World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The Pacific Ocean at night has a deep blue hue.

The battleship "Huaihe" cut through the black seawater, leaving a phosphorescent contrail behind it. On the open platform behind the bridge, Chen Feng stood alone, the sea breeze making the hem of his coat flutter. Behind him, the lights of Pearl Harbor had long since disappeared below the horizon, and ahead lay endless darkness, with only starlight and the ship's navigation lights flickering in the night.

He held a cup of tea that had gone cold, but didn't drink a drop. Everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours replayed in his mind like a movie playing on fast-forward: the meeting with Wilson, the British conspiracy, the German folly, the anger of the Meikka people, and finally, the irreversible showdown…

Footsteps came from behind, very light. Wang Wenwu walked to his side, holding a folder in his hand.

"President, all telegrams have been sent. Berlin, Tokyo, and the country have all confirmed receipt."

Chen Feng nodded, his gaze still fixed on the darkness in the distance: "Any initial response?"

"Prime Minister Saionji replied cautiously, but indicated that he agreed in principle to launch the second phase of the 'Cherry Blossom Project.' He requested a secret meeting in Tokyo within a week to discuss the specific details and... costs."

"The price," Chen Feng repeated the word softly. "He'll want more money, more technology, and maybe even a special status in the postwar Asian order. But that's okay, as long as he's willing to send troops, we can talk."

"The German response was very emotional. Field Marshal Tirpitz personally telegraphed back, thanking us for our warning, but stating that 'German soldiers never fear an additional enemy.' However..." Wang Wenwu turned a page, "At the end of the telegram, he asked Lanfang if he would be willing to accept a military delegation to discuss 'technical cooperation in a wider range of areas.'"

Chen Feng finally turned around: "He's testing whether we'll really side with Germany."

"Yes. Moreover, he implied that if Lanfang could restrain British power in the Far East, Germany would be willing to recognize Lanfang's 'special interests' in the Persian Gulf and Southeast Asia after the war."

"Empty promises." Chen Feng shook his head. "If Germany loses, these promises are worthless. But if Germany wins..." He didn't finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear.

Wang Wenwu waited a few seconds, and seeing that Chen Feng didn't continue, he continued, "Domestically, Liu Yongfu reported that the second phase of the 'Mount Tai Plan' has been launched. But he has a question—should we fully shift to a wartime economy, or maintain some civilian production capacity?"

"Seventy-three split." Chen Feng said without hesitation. "Seventy percent for military production, thirty percent for civilian use. We can't let people's lives collapse, but we also need to prepare for the worst. Tell Liu Yongfu to focus on accelerating the production of aircraft carriers and planes, while the construction of battleships can be appropriately slowed down."

"Yes."

After finishing his recording, Wang Wenwu did not leave. He stood beside Chen Feng, gazing into the same darkness, and after a long while said, "Commander-in-Chief, I have a question... which may not be appropriate."

"Ask away."

"Do you really think we made the right choice? Choosing this path means we'll be on the opposite side of history—opposing Merika's entry into the war, indirectly helping Germany, and possibly even becoming enemies with Britain and the United States in the future. How will history books write about us?"

The question is sharp and very real.

Chen Feng remained silent for a long time. The sea breeze blew by, bringing with it the salty, fishy smell and the faint sound of distant engines.

"Wang Wenwu, have you read any Chinese history?" he suddenly asked.

"I've read it."

"In the history of China, there was a period called the Warring States period." Chen Feng's voice sounded distant in the night. "Seven major states fought each other, while smaller states struggled to survive in the cracks. Among them was a small state called Zheng, located between the major states, and every war became a battlefield for it. But Zheng had a prime minister named Zichan, who enabled Zheng to maneuver among the powerful states and maintain forty years of peace."

He paused, then continued, "Zi Chan wasn't a morally perfect man. He bribed this person, deceived that person, and played a balancing act between powerful states. Many people criticized him for being unethical at the time. But because of this, the people of Zheng enjoyed forty years of peace, without experiencing war or losing their homes. How did historians write about him later?"

Wang Wenwu pondered, "I... don't quite remember."

"Some people criticize him as a strategist, while others praise him as a realist," Chen Feng said. "But the people of Zheng remember him. Because they survived, their children grew up, and their lives went on."

He turned to look at Wang Wenwu: "I don't care what history books say about me. What I care about is whether the people of Lanfang can survive and live a good life. If, for this goal, I have to maneuver among powerful nations, make imperfect choices, and even stand on the side of history's 'mistakes'... then so be it."

His tone was calm, but every word carried immense weight.

"But if Merika joins the war and Germany is defeated, we will become part of the defeated camp," Wang Wenwu said softly. "What will we do then?"

"So we must prevent Germany from being defeated so quickly and so thoroughly." Chen Feng's eyes gleamed in the night. "We must prolong the war, until everyone is exhausted, until peace becomes the only option. At that time, it will not be a peace completely dominated by the victors, but a peace of negotiation. Only then will Lanfang have a voice at the negotiating table."

"But that would cause more people to die."

"Yes," Chen Feng admitted, "but if we don't do it this way, Lanfang's future might be lost. Wang Wenwu, this is the cruelty of leadership—you have to choose between different tragedies, and you never know which choice is truly 'correct'."

He drank the cold tea, the bitter taste spreading in his mouth.

"Let's go back to the cabin. There's still a lot of work to do tomorrow."

The two turned and left the platform. Behind them, the night over the Pacific Ocean remained deep, but a faint gray-white tinge had already appeared on the eastern horizon.

A new day is about to begin. And a new game of chess has already quietly unfolded around the world.

At the same time, in the underground conference room at 10 Downing Street, London.

The room was small, decorated with dark oak paneling, and the fireplace burned brightly, casting flickering light onto a large world map on the wall. The air was filled with the aroma of cigar smoke and aged whiskey.

Prime Minister Asquith sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, holding a newly delivered telegram. His face wore a complex expression—a mixture of triumphant satisfaction and a vague unease.

"It's confirmed," he said to the other two people in the room. "The attack on NY-107 has sparked massive protests in Melaka. Wilson will submit a message to Congress within forty-eight hours, almost certainly authorizing a declaration of war."

Sir Grey, the Foreign Secretary sitting opposite, let out a long sigh, but his brow remained furrowed: "The price was the lives of forty-three Melkas. And the reputations of our two destroyer commanders—they'll have to bear the blame for their negligence."