World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Stanfordham," he suddenly asked, "do you think we can still win?"

Stanfordham paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"Your Majesty, I don't know."

King George V nodded.

"I don't know either."

A commotion arose in the distance. King George V looked up and saw a crowd gathered at the end of Downing Street. They were walking towards him, holding signs and chanting slogans.

"They're protesters," Stanfordham said. "It started in the afternoon. The police have been stopping them."

King George V looked at the people. He was hundreds of meters away and couldn't see their faces, but he could hear their shouts.

"Stop the war!" "Withdraw the troops!" "Give us back our sons!"

One sound after another, getting closer and closer.

King George V stood there, listening to the shouts.

In those shouts, there was anger, sorrow, and despair. In those shouts, there were the cries of a mother who had lost her son, the sobs of a wife who had lost her husband, and the wails of a child who had lost his father.

Those shouts were more painful to him than the German bombs.

"Your Majesty," Stanfordham said softly, "you should go. If those people see you..."

King George V shook his head.

"Let them see it. Let them curse. Cursing will make you feel better."

He turned and walked toward the carriage parked at the door.

After walking a few steps, he suddenly stopped and looked back at the approaching crowd of protesters.

"Stanfordham," he said, "tell the police not to hit them. Let them shout. When they get tired of shouting, they'll disperse on their own."

Stanfordham nodded.

King George V boarded the carriage, the doors closed, and the carriage slowly drove away from Downing Street.

The carriage was dark, with only a faint light coming through from the streetlights outside the windows. King George V leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He remembered the telegrams, the numbers, the lost places. Singapore, Yangon, Naypyidaw, Tehran—those names, once the brightest stars on the map of the British Empire. And now? Gone.

He remembered the old woman kneeling at the entrance of Downing Street, holding up a photo of her son and crying, "My son is dead." The young man in the photo was wearing a military uniform, smiling brightly. Like the soldiers who died in Malaya and Burma, he would never return.

He opened his eyes and looked out the window at the streetlights rushing past.

The London night is much the same as it was a hundred years ago. The same streets, the same buildings, the same Thames. But a hundred years ago, no one would have imagined that the British Empire would lose. A hundred years ago, everyone thought the British Empire would win forever.

How far is forever?

One hundred years? Two hundred years? Or four days?

The carriage stopped at the palace gates. King George V alighted and entered the palace. The long corridors were empty, with only a few servants standing motionless in the corners, heads bowed.

He walked to his study and pushed open the door.

A thick stack of documents lay on the desk—telegrams and reports he hadn't had time to read that day. He didn't look at the documents, but instead walked to the window and gazed at the pitch-black night outside.

In the distance, the Thames River could be faintly seen, shimmering in the moonlight. That bridge, those buildings, this city—for two hundred years, it had never been conquered by foreign enemies.

But what about this time?

he does not know.

All he knew was that from this day forward, the British Empire was no longer the invincible empire it once was.

From this day forward, the world has changed.

That same evening, in a slum in East London, an old woman sat under a dim kerosene lamp, holding a photograph in her hands.

The photo shows her son, wearing a military uniform, smiling brightly. It was taken on the day he enlisted; he said he would come back after the war to get married, have a bunch of kids, and let her hold his grandchildren.

Three months ago, she received a telegram saying he had been killed in action in Malaya. There were no details, no last words, only a cold, impersonal line: "Deepest regrets."

She held the photo to her chest and remained motionless.

Footsteps sounded outside the door; it was Mrs. Mary, the neighbor. Mary, carrying a bowl of hot soup, gently pushed open the door.

"Jenny, have some soup. You haven't eaten all day."

The old woman did not move.

Mary sighed, placed the soup on the table, and sat down beside her.

"Jenny, don't do this. Tom wouldn't want to see you like this."

The old woman finally spoke, her voice hoarse and unlike her own.

"Mary, do you think Tom felt pain when he died?"

Mary remained silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know. But it shouldn't hurt. It'll be over in a flash."

"In an instant," the old woman repeated. "I carried him for ten months, raised him for twenty years, and he was gone in an instant."

Mary didn't know what to say.

Outside the window, the London night was deep. In the distance, the shouts of the marching crowd could be faintly heard, growing farther and farther away, becoming increasingly indistinct.

The old woman gazed at the pitch-black night sky outside the window and murmured:

"God, when will this war finally end?"

No one answered her.

The only sound was the wind whistling through the windowpane, a mournful sound, like weeping.

In the morning at the Berlin Royal Palace, sunlight streams through the tall French windows, casting golden shadows on the floor.

Wilhelm II had been standing by the window for a full half hour.

He was dressed in a crisp military uniform—gray with gold trim, his chest adorned with medals. It was his favorite outfit; every time he wore it, he felt the eyes of the entire world were on him. At this moment, he stood with his back to the door, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window at the sunlit courtyard.

In the courtyard, the guards were changing shifts. Dressed in crisp uniforms, they marched in perfect unison, their every movement exuding the discipline and pride characteristic of Prussian soldiers. In the distance, the Berlin skyline was exceptionally clear in the morning light, the spires of churches and towering buildings gleaming in the sunlight.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in." Wilhelm II did not turn around.

Reich Chancellor Theobald von Berthemann-Holweg entered, followed by Foreign Minister Gottlieb von Jago. Both wore an barely suppressed excitement—an expression Wilhelm II hadn't seen on their faces in a long time.

"Your Majesty," Bateman began, his voice trembling slightly, "Great news! Incredibly great news!"

Wilhelm II finally turned around.

"What good news?"

Bateman stepped forward, holding a stack of telegrams in both hands.

"Your Majesty, Lanfang's offensive has achieved a decisive victory! Singapore, Burma, and Iran have all fallen into Lanfang's hands! The British have lost half of Asia in just four days!"

Wilhelm II paused for a second.

Then he snatched the stack of telegrams and read them one by one. Singapore—lost. Burma—lost. Iran—lost. The Suez Canal was in grave danger, panic gripped India, and the British fleet was trapped in Mumbai harbor, too afraid to venture out.

He looked at it three times, then raised his head, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The smile grew wider and wider, finally turning into a burst of laughter that echoed through the empty room.

"Good! Excellent!" He slammed the telegram on the table, strode to the window, flung it open, and shouted outside, "The British have lost! The British Empire is finished!"