World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At the same time, in Berlin, at Sanssouci Palace.

Wilhelm II knelt in his private prayer room, his hands clutching the crucifix. Candlelight flickered before the icon, casting dancing shadows on his face.

"Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."

He stopped halfway through his prayer. Was there really a God listening? If so, why did He allow this massacre to continue? Why did He allow Germany to fall into such a desperate situation?

Footsteps came from outside the door, very soft, but exceptionally clear in the silence.

"Your Majesty," came Marshal Tirpitz's voice, "there's news."

Wilhelm II did not rise, remaining kneeling: "Speak."

"The Lanfang fleet has entered the Pacific. Chen Feng will meet with Wilson in six days. In addition, Britain has intensified its propaganda offensive, and the influence of Zimmerman's telegram is expanding. The possibility of Marilyn joining the war... is over seventy percent."

"Can Chen Feng stop it?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty. But he is our only hope."

Wilhelm II finally stood up and turned to face the old marshal. In the candlelight, the emperor's face looked old and haggard, with heavy bags under his eyes and a disheveled beard, completely lacking the vigor he had before the war.

"Alfred, be honest. If Mirika joins the war, how long can we hold out?"

Tirpitz remained silent for a few seconds. The answer to this question was too cruel, but he could not deceive the monarch.

"Six months, Your Majesty. Six months at most. Our food reserves will only last until July, fuel until August, and while our ammunition stocks can still hold, our production lines are reducing output due to raw material shortages. If the Marilykas join the war, their supplies will flow steadily to Britain and France, while we..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

"So this is the last chance." Wilhelm II walked to the window. Outside, Berlin was also shrouded in night, the anti-aircraft lights emitting a dim blue glow. "Either Chen Feng creates a miracle, or Germany is destroyed."

"Your Majesty, perhaps... perhaps we should consider peace negotiations. We can send a message to Britain and France through neutral channels. Even if the conditions are harsh, at least we can preserve the integrity of the nation."

"No," Wilhelm II replied decisively. "Germany will either win or fight to the last bullet. There is no peace built on humiliation."

Tirpitz wanted to say something, but ultimately swallowed his words. He knew this emperor—stubborn, proud, and living in his own world. Even when reality was too cruel to escape, he still believed in miracles.

"Send a telegram to Chen Feng," Wilhelm II suddenly said. "Use the highest level of encryption. Tell him that Germany will accept any peace deal he negotiates, as long as Germany's sovereignty and fundamental interests are guaranteed. We can make significant concessions—withdraw from Belgium, withdraw from northern France, and even relinquish some overseas colonies. But Germany's position in Europe must be guaranteed to remain unthreatened."

"Your Majesty! These concessions are too great; the General Staff will not agree..."

"Then replace the General Staff!" Wilhelm II's voice suddenly rose. "I am the Emperor, and I decide what is best for Germany! Send the telegram!"

Tirpitz stood at attention, saluted, and turned to leave. The emperor was once again alone in the prayer room.

Wilhelm II knelt before the icon again, but this time he did not pray; he simply stared blankly at the candlelight. The flame flickered in his eyes, like distant war, like a burning city, like extinguished hope.

He recalled that in 1888, his father held his hand before he died and said, "Wilhelm, lead Germany to greatness."

Did he succeed? He built the world's second-largest navy, made Germany the strongest industrial nation in Europe, and made the German flag fly all over the world. But what was the price? This war, these deaths, and this nation falling into the abyss.

Tears welled up without warning. Wilhelm II lowered his head, his shoulders trembling slightly. At this moment, he was not an emperor, not a commander, but simply a fearful old man, afraid of becoming the last monarch of the Hohenzollern dynasty, afraid of becoming a sinner against Germany.

The candlelight suddenly flickered violently, almost going out. A draft swept through the prayer room, bringing the chill of the winter night.

Wilhelm II raised his head, wiped away his tears, and his expression hardened once more. No, he couldn't give up. As long as there was a glimmer of hope, he would fight to the very end.

He stood up, straightened his uniform, and walked out of the prayer room. Outside the door, his aide-de-camp stood at attention, waiting.

"Notify the General Staff that I need to hear the latest report from the Eastern Front. Also, prepare the vehicles; I'm going to inspect the Krupp factory. If the war continues, we'll need more tanks, more shells, more..."

His voice choked.

More deaths.

The attendant officer bowed his head: "Yes, Your Majesty."

Under the corridor lights, the emperor's shadow was stretched long, like a lonely giant carrying a sinking empire on his back.

Meanwhile, in the distant Pacific Ocean, the warship carrying Germany's last hope was sailing towards the port that would determine its fate.

January 21, 10 degrees north latitude, 160 degrees east longitude.

Central Pacific.

In just one hour, the sky changed from azure to leaden gray, and then from leaden gray to inky black. The clouds hung low, almost pressing down on the sea, the wind began to howl, and the waves rose from one meter to three meters, then to five meters, and continued to rise.

The battleship "Huaihe" rocked violently in the waves. The 45,000-ton behemoth was now like a small boat, tossed up and down by the surging waves, each fall accompanied by a low groan from the keel. Seawater rushed onto the deck, flowed between the turrets and the superstructure, and then gushed out of the drain holes, forming a waterfall-like scene.

Inside the bridge, Captain Zhang Haitao gripped the handrails tightly, staring intently at the sea ahead. The anemometer read: 35 knots, still rising. The wave gauge read: 7 meters, still rising.

"Enter Level 1 windproof deployment! Seal all watertight doors! Non-essential personnel return to their cabins and secure themselves!" His orders were broadcast throughout the ship.

Chen Feng stood at the back of the bridge, observing the scene outside through the porthole that was being repeatedly battered by the sea. This was his first time experiencing a real storm in the Pacific Ocean, and even with his composure, he couldn't help but be awestruck by the power of nature.

"The weather forecast said it was just a tropical depression." Wang Wenwu walked over, leaning against the wall, his face pale—he was seasick—"but its actual intensity exceeded typhoon standards."

"Captain, what's our position?" Chen Feng asked.

"10°12′N, 160°35′E. We've deviated 15 nautical miles from our planned route, but we're still within manageable range." The navigator stared intently at the chart. "The problem is, the storm is moving southeast, while our course is northeast. If we continue, we'll enter the storm's center within the next six hours."