Chapter 306: I

Wang Wenwu gave a wry smile: "Yes, what does it have to do with us? But the Northern XX Government doesn't think that way. They see it as an opportunity—showcasing 'international responsibility', winning the great powers' goodwill, perhaps to get a share after the war."

He took a sip of tea, the tea was scalding, yet he seemed unfazed: "But they didn't consider how many of those 150,000 will make it back? Thirty thousand? Fifty thousand? Or… even fewer?"

The clock on the wall pointed to seven o'clock. The office door opened, and Chen Feng's personal chief guard stepped out, seeing Wang Wenwu, somewhat surprised: "Minister Wang, this early?"

"There's an urgent matter to report to the President," Wang Wenwu stood up, smoothing his suit.

"The President just got up and is freshening up. Please wait a moment; I'll notify him."

A few minutes later, Wang Wenwu was summoned into the office. Chen Feng was already dressed—a simple white shirt, dark‑gray vest, no tie. He sat behind the desk, reviewing yesterday's document summary.

"Chen Wenya, what's the important news today?" he asked without looking up.

Chen Wenya glanced at Wang Wenwu. Wang Wenwu nodded, indicating that she should speak directly.

"President, the Northern X Department… has announced it will dispatch 150,000 Chinese laborers to the Western Front in Europe to assist the Anglo‑French coalition."

The office fell silent for a few seconds.

Chen Feng lifted his head, his face expressionless: "When is this?"

"It's this morning's telegram. The Northern XX Government has officially announced it, and the Yingguo media have reported it." Chen Wenya handed over the telegram.

Chen Feng took it and read quickly. His eyes scanned the paper, his lips tightening slightly. Wang Wenwu noticed the President's finger joints turning white as he held the document.

After finishing, Chen Feng placed the telegram gently on the desk, moving slowly and lightly.

"You go out first," he said to Chen Wenya.

Chen Wenya bowed and left, closing the door. Only Chen Feng and Wang Wenwu remained in the office.

The clock on the wall ticked. Seagulls cried outside the window. From the distant harbor, a ship's whistle blew.

Everything was as usual.

But Wang Wenwu knew a storm was coming.

Chen Feng stood up and walked to the window. The morning sun streamed through the glass, casting bright spots on the floor. His silhouette was upright, yet his shoulders trembled slightly.

Wang Wenwu dared not speak. He had known Chen Feng for over a decade and had never seen the President truly lose composure. Anger, anxiety, pressure—Chen Feng felt them all, but always kept them within a rational framework, always wearing that calm mask.

But today, the mask seemed about to shatter.

"One hundred fifty thousand…" Chen Feng began, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself, "One hundred fifty thousand living people—fathers, sons, husbands, brothers. Do they know what the Western Front in Europe is?"

He turned, his face still expressionless, but something burned in his eyes: "Verdun, fought for two months, with casualties of seven hundred thousand on both sides."

"This isn't war; it's a meat grinder. It's hell. It's a flesh mill that fills ditches with human lives."

He walked to the desk, hands braced on the surface, leaning forward: "We send Sakura Country soldiers because it's a transaction, exchanging their lives for our development. Moreover, the Sakura Country people know what they're going to do—they're soldiers, they've signed contracts, they've been paid." (Some words the editor can't say too explicitly; comrades, you understand, saying too much would get us locked in a dark room.)

"But what about these Chinese laborers?" Chen Feng's voice began to tremble, "They think they're going to 'work', to 'earn money to support their families'. They don't know that what awaits them are machine guns, Shells, poison gas, epidemics. They don't know that those Yingguo officers and Faguo officers will never regard the lives of yellow‑skinned laborers!"

Wang Wenwu finally spoke: "President, perhaps… perhaps the situation isn't that bad. The Anglo‑French might provide the laborers with basic protection…"

"Protection?" Chen Feng snapped upright, letting out a short, mocking laugh, "Wang Wenwu, have you been in diplomatic circles too long and forgotten what reality looks like?"

He hurried to the wall, yanked aside the curtain beside the world map, revealing another chart—a map of the Western Front in Europe, densely annotated, red and blue arrows interlaced, resembling a snarling spiderweb.

"Look here," he said, pointing to northern France, "the Anglo‑French coalition's logistics zone. How far from the front line? The nearest is five kilometres, the farthest twenty kilometres. What is the range of the German Shells? The latest heavy artillery can reach thirty kilometres!"

His finger traced the map: "Laborers here build railways; Shells could fly in from ten kilometres away. Here they dig trenches; they might step on unexploded Shells. Here they transport ammunition; they could be hit by stray Shells. Not to mention air raids—Deguo airships will bomb rear targets at night; can they distinguish between barracks and labor camps?"

Wang Wenwu fell silent. He knew Chen Feng was stating facts.

"And disease," Chen Feng continued, "trench fever, dysentery, cholera, pneumonia. European soldiers have medics, medicines, relatively clean camps. What do laborers have? Crammed into leaky wooden shacks, eating mouldy food, bandaging wounds with rags, falling ill and waiting for death."

He returned to the desk, picked up the telegram: "Twenty silver dollars a month. Ha ha, twenty silver dollars buys a life. The Northern XX Government's calculations are precise—150,000 people; even if half die, they still earn seventy‑five thousand lives' worth of money. And the dead are all poor, all peasants, the lowest stratum of society; no one cares when they're gone."

"President…" Wang Wenwu began to say something.

But Chen Feng had already lost control.

"How dare they!" he roared, his voice shaking the glass windows, "Europe is like this, and I'd rather send Sakura Country soldiers than let a single Chinese go! They are our compatriots! They are kin with the same blood!"

He grabbed the tea cup—a blue‑and‑white porcelain cup from Jingdezhen, his favorite set—and smashed it hard onto the floor.

"Bang!"

The sound of shattered porcelain exploded through the office. Fragments flew, and tea stained a dark patch on the floor.

"How dare they trade their own people's lives for a bit of vanity and loans! How dare they!" Chen Feng's eyes reddened, not from crying but from extreme anger, "Yuan XX wants to be emperor, is he mad? Lu Xiang, that foreign slave, thinks licking the foreigners' feet will make the great powers respect them?"

He grabbed a pen holder and smashed it against the wall. Then a paperweight, a file folder, an ink bottle… the office rang with clatter.

Wang Wenwu stood still, letting the shards splash onto him. He knew nothing could help now. Chen Feng needed to vent, ten years of pent‑up emotion, ten years of hidden anger, ten years of powerlessness and resentment over his compatriots' fate, all exploding at this moment.

The door was pushed open, the chief guard rushed in, saw the wreckage, and froze.

"Out!" Chen Feng shouted, "No one enters without my order!"