Chapter 388: Even If You Switch Uniforms, I Still Recognize You!

"Then, the resolution passes. Ruo Qi, you are responsible for negotiating the price with the German side; the bottom line is a one‑time payment of ten million pounds, with subsequent service fees increased by twenty percent. Ben Ye, you prepare diplomatic statements and response plans. Da Dao…"

He looked at the army minister, his voice softening a bit: "You are responsible for communicating with and reassuring the troops. Tell those division commanders that this is the nation's need, an unavoidable choice. But each of them, the nation will remember."

Da Dao Jianyi silently nodded, his eyes hollow.

"Meeting adjourned," Xi Yuan Si said, "All contents are top secret. Anyone who leaks them will be prosecuted for treason."

At two a. m., cabinet members left one after another. In the underground conference room only Xi Yuan Si remained. The ashtray on the table was packed with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with tobacco and anxiety.

He sat in his chair, motionless for a long time.

Outside, Tokyo was sleeping, but the prime minister knew that from this night onward, the Sakura Nation had embarked on a dangerous new path.

And no one knows what lies at the road's end.

All he can do is keep moving forward.

Because in this cruel world, stopping means being eliminated.

June 20, Eastern Front, within Poland.

On the banks of the Dniester, in a birch forest, the Sakura Nation's 3rd Division camp was concealed. The morning mist had not fully lifted, and thin plumes of cooking smoke rose over a clearing, where soldiers huddled around a fire heating canned food, speaking softly in Japanese.

Division commander Major General Chai Wulang stood in front of his own tent, watching it all. The fifty‑eight‑year‑old veteran had fought in the Russo‑Japanese War and had commanded eight months of combat on the Eastern Front; his face was etched with wind, frost and fatigue. He held a freshly received Encrypted Telegram in his hand, read it three times, and still could not believe its contents.

"Division commander, all regiment commanders have arrived," the adjutant whispered.

Chai Wulang took a deep breath, folded the telegram and slipped it into his uniform pocket: "Take them to the command tent."

In the command tent, six regiment commanders sat upright. They formed the backbone of the 3rd Division, ranging from officers in their twenties to veterans in their fifties, each bearing the toughness and vigilance forged by battle.

"Everyone," Chai Wulang said without preamble, getting straight to the point, "we have just received dual orders from headquarters and Berlin. The 3rd Division, along with the other seven Sakura Nation divisions on the Eastern Front, will undergo… organizational adjustments."

He paused, watching his subordinates' reactions. The tent was quiet, save for faint artillery fire in the distance.

"Effective immediately, eight divisions will be merged into the Deguo Army's provisional 10th Group Army. We will change into Degjun uniforms, accept Degjun command, and be transferred to the Western Front for combat."

The death‑like silence lasted five seconds.

Then, it erupted.

"What?!" "Degjun uniforms?!" "Western Front?! Fighting the British and French?!" "This violates the contract!"

The regiment commanders almost simultaneously rose, their faces flushing, voices heated. The youngest, the 3rd regiment commander, even pressed his hand to the hilt of his saber.

"Quiet!" Chai Wulang barked, "this is an order! A formal order from Your Majesty Tian Huang and the cabinet!"

The words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the initial fury. The officers sat down again, but their eyes were filled with confusion and anger.

"Division commander," the 1st regiment commander, a grizzled colonel, asked hoarsely, "what on earth is going on? Aren't we fighting as allies on the Eastern Front? Why change into Degjun uniforms? Why go to the Western Front?"

Chai Wulang walked to the center of the tent, where an Eastern Front map was hung. He faced away from his subordinates, his voice low: "I'm not fully clear on the details either. But according to the telegram, this is a decision the nation made based on 'greater interests.' Deguo will provide additional compensation, and soldiers' benefits will be increased."

"But this is treason!" the 3rd regiment commander could not help but stand again, "we'll wear Degjun uniforms to fight the British and French, which is tantamount to declaring war on the Allies! How will Yingguo and Faguo view the Sakura Nation? How can we still stand in the international community?"

"Those are not issues for us to consider," Chai Wulang said, turning, his gaze sharp, "a soldier's duty is to obey orders. As for diplomacy and politics, those are matters for the big figures in Tokyo."

"But division commander," the 2nd regiment commander, a relatively calm middle‑aged officer, spoke, "what will the soldiers think? Can they accept swapping to an enemy's uniform? This… this is too humiliating."

The question struck at the core. Chai Wulang fell silent for a few seconds; he knew his subordinates were right.

"Tell the soldiers," finally he said, "that this is a tactical necessity. Degjun uniforms are better suited to Western Europe's climate and terrain, and they allow better coordination with Degjun forces. As for the organizational adjustments… just say they're temporary and will be restored after the war."

"Will they believe?" someone muttered quietly.

"They must believe," Chai Wulang's voice left no doubt, "everyone, I know this order is hard to accept. I feel the same. But we are Imperial soldiers, and must put the nation's interests first. Now, go convey the order and soothe the troops. This afternoon the first batch of Degjun uniforms will arrive, and tomorrow the re‑equipping training will begin."

The officers exchanged glances, but none objected further. They saluted the division commander and left the tent one by one.

Chai Wulang stayed alone. He walked to the edge of the tent, lifted a corner of the canvas, and looked at the camp outside. Soldiers were still preparing breakfast—some cleaning rifles, some writing letters home, some praying silently.

These people trust him, having followed him across half the world to Europe. And now, he must tell them: take off the Sakura Nation uniforms and put on Deguo uniforms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, not knowing whether he was speaking to the soldiers or to himself.

At two p. m., the transport convoy arrived at the camp.

Twenty Deguo military trucks, escorted by armored vehicles, drove into the clearing. The trucks carried not ammunition or food, but neatly bundled uniform packages—dark‑gray Degjun field uniforms, M1916 steel helmets, leather web belts, and long‑booted combat boots.

The soldiers were gathered, lined up on the clearing. They stared at the unfamiliar uniforms, whispering, their faces marked with confusion and unease.

Chai Wulang stood on a hastily built wooden platform, holding a metal horn.

"Attention, all!" his voice echoed through the forest, "in accordance with higher orders, to adapt to the upcoming mission, this division will change to new uniforms! This is for—"

He paused, then continued, "—to better coordinate with allied forces, to maintain combat effectiveness in harsh conditions! Now, each company shall receive the uniforms in order and complete re‑equipping before tonight!"

The order was given, but the soldiers did not move. They stared at the Degjun uniforms, their gazes complex.

"What are you still standing around for!" the regiment commanders began urging, "Quick! Follow the order!"

Finally, a soldier from the 1st company took the first step. He walked to the truck, received the package from a Degjun logistics man, moving stiffly, his expression numb.