World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 7:00 AM, the first batch of newspapers hit the market. Newspaper boys' cries echoed through the streets of Berlin:

"Look at the newspaper! The British are attacking the people of Lanfang! Massacring neutral nations!"

"Breaking News! Breaking News! The Royal Navy launched a surprise attack on the Lanfang battleship! 127 men killed!"

A middle-aged man in a trench coat bought a copy of the Berliner Zeitung and stood on the street reading it. When he saw the third photo, his hand began to tremble. After finishing, he folded the newspaper and strode towards the Reichstag building.

Along the way, more and more people joined his group.

By 9 a.m., tens of thousands of people had gathered in the square in front of the Reichstag building. They held up hastily written signs: "Long live Lanfang!" "The British are murderers!" "Germany stands with Lanfang!"

Inside the Reichstag building, Field Marshal Hindenburg stood by the window, looking at the bustling crowd outside.

"Marshal," the staff officer said softly, "you have a speech to give today."

Hindenburg turned around. The old man's face was expressionless, but something flickered in his cloudy eyes.

"I know."

At 10:00, Hindenburg entered the parliament hall. All the members of parliament stood up, and the applause lasted for a full three minutes.

The old man walked up to the podium, placed his hands on the table, and looked at the familiar faces below the stage.

"Gentlemen," his voice was hoarse but clear, "you have all seen those photos. The British Empire, the country that once called itself the 'leader of the civilized world,' used twelve capital ships to launch a surprise attack on two unsuspecting neutral warships."

The hall was so quiet you could hear someone breathing.

"They killed 127 people. Their sons, fathers, and brothers will never be able to go home again."

The old man paused, his voice trembling slightly.

"Germany knows what that feels like. Our children were killed by them on the Atlantic. Our mothers waited in the harbor for those who would never return."

He straightened up and raised one hand:

"Today, I propose that all members of parliament stand and observe a minute's silence in memory of the fallen soldiers of Lanfang."

He was the first to bow his head.

Then, throughout the entire Capitol Hall, more than five hundred members of parliament bowed their heads in unison.

A minute later, Hindenburg looked up. His eyes were a little red, but his voice was more determined:

"Germany will fully support Lanfang. They will give us whatever we need—this is not a deal, it is what two countries that have been bullied by Britain should do."

The applause rang out again, louder, longer, and more enthusiastic than before.

It's 9 p.m. New York time.

President Wilson was watching a movie in the White House home theater—he liked Charlie Chaplin comedies. Halfway through, the door was flung open. Secretary of State Robert Lansing rushed in, carrying a stack of papers.

"Your Excellency, something terrible has happened."

Wilson frowned: "What can't wait until tomorrow?"

Lansing handed over the photo.

Wilson's expression changed after seeing the first photo. Upon seeing the third, he stood up and walked under the light. After seeing the last photo, he put it down and remained silent for a long time.

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday morning. Arabian Sea. The British fleet attacked the Lanfang warship. Twelve ships against two, the battle lasted for three hours."

Wilson walked back to the sofa, sat down, stood up again, and sat down again.

"That idiot Jericho," he finally spoke, his voice low but clearly audible to Lansing, "is his brain filled with seawater?"

"Your Excellency, the problem now is—Lanfang has declared war. Chen Feng gave a speech at Dubai City Hall, announcing a state of war with Britain."

Wilson closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He recalled every move he had made over the past three years. He had finally waited for the Germans to make a mistake, for the opportune moment to legitimately enter the war. He had thought he could reap the benefits, wait for Britain and Germany to be weakened, and then have Mirika clean up the mess.

What now?

That foolish British admiral sent neutral Lanfang flying into Germany's arms with a single shot.

"Call the cabinet," Wilson said. "Now."

At 10 p.m., in the White House Cabinet Room, the Secretary of State, Secretary of War, Secretary of the Navy, Secretary of the Treasury, and Secretary of Commerce were all present.

Wilson tossed the photos onto the table: "Take a look."

Everyone passed the photos around. No one said a word.

Finally, Admiral Joseph Daniels spoke up: "Your Excellency, this...this was indeed the British who fired first. It's very clear in the photographs that smoke was still rising from the muzzles of HMS King George V's guns."

"I know," Wilson said. "The question now is, what do we do?"

Chancellor of the Exchequer William McCadur frowned: "If Lanfang enters the war in full force, coupled with the German naval power, Britain could lose all its colonies in Asia. India, Australia, Singapore—all would fall into the hands of Lanfang and Germany."

"What harm would that do to us?" Commerce Secretary William Redfield suddenly asked.

Everyone looked at him.

Redfield unfolded a document: "Gentlemen, this is an analysis just done by the Ministry of Commerce. If Lanfang controls Asia, it will be much more profitable for us to do business with them than with the British. Lanfang has markets, resources, and industry; they need our machinery, technology, and capital. And the British? They will only see us as competitors."

Wilson did not speak.

"Furthermore," Redfield continued, "Lanfang's declaration of war against Britain is not the same as its declaration of war against us. What they need now are friends, not enemies. We can remain neutral and do business with both sides. Once they've fought enough..."

He didn't finish speaking, but everyone understood.

Wilson stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the night was pitch black, with only the lights of the Washington Monument twinkling in the distance.

"Summon the British ambassador," he finally said. "First thing tomorrow morning. Now, leave me alone for a while."

10:00 AM Dubai time.

The square in front of the city hall was already packed with people. Some estimated that there were at least 50,000 people. Many more were still arriving from all directions.

Reporter Fang squeezed into the crowd, camera hanging around his neck. His eyes were bloodshot; he hadn't slept for twenty-four hours, but he couldn't sleep. He wanted to witness this moment with his own eyes, to capture it with his own hands.

At 10:00 AM sharp, the doors of the city hall opened.

Chen Feng came out.

He was wearing a dark gray Zhongshan suit, without a hat, and his face was expressionless. Behind him followed Wang Wenwu, Li Te, and several staff officers. No one spoke; only the sound of footsteps echoed on the steps.

The crowd automatically parted to make way for Chen Feng. Wherever Chen Feng walked, people watched him in silence—a silence heavier than cheers, like a mountain pressing down on everyone's hearts.

Chen Feng walked onto the makeshift stage. There was only a table and a microphone on the stage, and a huge Lanfang golden dragon flag behind him.

He stood there for three seconds, looking at the fifty thousand faces below the stage. Some were crying, some were biting their lips, and some had eyes so red they looked like they were about to bleed.