World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Mr. Hashanah, is your king nineteen years old this year?"

"Yes, General."

"Nineteen years old," Wang Guojian repeated. "It's not easy to make such a decision at nineteen."

Hai Shan walked to his side and looked out the window at the oil field as well.

"General, His Majesty the King may be young, but he has been king for eleven years. In those eleven years, he has seen the British arrogant, the Russians eyeing him covetously, and the Ottoman Empire crumble. He knows that in this world, choosing sides is more important than anything else."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "If you choose the right side, you can continue to be king. If you choose the wrong side..."

He didn't finish speaking, but Wang Guojian understood.

Standing in the wrong spot could cost you your life.

“Tell your king,” Wang Guojian turned to look at him, “that Lanfang is not British and doesn’t engage in colonial practices. The President has said that every nation has the right to self-determination. Iran is Iran for Iranians, not anyone’s colony.”

Hai Shan bowed deeply, this time even deeper than before.

"General, I will relay these words to His Majesty the King without missing a single one."

Three days later, Wang Guojian led a regiment of troops, accompanied by Iranian officials, toward Tehran.

It was called an "advance," but it was more like a "tourism trip." There was no resistance along the way, not even a single person blocking the road. In the villages along the route, villagers stood by the roadside, watching the army in yellow uniforms with curiosity. Children ran after the column, shouting incomprehensible Persian. Women hid behind doors, peeking out furtively. Some men bowed and scraped, some were expressionless, and some had complex expressions in their eyes.

Wang Guojian sat in a jeep, looking at the villagers.

"Are they afraid of us?" he asked the translator beside him.

The translator was an international student from the University of Tehran named Ali, in his early twenties, who spoke fluent English and a little Chinese. He looked at the villagers and shook his head.

"It's not fear, it's curiosity. The British have been here for decades, and they're used to seeing white people in khaki uniforms. The Lanfang people... this is the first time they've seen them."

Wang Guojian nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

The convoy continued forward. The desert gradually turned into the Gobi, and the Gobi gradually turned into grassland. In the distance, the outlines of some buildings could be vaguely seen—those were the outskirts of Tehran.

At 3 p.m., the advance troops arrived on the outskirts of Tehran.

The sight surprised Wang Guojian.

There were no welcoming crowds, no flowers, no cheers. The streets were lined with onlookers, but no one spoke; they just watched quietly. Men, women, the elderly, and children—all eyes were fixed on the Lanfang soldiers in their yellow uniforms.

There was curiosity, fear, vigilance, and expectation in that gaze—a mixture of emotions that made Wang Guojian feel uneasy.

"Ali," he asked the translator beside him, "why are they looking at us like that?"

Ali thought about it.

"General, they're waiting. Waiting for you to make the first move. Will you kill someone, or offer them something sweet?"

Wang Guojian paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Issue orders to all units," he said to his adjutant, "that once they enter the city, they are not to harass the civilians, loot, or assault anyone. Anyone who violates military discipline will be dealt with according to military law."

The adjutant nodded and turned to relay the order.

The streets of Tehran were wider than Wang Guojian had imagined, and the buildings on both sides were more beautiful than he had expected. There were traditional Persian-style buildings—brick walls, archways, and colorful glazed tiles; and there were also European-style mansions—white walls, wrought iron balconies, and tall windows. There were horse-drawn carriages and donkey carts on the streets, and occasionally a few cars could be seen, honking their horns and carefully weaving through the crowds.

A naan vendor stood by the roadside, holding several freshly baked naans in his hand, seemingly wanting to hand them over but hesitant. Wang Guojian glanced at him and said to Ali, "Tell him we're not buying anything. Let him focus on his business."

Ali shouted a few words in Persian. The vendor paused for a moment, then bowed and scraped as he retreated, continuing his hawking.

As the column reached the city center, the crowd grew increasingly dense. The streets were packed with people, and even windows, balconies, and rooftops were filled with them. A young woman, holding a child, stood on a second-floor balcony, watching the soldiers walk by below. The child curiously pointed at the tanks, babbling something.

Wang Guojian looked up at the woman. She was wearing a long black robe and a headscarf, revealing only her eyes. Those eyes were also looking at him.

Their eyes met, and in less than a second, she hugged the child tightly, turned around, and went back into the house.

Wang Guojian looked away and continued forward.

We've arrived at the royal palace.

It was a massive complex of buildings, with high walls, exquisite archways, and colorful glazed tiles that shimmered in the sunlight. Two rows of Iranian soldiers stood motionless at the entrance, dressed in crisp uniforms and holding rifles. Behind them, several officials in ornate robes waited.

Wang Guojian got out of the jeep, straightened his military uniform, and strode towards the palace gate.

The officials came forward, led by an elderly man in his sixties with a long, snow-white beard, wearing a dark blue robe and a white turban. He spoke a long string of words in Persian, then bowed deeply.

Ali translates: "This is the Prime Minister. He said, 'Welcome to Lanfang's friends. His Majesty the King is waiting at the palace.'"

Wang Guojian nodded and followed the Prime Minister into the palace.

The interior of the palace is even more magnificent than the exterior.

Passing through archway after archway, down corridor after corridor, beneath my feet were exquisite Persian carpets, above me were colorful stained-glass domes, and the walls were inlaid with golden patterns. Every few steps, a servant stood, head bowed, motionless.

As Wang Guojian walked around, he wondered: How much did this palace cost?

Finally, he was led into a large hall.

The hall was vast, covered with enormous Persian carpets embroidered with intricate patterns. Oil paintings adorned the walls, depicting portraits of Persian kings throughout history. The dome was high, from which hung a massive crystal chandelier that refracted the sunlight into a rainbow of colors.

At the far end of the hall, a young man stood there.

He wore magnificent royal attire—a long black robe embroidered with gold thread, his chest adorned with medals. On his head was a tall black lambskin hat, topped with a white feather. He stood ramrod straight, straining to straighten his chest, but his face—that face was so young, so young that Wang Guojian was somewhat dazed.

Nineteen years old. Really only nineteen years old.

Ahmed Shah Qajar.

The young man who ascended the throne at the age of eight and served as a puppet for eleven years is now standing in his palace, welcoming an army from the distant East.