Chapter 422: The Empire's Fury

London, 10 Downing Street, 9 a. m., July 30, 1916

Rain patters against the lion‑head bronze ring on the prime minister's black‑painted door, and the endless July drizzle makes London's streets glisten with a wet lead‑gray sheen. Yet at this moment the atmosphere in the cabinet meeting room is gloomier than the sky outside.

Twelve men sit around a long oak table. Prime Minister Herbert Henry Asquith occupies the head seat, his hands folded on the dark‑green velvet tablecloth. To his left sit, in order, Sir Edward Grey, Lord Horatio Herbert Kitchener, and Arthur Balfour; to his right are the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the India Secretary, the Colonial Secretary, and other core cabinet members.

The air is thick with cigar smoke, the musty scent of old paper, and the musk of men. The portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall looks stern under the chandelier's light, as if scrutinizing the group that decides the empire's fate.

"Gentlemen," Asquith begins, his voice as dry as sandpaper on wood, "let us begin. Sir Grey, please report the situation first."

Sir Edward Grey rises. The fifty‑four‑year‑old Foreign Secretary bears the classic British gentleman's features—neatly trimmed grey‑white whiskers, deep eye sockets, perpetually slightly furrowed brows. Today, however, his brows are knit together almost completely.

He lifts the folder on the table but does not open it, merely scanning the room with his weary blue eyes.

"In the past seventy‑two hours we have received three corroborating pieces of intelligence," Grey says, his voice calm yet each word as sharp as an ice spear. "The first comes from MI5's liaison office in Paris. On July 26, the French Second Army on the Verdun front captured four Asian soldiers wearing German M1916 field uniforms. Under interrogation they admitted they were from the Sakura Nation's 3rd Division, 6th Regiment."

A suppressed murmur rises in the meeting room. The India Secretary opens his mouth to speak, but Grey raises a hand to stop him.

"The second report comes from our neutral‑country observers in Switzerland," Grey continues. "From July 27 to 28, at least eight special trains passed through Strasbourg into France. Each train comprised about thirty carriages, all windows sealed, yet several railway workers confirmed hearing a language that was 'entirely not German, an Eastern tongue.' One of the trains made a temporary stop at Cologne; a soldier alighted to fetch water and was incidentally photographed by a local photographer—this is the picture."

He pulls a blurry black‑and‑white photograph from the folder and slides it across the table to Lord Kitchener. In the picture, several soldiers in German uniforms but noticeably short in stature are drawing water at a faucet; their profile silhouettes are unmistakably Asian.

Lord Kitchener lifts the photo, squints at it for a few seconds, then slams it heavily onto the table.

"The third," Grey's voice finally carries a barely restrained fury, "comes from our senior informant embedded in the Berlin Treasury. On June 15 the German Empire's Treasury transferred eight million pounds sterling to an overseas account codenamed 'Eastern Cooperation Account.' The account's opening bank is the Yokohama Seikin Bank's London branch."

"Eight million…" Chancellor Reginald McKenna murmurs, "that's enough to arm twenty divisions, or… to pay two hundred thousand mercenaries for a year."

Grey finally opens the folder and extracts the last document: "In the early hours this morning a confirmed battle report arrived from the Somme front. In the B5 sector south of the town of Albert, the Australian 5th Division met extremely fierce resistance. The enemy wore German uniforms but employed heavy infantry charges and bayonet tactics, engaging our troops in brutal trench‑to‑trench hand‑to‑hand combat. After the fighting, battlefield clearance revealed that over seventy percent of the dead enemy soldiers bore Asian faces. They carried no identification, yet some corpses held Sakura Nation amulets and family photographs in Japanese."

He pauses for a full ten seconds, allowing the information to sink into everyone's mind.

"Gentlemen," Grey's voice suddenly rises, "the conclusion is obvious: the Sakura Nation, the country that signed the Anglo‑Japanese Alliance with us in 1902, that we supported in 1905 to win the Russo‑Japanese War, and that remains, in name, our ally, has disguised at least eight of its army corps as German troops and deployed them to the Western Front, slaughtering British, Australian, Canadian and Indian soldiers!"

"Bang!"

Lord Kitchener's fist slams the table, sending ripples through the silver water jug. The sixty‑six‑year‑old field marshal, with steel‑brush beard and hawk‑like eyes, now has those eyes blazing with fury.

"Traitor! Despicable Eastern traitor!" his voice thunders like a war drum around the room, "After the Russo‑Japanese War we granted them international status, allowed them to annex Korea, and turned a blind eye to them in Asia! And this is how they repay the British Empire? Wearing German uniforms on French soil, slaughtering the Empire's soldiers?"

"Calm down, Kitchener," Asquith says gravely, though the prime minister's own temples throb.

"How can I stay calm?" Kitchener turns to Navy Minister Balfour, "What about your navy? Didn't you say not even a single fish could cross the North Sea? How did eight months, eight corps, two hundred thousand men manage to run from the Eastern Front to the Western Front? Did they ride a flying carpet there?"

Arthur Balfour's complexion is equally grim. The sixty‑eight‑year‑old politician of philosophical background has lost his usual composure. He draws a deep breath and readjusts his monocle.

"Lord Kitchener, first, those two hundred thousand were organized by Lanfang men to deal with the Russians. Second—" he pulls a thick report from the briefcase at his feet, "—I am about to report another matter. This matter may be more serious than the Sakura Nation troops."

The meeting room falls silent. Everyone turns toward Balfour.

"July 19, Port William," Balfour says softly, each word striking like a hammer, "the German Navy held a grand ceremony to welcome two new battleships into the fleet. Emperor Wilhelm II attended in person and named the vessels Bismarck and Tirpitz."

"New battleships?" Asquith frowns, "Aren't all German shipyards under our surveillance? Where did they get—"

His words cut off as he sees the photograph Balfour slides over.

They are two aerial photographs, clearly taken from a high‑altitude reconnaissance aircraft, somewhat blurry yet sufficiently clear. In them, two massive warships lie moored at the deep‑water dock of Port William, their slender hulls, compact superstructures, and four twin‑turret Main Gun turrets…

"God…" the Colonial Secretary whispers in awe.

"Based on the pilot's visual estimate and proportional calculations," Balfour continues, his voice bearing an almost desperate calm, "the displacement of these two warships is at least forty thousand tons, perhaps fifty thousand. The Main Gun caliber is estimated at over 380 mm, and the hull design… completely surpasses all of our current dreadnoughts."