Chapter 392: A Strong Reaction

The question was sharp and direct. The surrounding soldiers held their breath, waiting for an answer.

Chai Wulang was silent for a few seconds. He could not tell the truth, could not tell the soldiers it was for money, for a political deal. But he also could not deflect with a lie; these were battle‑hardened veterans who could see through falsehood.

"Sergeant Suzuki," finally, he said slowly, "how many years have you served?"

"Twelve years, sir."

"Which battles have you taken part in?"

"The Siege of Port Arthur, the Battle of Fengtian, and last year the Brest battle on the Eastern Front."

"Then you should understand," Chai Wulang's voice deepened, "war has never been a simple matter of right and wrong. National interests are not black or white. Now the Empire needs us to fight on the Western Front. It is a strategic necessity, a higher‑level consideration."

"But the contract clearly states…"

"Contracts can be amended, strategies can be adjusted," Chai Wulang cut him off. "You are all veterans; you should understand that on the battlefield the only constant is change. Today's friend may be tomorrow's enemy, today's enemy may be tomorrow's ally. What matters is obeying orders and completing the mission."

Sergeant Suzuki opened his mouth, as if to say something, but Chai Wulang had already turned to the whole squad:

"Listen! I know you have emotions, confusion. I do too! But we are Empire soldiers; our duty is not to question orders, but to execute them! If today you refuse to fight because you don't understand, tomorrow others will do the same! What will the army become? How will the Empire survive?"

His voice rose, bearing the authority of a veteran of countless battles:

"I assure you: on the Western Front you will receive the best equipment, the fullest logistics, the most reasonable missions. Every fallen soldier will be buried with the Empire's highest honor, and their families will receive double compensation. Your sacrifice will bring the Empire the urgently needed funds, technology, and international standing!"

He paused, scanning each face: "Now, choose. Continue as Empire soldiers, obey orders. Or lay down your weapons and be treated as deserters."

Silence. Only the faint commands from the distant training ground could be heard.

Sergeant Suzuki lowered his head, his shoulders trembling slightly. After a few seconds he bent, picked up his rifle from the ground, slung it back on his shoulder, then turned to Chai Wulang and gave a standard military salute:

"Sorry, Division Commander. I… I was wrong."

The other soldiers also picked up their weapons in turn and reformed the ranks.

Chai Wulang nodded, a barely perceptible pain flashing in his eyes: "Return to your units. Remember, no matter what uniform you wear, you are soldiers of the Sakura Nation. Wherever you fight, you serve the Empire."

The soldiers dispersed, rejoining the drills. Chai Wulang stood where he was, watching their backs. The adjutant came to his side:

"Division Commander, you handled it well. But other brigades show similar signs; eight divisions together, I'm afraid…"

"I know," Chai Wulang turned, heading toward the division office. "Summon all brigade commanders and the commanders of each division. Hold a meeting tonight. This problem must be solved completely, otherwise once we go to the Western Front chaos will erupt."

"Understood."

That night, the Third Division headquarters tent was brightly lit.

All eight division commanders were present, along with each division's Chief of Staff and senior staff. Over thirty people crowded the tent, smoke billowing, the atmosphere oppressive.

Chai Wulang, as commander of the Third Division and the most senior among the eight division commanders, chaired the meeting.

"Everyone," he got straight to the point, "we've all encountered similar issues today: soldiers resist changing uniforms and being transferred to the Western Front. That's normal, but it must be resolved. The Western Front is not the Eastern Front; Verdun is called the 'Meat Grinder.' We must ensure that before committing troops to battle, morale is stable and thoughts are unified."

The commander of the First Division, a sixty‑year‑old veteran, spoke first: "Chai, the problem is not how we persuade the soldiers; the problem is that we ourselves find it hard to persuade. Wearing Degjun uniforms to fight the British and French… that truly violates the Bushido spirit."

"But it is an order," the Second Division commander said, the relatively younger officer being more pragmatic, "and the compensation the Deguo provide is indeed generous. I heard Army Minister Oshima say that besides labor fees, there is also technology transfer."

"Can money and technology buy the hearts of two hundred thousand soldiers?" the Fifth Division commander sneered, "My units already have deserters; three ran away last night. We caught them, but such things spread."

"Then tighten discipline!" the Seventh Division commander slammed the table, "Deserters will be executed by firing squad! Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures!"

"Will execution solve the problem?" the Sixth Division commander shook his head, "Killing one chills the hearts of a hundred. What we need are combat‑ready soldiers, not fear‑driven walking corpses."

The tent erupted into chaos. Everyone had their own view, their own difficulties. Chai Wulang listened quietly, not interrupting. Only when the argument gradually subsided did he speak:

"Everyone, arguing here is pointless. The fact is: the order has been issued and cannot be changed. The troops must mobilize within a week and be deployed to the Western Front. The issue now is not whether we should, but how to make the troops accept reality and keep their combat effectiveness on the Western Front."

He stood up and walked to the center of the tent:

"I propose the following measures: First, all officers must lead by example, fully embracing the new identity. Starting tomorrow, all officers will wear only Degjun uniforms and observe Degjun customs. Second, intensify ideological education—not with lofty theory, but with concrete benefits: the Western Front combat allowance is double that of the Eastern Front, and death compensation is triple. Third, coordinate with the Degjun side to allow soldiers to retain some Sakura Nation traditions, such as a silent prayer before meals and wearing talismans. Fourth…"

He paused, his voice growing heavier: "Fourth, tell the soldiers the truth—not the whole truth, but a partial, polished truth. Tell them the Empire needs this money to develop, to ensure future security. Tell them their sacrifice is to make the Sakura Nation stronger, so that future generations won't have to wear another country's uniform."

The tent fell silent. The officers contemplated the proposal.

"Will it work?" the Fourth Division commander asked.

"It must work," Chai Wulang replied, "we have no choice. Either we successfully persuade the troops, or we watch two hundred thousand collapse on the Western Front. Everyone, we are professional soldiers; we know what to do in a dire situation. Now, this is a dire situation."

He surveyed the crowd: "Those who agree, state it. Those who dissent may withdraw now; I will report to Berlin to replace the commander."

No one moved.

After a long pause, the First Division commander slowly nodded: "Fine. We'll do as Chai says. But the eight divisions must move in unison; no division may independently adopt different measures."

"Agree."

"Agree."

One by one, people voiced their stance. In the end, the eight division commanders reached consensus: adopt Chai Wulang's plan, fully stabilize the troops, and ensure a smooth departure after a week.

The meeting lasted into the night. As the officers left one by one, Chai Wulang was the last to exit the tent. The night sky was clear, stars speckled, the Milky Way spanning the horizon. In the distant camp, the campfire still burned, and a faintly heard folk tune, played on harmonicas by the soldiers, drifted out, its melody mournful.