Chapter 443: What Comes Next Has Little to Do with

Lanfang cannot take that road. We must take a smarter, more sustainable road: not selling flesh and blood, but selling wisdom and technology; not plundering territory, but obtaining concessions; not confronting every great power, but finding a balance among them.

The moon outside the window rose to the zenith, its light spilling over the desert like silver gauze. The train kept heading west, toward the Bosphorus, toward the ancient capital that links Europe and Asia, toward the talks that will decide the future shape of the Middle East.

Chen Feng closed his eyes, and the image of Istanbul rose in his mind: the sunset over Golden Horn, the dome of Hagia Sophia, the spires of the Sultan's palace, and the diplomats, soldiers, and merchants hurrying through the empire's twilight.

Five hundred years ago, this was the heart of Osman Diguo, a power the world feared. Now it is the capital of a dying empire, a cake being divided by the great powers. And three days from now, he will walk into that city, not as a beggar, not as a spectator, but as one of the… cake‑dividers.

History always repeats, but each repetition brings new participants.

This time, it is Lanfang's turn from the East.

Chen Feng opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening again. He folded the map, locked the documents, and switched off the desk lamp. The carriage fell into darkness, only the thudding of wheels against rails, steady and powerful, like the pulse of this nation's advance.

Tomorrow the train will enter Turkey. The day after, it will arrive in Istanbul.

The grand drama is about to begin.

The morning mist over the Bosphorus had not yet fully lifted, and the water of the Golden Horn glimmered with a lead‑gray cold light. Osman Diguo's new palace—the Dolmabahçe Palace—a colossal edifice that cost five million gold lira and was modeled after Europe's Versailles, revealed a pale, weary splendor in the August dawn. Marble facades, gilt ornamentation, a forty‑five‑meter crystal chandelier… all testified to the empire's former supreme glory, yet now the soldiers posted every three steps, the sentries every five, the freshly repaired shell holes on the walls, and the faint anxiety in the air all disclosed a harsh reality: this giant spanning Europe, Asia and Africa is bleeding, it is collapsing.

The western wing's 'Diplomacy Hall' of the palace was overnight arranged as a three‑party conference venue. A long mahogany conference table was covered with deep‑red velvet, and three national flags lay on it: on the left, the black‑red‑gold eagle flag of the German Empire; in the center, the red‑field gold‑star Osman Diguo Crescent Flag; on the right, the red‑field gold‑dragon Lanfang Republic Dragon Flag. A number of people were already seated beside the table, but the atmosphere was so oppressive it could be squeezed for water.

Deguo's delegation sat on the left. Leading it was not the originally expected Chief of Staff General Fajinhang, but a figure no one had anticipated—Emperor Wilhelm II of Deguo himself.

The fifty‑seven‑year‑old emperor wore the Prussian Army Field Marshal uniform, its deep‑blue wool studded with medals, and on the most conspicuous spot on his left chest were a first‑class Iron Cross and a Merit Medal. He sat in a high‑backed chair, chin slightly raised, his right hand unconsciously rubbing the famous Field Marshal's staff, his left hand resting on the table, fingers rhythmically tapping the surface. His complexion was pale, his eye bags deep, yet his light‑blue eyes still burned with a stubborn light—a blend of arrogance, anxiety and a final hope.

Behind Wilhelm II, General Fajinhang bowed slightly, the Chief of Staff looking more gaunt than two months earlier at Verdun, his uniform hanging loose as a walking skeleton. Beside him stood Lieutenant General Fritz von Bayer, the Director of the Ordnance Bureau, and several stern‑looking staff officers.

The Osman Diguo delegation sat in the center. Nominally headed by War Minister Enver Pasha—a thirty‑four‑year‑old Turkish youth leader dressed in a well‑tailored European‑style uniform, his chest laden with medals, but most striking the jeweled saber at his waist, an honor bestowed by the Sultan. Enver sat upright, chin held high, striving to maintain the aura of an imperial general, yet his occasional glances toward the doorway betrayed his nervousness.

The real decision‑maker sat beside Enver: Prime Minister Said Halim Pasha. The fifty‑two‑year‑old veteran bureaucrat wore the traditional Osman Diguo court robe, a red fez atop his head, his face calm as water, only deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and occasionally trembling fingers revealing the pressure he bore. A document lay spread before him, but he did not read it, closing his eyes to gather his remaining strength.

Lanfang's delegation sat on the right. Chen Feng took the leading seat, still in a simple dark‑gray suit, without any medals or decorations. Beside him was Foreign Minister Wang Wenwu, with two recorders and translators behind. Compared with the massive, weighty formations of Deguo and Osman Diguo, Lanfang's side appeared streamlined and composed.

The gilded clock on the wall read 9:15. The talks were scheduled to start at nine, yet no one spoke, no one urged. The air held only the ticking of the clock, a faint cough, and a distant train whistle coming from the Bosphorus.

Finally, Enver Pasha cleared his throat and began in German with a heavy Turkish accent: "Your Majesty, Mr. President, thank you all for coming to Istanbul. In these difficult times, Osman Diguo cherishes every sincere friend."

Wilhelm II gave a slight nod in response. Chen Feng replied in standard German: "Thank you for the host's generous invitation. Lanfang is willing to contribute to regional peace and stability."

Diplomatic platitudes, but everyone present knew the upcoming discussion had little to do with "peace."

Prime Minister Halim Pasha opened his eyes, spoke slowly, his voice low and weary: "Then, let us begin. According to the pre‑communicated agenda, this morning Lanfang will first present… a certain 'new equipment'?"

His gaze fell on Chen Feng, a barely perceptible doubt and… expectation in his eyes? A dying empire clings to any possible lifeline, even one that comes from the distant East.

Chen Feng nodded, looking at Liu Yongfu. The Minister of Industry rose at once: "Yes, esteemed Pasha. We have prepared a secret test site, Distance of about fifteen kilometers from the palace. If it is convenient, we can proceed there now."

Wilhelm II finally spoke, his voice sharp and urgent, with a typical Prussian aristocratic accent: "What equipment? Tanks? The armored vehicle you mentioned in your telegram that can Breakthrough trenches?"

"Exactly, Your Majesty," Chen Feng replied calmly, "We call it the 'Model 1 Armored Assault Vehicle,' but its more interesting name is 'tank.'"

"The name is irrelevant," Fajinhang interjected, the Chief of Staff's voice hoarse as sandpaper, "Performance! I want to know what it can do! How fast can it go? What caliber of Shell can it withstand? How wide a trench can it cross?"

His urgency was almost unmasked. The stalemate on the Western Front had driven this Degjun supreme commander to the brink of collapse; daily casualty reports, a map with no progress, and an increasingly strained home supply line left him craving a miracle, or at least something that looked like one.