Chapter 373: Tank No. 1

"President," Wang Wenwu asked softly, "Do you think Germany will really strike again?"

Chen Feng opened his eyes, his gaze turning to the lights of Dubai Port outside the window: "Yes. But not because they can win, rather because they have to."

"Why?"

"Because the war has reached a stage where it is no longer merely a military contest," Chen Feng's voice was calm, yet each word heavy, "It is a contest of will, a contest of confidence, a contest of who collapses first. Wilhelm II knows that if we show weakness now, domestic morale will be hit, neutral nations will waver, and even allies will doubt Germany's resolve."

He stood up and walked to the window: "So even knowing it's a gamble, even knowing it may fail, he would still order the fleet to strike. Because not striking means admitting defeat. And in war, sometimes admitting defeat is scarier than actual defeat."

Wang Wenwu fell silent for a moment: "Then which side should we bet on?"

Chen Feng turned, a complex smile appearing on his face: "We don't bet on any side. We bet on the war itself."

"What do you mean?"

"As long as the war continues, as long as both sides are consuming, as long as they all need technology, resources, and capital—Lanfang has a chance." Chen Feng walked back to the desk, his fingers tapping the three freshly written letters, "We sell technology to the Germans, sell resources to the English, sell weapons to the Sakura Nation. We don't want either side to win too quickly, nor either side to lose too quickly."

He paused, his voice growing deeper: "The ideal scenario is for this war to last another two, three years. To wear Europe out, to see the old order collapse completely. By then…"

He didn't finish, but Wang Wenwu understood.

By then, a brand‑new world order will be born. And Lanfang, if handled properly, will become an important participant in this new order, not a passive recipient.

"But that requires an extremely precise balance," Wang Wenwu said, "If either side discovers we're betting on both sides…"

"Then it doesn't matter," Chen Feng said, "Or rather, even if we're discovered, we must make them unable to give up the benefits we provide."

He picked up Tirpitz's letter and read that line again: "'Perhaps people like you are the only ones who truly understand the meaning of power.' Tirpitz was wrong. What I understand is not the meaning of power, but the trade of power. In this world, power can be bought, rented, exchanged. And what we must do is become the greatest power merchant."

Wang Wenwu felt a chill. Not from fear, but because he suddenly realized Chen Feng's grandeur and coldness.

This is not a simple national survival strategy. It's a game that uses the whole world as a board, and Chen Feng is learning how to be the player, not the piece.

"One more thing," Chen Feng said, interrupting his thoughts, "Make our Berlin intelligence officer focus on one matter: the discrepancy between Tirpitz's and Shel's actual actions and what they report to the Emperor."

"Do you think they'll pay lip service while acting otherwise?"

"Tirpitz will," Chen Feng said confidently, "He will use every excuse to delay, explain, adjust. But Shel… I'm not sure. Shel is a soldier, a pure soldier. He may choose obedience, even knowing it leads to death."

He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of whiskey, handed one to Wang Wenwu: "So we need to prepare a contingency plan. If the Russians strike again and suffer heavy losses, Bismarck Class ships can be sold two of them to them…"

He took a sip, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes: "By the way, we also need to find a way to get the French Navy out to fight, our loans from England, France, and Germany are about to mature."

Wang Wenwu's hand trembled, the liquid sloshing in the cup: "You mean…"

"I'm talking about betting debt for flesh repayment," Chen Feng said calmly, "If the three nations suffer heavy losses, we can use our excess capacity to repay their loans, which will also make them dependent on Lanfang's equipment!"

The room fell silent. Only the distant port's whistle faintly drifted in.

Wang Wenwu stared at Chen Feng, at the man who turned a desert into a Southeast Asian power in fifteen years. Sometimes he thought Chen Feng was so cold he seemed inhuman. More often, he had to admit—this very coldness allowed Lanfang to survive in this brutal world, even to thrive.

"I understand," he finally said, raising his glass, "For Lanfang."

Chen Feng clinked glasses with him: "For survival."

The two drank it down. The whiskey's burn traveled from throat to stomach, bringing a brief warmth.

3:47 a. m., the second basement of the Dubai Presidential Palace.

The air held only the ventilation system's low hum and Chen Feng's own breathing. This sealed room lay fifteen meters underground; its walls were half‑meter thick reinforced concrete, the door an alloy vault‑grade seal, the space windowless, the sole entrance requiring three separate biometric verifications.

Chen Feng unfastened the top two buttons of his uniform, sitting before the wide steel workbench at the room's center. Apart from an adjustable desk lamp, the surface was empty. He reached under the table, pressed a specific spot for three seconds, and a hidden compartment silently slid open on the bench's side.

Inside the compartment lay a black metal briefcase, its surface unmarked except for faint wear at the corners—years of frequent opening. Chen Feng entered the code, and the lid emitted a soft "click," opening slowly.

The case's interior was lined with custom shock‑absorbing material, a laptop nestled at its center. The machine's appearance was modest: a dark‑gray metal shell, thinner than any contemporary electronic device, its screen a single pane of black glass. Chen Feng lifted the computer, placed it on the bench, and connected power—the sealed room housed his own independent power system, completely isolated from the external grid.

He pressed the power button, and the screen lit up. A blue‑white boot interface reflected on his face, casting a faint glow in the dim chamber.

His fingers glided over the touchpad, scrolling through a dense list of files. Most bore detailed dates, from 1916 to 1945, virtually covering all major German armored vehicle designs of the two world wars. Chen Feng's gaze finally settled on two files:

"Panzerkampfwagen I Ausf. A — Technical Drawings and Data"

"Panzerkampfwagen II Ausf. C — Technical Drawings and Data"

He opened the first file, and the screen instantly filled with intricate technical schematics—orthographic views, cross‑sections, exploded parts diagrams, each annotated with precise dimensions and data. Chen Feng enlarged the drawings, scrutinizing every detail.

Tank No. 1. Total weight 5.4 tons, crew of two, armed with two 7.92 mm MG13 machine guns, armor thickness 6–13 mm. Powerplant a Krupp M305 four‑cylinder air‑cooled gasoline engine delivering 60 hp. Road top speed 37 km/h, off‑road 25 km/h, maximum range 145 km. Suspension a simple leaf‑spring type, track width 28 cm.