World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At 10 p.m., Wilhelm II was still sitting in his study.

On the table lay the stack of telegrams and the economic report. He had read them countless times, but each time he did, his irritation only grew.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."

Hindenburg walked in, holding a new document in his hand.

"Your Majesty, a detailed report from the Ruhr region."

Wilhelm II took the document, glanced at it, and then put it down.

"A strike?"

"There's been a strike. Two hundred thousand workers haven't gone down into the mines for three days."

Wilhelm II remained silent for a few seconds.

"What do they want?"

"Raise wages. Give out in-kind benefits. And... a ceasefire."

Wilhelm II looked up at him.

"A ceasefire? The workers are demanding a ceasefire too?"

Hindenburg nodded.

"Your Majesty, it's not just the workers. Peasants, city dwellers, merchants, and even some low-ranking officers are demanding a ceasefire. They've had enough."

Wilhelm II stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Berlin was unusually quiet in the night—a quiet that made him uneasy.

"Hindenburg, how many years have you been with me?"

Hindenburg paused for a moment.

"It's been three years since the war started."

"Three years," Wilhelm II repeated. "In those three years, you have never disobeyed my orders. Today at this meeting, this is the first time."

Hindenburg remained silent.

Wilhelm II turned around and looked at him.

"Hindenburg, do you think I'm a good emperor?"

Hindenburg remained silent for a long time.

Then he said, "Your Majesty, you are an emperor with ideals. But ideals sometimes cannot save a country."

Wilhelm II looked at him, at the weariness and helplessness reflected in those cloudy eyes. He suddenly smiled, a smile that made Hindenburg's heart ache.

"An emperor with ideals." He repeated, "You know, I've wanted to be a good emperor since I was a child. Like my grandfather, to make Germany strong and make Europe listen to Germany. My grandfather did it, and I want to do it too."

He walked back to the window and looked at the pitch-black night.

"But what about now? We've been fighting for three years, millions have died, the country is in chaos, the British are still fighting, and the Lanfang people are coming again. I've really failed as a good emperor."

Hindenburg walked over to him and stood beside him.

"Your Majesty, it's not your fault. This war was a mistake from the very beginning."

Wilhelm II turned his head and looked at him.

"Wrong? Then tell me, what is right?"

Hindenburg remained silent for a few seconds.

"Peace talks. Peace talks as soon as possible. Before the Lanfang people cross the Suez Canal, before the British are completely collapsed, take the initiative to propose peace talks. Perhaps we can still preserve something."

"Preserve what? Alsace-Lorraine? Or our colonies?"

"Save Germany." Hindenburg looked at him. "Save the country, save those who are still alive."

Wilhelm II remained silent for a long time.

He looked out the window at the pitch-black night, at the few lights faintly visible in the distance, and at this once glorious country that was now on the verge of collapse.

Then he said softly, "Hindenburg, you know, sometimes I really wish I were an ordinary person. Ordinary people don't have to make decisions, don't have to be responsible for the lives of millions. Ordinary people just need to live."

Hindenburg remained silent.

Wilhelm II turned around, walked back to his desk, and picked up the economic report.

"One hundred thousand marks for a loaf of bread," he murmured. "This is my Germany."

He put down the report and looked at Hindenburg.

"You go and discuss the peace talks with Bateman. But don't let too many people know."

Hindenburg nodded.

"Also, tell Ludendorff to hold the front line. No matter what happens at home, the front line cannot collapse."

Hindenburg nodded again.

Wilhelm II waved his hand.

"Go ahead. Leave me alone for a while."

Hindenburg bowed and turned to leave.

After the door closed, Wilhelm II stood alone in his study, gazing at the pitch-black night outside the window. He stood there for a long, long time.

Finally, he whispered, "Grandpa, I did my best."

No one answered him.

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

The next morning, on the streets of Berlin.

The newspaper boy stood on the street corner, shouting loudly:

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Lanfang's troops are approaching the Suez Canal! Britain urgently deploys troops to reinforce Egypt!"

People walked past him, and no one bought a newspaper. They had no money left to buy newspapers. Those who could afford newspapers didn't care where Lanfang was anymore. They only cared about one thing: whether they could buy bread today.

The boy shouted for a while until his voice became hoarse. He stopped and leaned against the wall, panting.

An old woman walked by, carrying an empty basket. She looked at the boy and asked, "Child, is there any good news in today's newspaper?"

The boy shook his head.

"No, madam. Only bad news."

The old woman nodded and continued walking forward.

In the distance, a long queue had formed again in front of the bakery. The queue was even longer than yesterday, stretching all the way to the street corner and out of sight.

The boy looked at the line and suddenly remembered the coins the officer had given him yesterday. He took the coins out of his pocket and clutched them tightly in his hand.

Today's bread might be enough to buy a small piece.

Maybe.

He stood up and walked toward the bakery.

Behind me, newspapers lay scattered on the ground, blown everywhere by the wind. The large headlines and front-page prints were particularly glaring in the morning light:

"Lanfang's momentum is unstoppable!"

"The British Empire is on the verge of collapse!"

"Germany is on the verge of victory!"

In the Washington morning, sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the Oval Office, casting a warm glow on the floor.

President Wilson had been standing by the window for a full twenty minutes. He was wearing a dark gray suit and a neatly tied tie, holding a cup of coffee in his hand—the coffee had gone cold, but he didn't drink it, just held it, looking out at the neatly trimmed lawn.

On the lawn, gardeners were busy. Some were pushing lawnmowers, some were trimming shrubs, and some were sweeping up fallen leaves. Everything looked so peaceful, so normal, not much different from what it was like in Melaka a hundred years ago.

But Wilson knew that everything was different now.

On the table lay a thick stack of telegrams—a telegram from London pleading for help, a telegram from Paris expressing panic, and the short telegram that Chen Feng had just sent.

"Domestic enthusiasm for the war is high, and Merika has sent troops to Europe. Lanfang will not be an enemy of Merika."

I will not be an enemy of Mirika.

Wilson turned around, walked back to his desk, picked up the telegram, and read it again. Chen Feng's words were very clear; every word was distinct, just like the man himself—clear-headed, understanding, and never ambiguous.

"We won't be enemies with Mirika," he murmured. "That means we should leave Asian affairs alone."

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in."