Chapter 173: Bilishi

He walked to the doorway and stopped again.

"Mr. Chen, you are a clear‑headed person. In this mad world, clarity is a luxury. I hope… I hope after the war we can still drink like this."

"Hope."

The door closed.

Chen Feng stood alone in the office. The setting sun slanted through the window, tinting the room orange‑red. The clock on the wall ticked, time slipping by second by second.

He knew that from this moment history had already changed.

On June 28, 1914, a gunshot in Sarajevo would ignite a war that would sweep the globe. Millions would die, empires would crumble, and world order would be reshaped.

And Lanfang, this newly established nation, would have to seek its own way of survival in this turbulent world.

The telephone rang.

Chen Feng answered.

"President, it's me, Zhou Tieshan," the voice on the other end said urgently. "We just received a telegram from Borneo. Elderly Mr. Wang Bo has suffered a sudden heart attack and is being rushed to treatment."

A double blow.

Chen Feng gripped the handset tightly: "What's the situation?"

"It's still unclear. The army doctor says it's dangerous; the old man is aged, and the past few months of toil…"

"Send the best doctors over. Use the fastest ship—whatever's quickest. Tell Mr. Wang…," Chen Feng paused, "Tell him he must hold on. We've already returned home; he needs to see the new Grand Hall built with his own eyes."

"Understood!"

He hung up and walked to the world map.

His finger started at Dubai, swept across the Indian Ocean, and stopped at Borneo. That was the newly reclaimed homeland, the place where Wang Bo fell.

Then he moved to Europe, stopping at Sarajevo. That was the spot where the war ignited, where Archduke Franz Ferdinand fell.

Two elders, two continents, two deaths.

One symbolized rebirth, the other destruction.

Night fell completely outside the window. Dubai's lights came on one after another, the harbor lighthouse began to rotate, its beam cutting through the darkness.

Chen Feng stood by the window and stared for a long time.

Then he turned and pressed the call button on his desk.

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open: "President?"

"Notify all cabinet ministers and military commanders: an emergency meeting in one hour," Chen Feng said calmly, but each word was as hard as steel. "There's only one agenda: war is coming, what shall we do?"

"Understood!"

Wang Wenwu turned to leave, but Chen Feng called him back:

"Also, send a telegram to Li Te. Just one sentence—"

He paused, looking at the southern starry sky outside the window:

"'The storm has arrived; accelerate all progress. I want to see Lanfang's flag raised over the whole of Borneo within three months.'"

The order was issued.

In the basement of the Dubai Administration Building, twelve of Siemens' newest telegraph machines clacked rhythmically in the telegraph room. The large clock on the wall read 3:20 p. m. on July 28, 1914. The sweltering heat of the Persian Gulf was kept out by thick concrete walls, but another kind of heat was rising inside the room.

As Zhou Tieshan pushed open the heavy oak door, fine beads of sweat already dotted his forehead—not from the temperature, but from the freshly translated telegram in his hand.

"Where is the President?" his voice was half a beat more urgent than usual.

The on‑duty telegrapher looked up, a young man in his early twenties wearing round glasses: "Director Zhou, the President is in the top‑floor office, Minister Wang and the German advisor Mr. Schmidt from the Commerce Department are also there."

"German advisor?" Zhou Tieshan furrowed his brows. "When did he arrive?"

"About half an hour ago, he said he was here to discuss the renewal of an oil transport contract."

Zhou Tieshan said no more, turned, and headed for the stairs. His leather shoes struck the cement steps with a crisp echo that carried far down the corridor. Passing two guard posts, the sentries recognized him, stood at attention and saluted; he merely gave a slight nod.

The top‑floor office door was ajar, voices drifting out from within.

Zhou Tieshan knocked three times, the rhythm the prearranged signal with Chen Feng—two short, one long.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open; Chen Feng was seated behind a broad desk, with Wang Wenwu and a silver‑haired German on the opposite sofa. Several documents lay spread on the coffee table, along with a half‑filled cup of cooled red tea.

"President, urgent telegram," Zhou Tieshan said without small talk, walking straight to the desk and placing the telegram paper on the peach‑wood surface.

Chen Feng took the telegram, his eyes scanning the lines swiftly. His expression changed little, but his fingers tightened slightly around the paper, the edges creasing with fine folds.

"Mr. Schmidt," Chen Feng lifted his head, his voice calm, "I'm afraid our discussion must be paused for now."

German advisor Schmidt was evidently an experienced diplomat; he rose at once, a proper smile on his face. "Certainly, Mr. Chen. If it concerns urgent affairs of your country, I can come another day. However…" he paused, "if the information you received relates to Europe, I may be able to offer some perspective from Berlin."

Chen Feng handed the telegram to Wang Wenwu, his gaze returning to Schmidt: "The Austro‑Hungarian Empire declared war on Serbia at noon today. In Vienna it was 11 a. m.; we are three hours behind."

The air in the room seemed to freeze for a few seconds.

Schmidt's smile gradually faded, replaced by a complex expression—mixing shock, worry, and a hint of… as expected, clear insight.

"At last, still…" he muttered, removing his gold‑rimmed glasses and wiping the lenses with a silk handkerchief. "Berlin warned Vienna last week not to make things irreversible. But Emperor Franz Joseph, Your Majesty, clearly will not heed any counsel."

Wang Wenwu read the telegram, his face solemn as he looked up: "President, this means…"

"It means Tsarist Russia cannot stand by," Chen Feng continued, rising from his chair and moving to the massive world map on the wall. "Serbia is Russia's foothold in the Balkans; if Austro‑Hungary annexes Serbia, Russia's southern route will be completely blocked. Nicholas II must respond."

His slender fingers glided across the map, from Vienna to St. Petersburg, then from St. Petersburg to Paris.

"Then France will fulfill its obligations under the Franco‑Russian alliance," Schmidt put his glasses back on, stepping beside Chen Feng, his voice low. "And once France enters the war, Germany has no choice—we must execute the Schlieffen Plan, defeat France first, then turn to deal with Russia."

"Schlieffen Plan?" Wang Wenwu seemed a bit unfamiliar with the term.

"A ten‑year‑long operational plan," Chen Feng answered for Schmidt. His finger traced from western Germany across Bilishi, Luxembourg, straight to Paris. "The German General Staff believes that before Russia completes mobilization, France must be defeated within six weeks. To that end, they need to pass through Bilishi."

"Bilishi is a neutral country," Zhou Tieshan interjected, noting that he had studied international law while studying in Europe.