Chapter 399: Verdun's Tragedy

Chen Feng turned around and walked to the sand table in the center of the strategy room. On the table, the terrain of Southeast Asia was vivid, and Lanfang's red marker looked like a patch set among the colonies of Yingguo, France, the Netherlands and the United States.

"Minister Wang, look at this sand table." Chen Feng lifted a pointer, "How large is Lanfang? 1,200,000 square kilometers. Population? 23,000,000. Industrial Scale? Less than one‑tenth of Deguo, less than one‑twentieth of Yingguo. Naval Scale? Counting the two ships just sold, the main fleet has only four vessels, while Yingguo has thirty and Deguo twenty."

He paused: "With this power comparison, what do we rely on to survive? Morality? International law? Or the benevolence of the great powers?"

Wang Wenwu remained silent.

"We rely on balance." Chen Feng's pointer moved across the table, "Let the great powers check each other so none can act against us. Let Yingguo need our rubber, Deguo need our technology, the Sakura Nation need our market, and the United States need our ports."

He set down the pointer and looked at Wang Wenwu: "So this deal is not to help Deguo, but to maintain balance. If Deguo is too weak, Yingguo will fully control Europe and then turn to deal with us. If Deguo is too strong, Europe will erupt into a larger war that could drag us all in. What we want is a stalemated, attritional Europe where both sides need external assistance."

"But if we help Deguo break the stalemate…"

"So what we sell are warships, not victory." Chen Feng walked back to the map, his finger pointing at the Bismarck Class route, "Two ships cannot alter the balance of power in the North Sea, but they can give Deguo hope, keep them investing, keep them consuming. Likewise, the Sakura Nation troops on the Western Front may achieve some tactical victories, but cannot change the strategic situation."

He turned, his gaze sharp: "Minister Wang, the real key is not now, but the next step. When Deguo finds that warships and troops are insufficient to break the stalemate, they will crave something new. At that time, our tanks, our technology, our 'creative solutions' will become the chips they urgently need."

Wang Wenwu suddenly understood: "So you are waiting… waiting for when they are most desperate?"

"Waiting for when they need it most." Chen Feng corrected, "Despair makes people collapse; need makes people pay. What we want is a need that makes them willing to pay."

He walked to the desk, picked up Liu Yongfu's report, skimmed quickly: "For example, the 'Model One Tank'. Giving it to Deguo now, they might be interested but won't pay a high price. But if on the Verdun front, when their infantry once again fall in rows before barbed wire and machine‑gun fire, and suddenly see an armored vehicle that can roll over barbed wire and advance under machine‑gun fire…"

He didn't finish, but Wang Wenwu understood.

"So we must wait for the Western Front battle reports."

"Right." Chen Feng nodded, "Wait for the Sakura Nation troops to engage, wait for Deguo to see the possibilities and limits of the new tactics, wait for them to truly realize they need a completely new Breakthrough method. Then we will go to Berlin with samples and schematics."

He set the report down and walked to the window. Outside, Dubai Port remained busy, but on the distant sea two giant ships had already sailed toward the horizon.

"War is cruel, Minister Wang." Chen Feng said softly, "but war is also opportunity. The old order collapses in the flames, new forces rise from the ruins. What we must do is not to martyr ourselves for the old order, but to secure a place during the rise of the new order."

He turned, expression solemn: "So tell those dissenting officers: Lanfang's first priority is survival, the second is development. For survival and development, sometimes hard choices must be made, walking the edge of morality. If they cannot understand, they should not hold critical positions."

"Understood." Wang Wenwu solemnly nodded.

"Now," Chen Feng walked back to the map, "let's see how the next move should be made."

His finger moved across the map, from Verdun to London, from Berlin to Tokyo, from Washington to Moscow. Each capital was a square, each nation a piece, each battle a placement.

And on this massive board, Lanfang was merely a pawn.

But a pawn that crosses the river can still threaten the general.

The key lies in timing, in position, in appearing at the right place at the right time and making the right choice.

Outside, the setting sun sank westward, turning Dubai Port a golden hue.

A new day was ending, but the new game had only just begun.

In the distance, warships sailed on the sea, trains sped along the rails, soldiers waited in the trenches.

All of these are movements on the board.

And Chen Feng was contemplating the next move.

That move could alter many lives, could change the war's direction, could reshape the world's future.

Verdun northeast, the forested upper reaches of the Marne River, July 4, 1916, 04:17 a. m.

Fog curled among the tree trunks like a shroud around the dead, and last night's rain had turned the trenches into a muddy swamp. Sergeant Jin Cun knelt in the mud of the assault line, his fingers absent‑mindedly rubbing the cold bolt of his Type 38 rifle. To his left was Private First Class Xiao Lin, a farm boy from Hokkaido whose biggest wish before enlistment was to save enough money to buy an American‑made tractor; to his right was Veteran Sergeant Ji Tian, whose face bore three scars from the Russo‑Japanese War, now closed his eyes and whispered prayers.

They wore dark‑gray Degjun M1916 field uniforms, the sleeve insignia embroidered with the German abbreviation for "Provisional 10th Group Army, 3rd Infantry Division." The steel helmet was too large, nearly covering Jin Cun's eyebrows, forcing him to tighten the strap as much as possible. Only the thirty‑year‑old style saber at his waist and the small Rising Sun flag clipped to his pack reminded them where they came from.

Five hundred meters away, the outline of the French positions flickered in the morning mist. Barbed wire stretched like vicious thorns, layer upon layer, glinting coldly in the faint moonlight. Further on, the concrete embrasure of a machine‑gun bunker showed dark shooting holes.

"Three minutes left," Ji Tian Sergeant opened his eyes, his voice hoarse as sandpaper on metal.

Jin Cun nodded, turned his head toward the rear. On the muddy slope, densely packed lay over eight hundred soldiers of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Regiment. Everyone remained perfectly still, only the white breath from their exhalations vanished in the cold wind. The youngest among them was only seventeen—a Private Second Class Zuoteng, who falsified his age to enlist, solely to send the twenty‑pound‑per‑month allowance back to his family in Hiroshima.