's a coal shortage, and strikes are piling up. This victory has come at just the right time."

"Victory always comes at the right time." Tirpitz took a sip of his liquor, the fiery spirit burning his throat, "until it brings an even greater defeat."

The two remained silent for a moment. The emperor's impassioned speech came from inside the room, but it was muffled through the glass door.

"Any news from Scheer?" Tirpitz asked.

"We just received an encrypted telegram half an hour ago," Behnke said in a low voice. "The fleet is on its way back and is expected to arrive in Wilhelmshaven tomorrow morning. The Bismarck is lightly damaged, with seventeen dead and thirty-four wounded. The Tirpitz has an engine malfunction and needs major repairs, but it can sail back on its own."