Chapter 391: Refusing Training

"Less than thirty percent." Finally, the captain of the "Frederick the Great" said, "and that thirty percent assumes we don't encounter Jelliko's main fleet, only a small‑scale skirmish. If Yingguo's main force appears…"

He shook his head and said no more.

Tirpitz looked at the others. The officers either nodded or remained silent; no one raised an objection.

"Good." Tirpitz took a document from his briefcase, "This is a draft joint statement. The content is simple: based on professional judgment, we unanimously believe the fleet lacks safe conditions for sortie before July 10. If Your Majesty insists on the order, we can carry it out, but we must clearly disclose all risks."

He pushed the draft to the center of the table: "Those willing to sign, please step forward. Those unwilling may leave. I will not force anyone."

The conference room fell silent again. The officers exchanged glances; some inhaled deeply, others lowered their heads to their hands.

The first to stand was the captain of the "Frederick the Great." He walked to the table, picked up a fountain pen, and signed his name at the end of the draft. The sound of the nib scratching paper was clearly audible.

Next was the captain of the "Sedlitz." Then the "King," the "Grand Elector"… one after another, all fifteen main‑ship commanders signed. Finally came the officers of the cruiser and destroyer forces.

When the last signature was completed, the draft was densely filled with names and ranks. Tirpitz looked at the document, a complex wave of emotions rising—relief, heaviness, and a foreboding sense.

"This statement," he said slowly, "will be sent to Berlin together with my technical report. It may not save the fleet, but at least we have done what we should. The meeting is adjourned; each ship continues urgent repairs. Remember, quality first, speed second. I do not want to see any ship depart with hidden flaws due to rushed work."

The officers left one by one. Tirpitz remained alone in the conference room, staring at the joint statement. Outside, the fog began to lift, and the warships in the harbor gradually revealed clear silhouettes.

Those steel leviathans, each embodying twenty years of Deguo's industrial effort and carrying the lives of thousands of sailors, now have their fate tied to that decision in Berlin—whether to trust professional judgment or political will.

The telephone rang suddenly, shrill and urgent.

Tirpitz answered, "This is Tirpitz."

"Marshal," the urgent voice of Chief of Staff Te Luota came through the receiver, "Berlin has replied. Only one sentence: 'Your Majesty the Emperor requests to personally inspect Wilhelm Port tomorrow. Please make proper reception arrangements.'"

The call ended. Tirpitz slowly set the receiver down, his fingers tingling cold.

The Emperor will come in person.

What does this mean? To apply pressure, or to see the reality with his own eyes? To dismiss his post, or to accept reality?

He does not know.

He only knows that tomorrow, everything will have an answer.

The fog outside had completely cleared. Sunlight pierced the clouds, shining on Wilhelm Port's calm water and reflecting a dazzling glare. Inside the harbor, workers still toiled on the hulls, welding sparks flashing, and the faint sound of metal being struck echoed.

The fleet is still under repair, still preparing.

At the same time, in eastern Poland, Degjun Temporary 10th Group Army 3rd Division garrison.

In the central clearing of the camp, Major General Chai Wulang stood on a hastily built wooden platform, before him eight thousand soldiers lined up. They had all changed into Degjun's dark‑gray field uniforms, wearing M1916 steel helmets, yet from their faces, builds, and the distinctive upright posture, one could still tell they were Sakura Nation troops.

The air was stifling; June's sun beat down unshielded, fine beads of sweat beading on the soldiers' foreheads, yet no one wiped them, no one moved. Strict discipline—one of the Sakura Nation army's proudest traits.

Chai Wulang held a metal horn, his voice echoing through the loudspeaker across the camp:

"All attention! According to the Berlin headquarters order, our unit has completed reorganization and is officially incorporated into the German Empire army order of battle. Effective today, our division designation changes to 'Degjun Temporary 10th Group Army 3rd Infantry Division.' Our mission is—"

He paused briefly, then enunciated the words clearly:

"—Proceed to the Western Front to reinforce the Verdun sector."

A slight stir rippled through the ranks, like wind over a wheat field. The soldiers remained at attention, but their eyes showed confusion, shock, and even a hint of fear. The Western Front, Verdun—these two words had, over the past months, become a terrifying symbol through newspapers, wounded testimonies, and brief remarks from Degjun comrades.

"I know you have questions," Chai Wulang continued, his voice steady yet heavy, "but a soldier's duty is to obey orders. Deguo is our ally; the fighting on the Western Front determines the war's course. Our participation will secure greater benefit and international standing for the Empire."

As he spoke these words he himself did not fully believe, his throat felt dry.

"Now, each regiment will conduct coordinated training as planned. In one week we will take a train to Faguo. Dismissed!"

The order was given, yet the soldiers did not disperse immediately. They stood their ground, watching the division commander on the platform, their gazes complex.

Chai Wulang set the horn down, turned, and stepped down from the wooden platform. He could feel the gaze of eight thousand eyes behind him, those looks filled with bewilderment, doubt, and a certain betrayed disappointment.

"Division Commander," the adjutant jogged over, lowering his voice, "there's a problem with the 1st Regiment."

"What problem?"

"Over a dozen soldiers refused to train. They said… they said that wearing this uniform is enough, but they do not want to die for Degjun."

Chai Wulang closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. What was to come had come.

"Take me there."

The 1st Regiment's camp lay on the east side of the base. When Chai Wulang arrived, he saw over a dozen soldiers sitting cross‑legged on the ground, their Degjun uniforms immaculate, rifles set aside, faces stubborn. Dozens of soldiers surrounded them, murmuring. Several officers were trying to persuade them, with little effect.

The soldiers automatically cleared a path when they saw the division commander arrive. The seated soldiers lifted their heads, eyes showing both defiance and unease.

"Stand." Chai Wulang said calmly.

The soldiers hesitated briefly, then rose one by one, still keeping their distance.

"Name and rank," Chai Wulang asked the leading soldier. He was a sergeant in his thirties, a scar across his face from the Russo‑Japanese War.

"Lingmu Yilang, Sergeant," the soldier replied proudly, but his voice lacked the usual reverence.

"Why refuse training?"

Sergeant Lingmu Yilang stared into the division commander's eyes: "Division Commander, allow me to speak frankly: we came to Europe to cooperate with Degjun's operations, for the Empire's benefit. Yet now we wear Degjun uniforms to fight the English and French—our potential allies! What does that make us? What are we? Mercenaries?"