Chapter 456: The Consul General's Visit

Wang Wenwu took the letter, looked at the neat English handwriting on it: "President, replying like this... the Yingguo people won't be satisfied."

"I didn't expect them to be satisfied," Chen Feng sat down again, "I only need to make sure they can't find an immediate reason to turn hostile. Legally, we have a solid footing— the land belongs to Osman Diguo, and Osman rents it to us. Geographically, Hordesa is in Yazhou, not Europe. Militarily, we have only one division, and we promised not to cross the line."

He paused, a subtle smile appearing at the corner of his mouth: "The most important thing is that Asquith now has more pressing concerns. The Somme River kills thousands each day, anti-war sentiment at home is growing, the Deguo may have new tanks... Compared to these, a Lanfang division planting a flag in the desert is not a high priority."

"But they'll keep a record of this."

"Of course they will," Chen Feng nodded, "so we must become strong enough before they tally the final accounts. Strong enough that the cost of taking action appears unbearably high to them."

A horn sounded outside the window. Another cargo ship pulled out of Dubai port, its deck piled with canvas‑covered cargo—parts for destroyers that will be shipped to Singapore and handed over to the Yingguo navy.

Chen Feng looked at the vessels and said softly, "Minister Wang, you know? International politics is like a game of chess. Sometimes you place a piece not to win immediately, but for the board ten years from now. That flag in Hordesa... is such a piece."

Wang Wenwu followed his gaze. The port's crane arms traced arcs in the morning sun, and welding sparks flickered like stars.

This country is growing at a staggering pace. And growth always bumps against the borders of old hegemonies.

Conflict will come sooner or later.

The question is: when? By what means? Who will lose patience first?

At exactly ten o'clock the next morning, the black Rolls‑Royce of Charles Gerard, Yingguo Consul General in Dubai, rolled into the gates of the presidential residence.

Gerard, a typical veteran diplomat: his gray‑white hair impeccably groomed, a three‑piece suit pressed to fit, and he always held a black‑ebony walking stick—not out of necessity but as a symbol of rank. He served in the Far East for twenty‑three years, lived through the collapse of the Qing dynasty, witnessed the rise of the Sakura Nation, and now must confront Lanfang, this brand‑new variable.

The car stopped in front of the main building. A guard opened the door, Gerard stepped out slowly, looked up at the structure. Not grand, but simple and powerful, like its owner.

"Consul General, the President is waiting for you in the second‑floor reception room," Wang Wenwu greeted personally, courteous yet keeping his distance.

The reception room was modest, sparsely furnished. Chen Feng stood by the window, turned at the sound of footsteps, and extended his hand: "Mr. Gerard, welcome."

"Mr. President," Gerard shook hands, the grip moderate, lasting exactly three seconds, "thank you for taking the time to meet."

They sat on the sofa. A servant brought tea—not English black tea, but West Lake Dragon Eye Network. In the celadon cup, the tea leaves unfurled slowly in the hot water.

"This is Dragon Eye Network from Hangzhou, China, this year's new tea," Chen Feng indicated, "please try."

Gerard lifted the cup, gave it a light sniff, took a small sip. He didn't understand tea, but knew it was the other's way of setting the conversation tone—Eastern, subtle, yet with its own rules.

"Fine tea," he set the cup down and got to the point, "Mr. President, I assume you have already received the Prime Minister's telegram."

"I have received it and replied," Chen Feng smiled, "how about it, does London think my explanation was insufficient?"

"Frankly, yes," Gerard leaned slightly forward, a negotiating posture, "Hordesa is only fifty kilometers from our defensive line. In wartime, such a military presence—regardless of intent—will be seen as a potential threat. Moreover, your forces are well‑equipped and fully capable of flanking our line at a critical moment."

Chen Feng did not rebut directly. He rose, walked to the bookshelf, took a bound document, and placed it on the coffee table.

"This is a notarized copy of the 'Mesopotamian Concession Development Agreement.' Article 3, Clause 2, please review, Consul General."

Gerard took it, flipped to the specified section. The terms were listed in four languages: Osman Diguo Turkish, Arabic, English, English.

Article 3: Scope of the Concession Area

2. The geographic boundaries of the concession are marked by the red line on the attached map. The security forces of the Lanfang Republic may not operate beyond this red line. Osman Diguo pledges that, without Lanfang's consent, no troops may be deployed within a twenty‑kilometer zone outside the red line. (The map editor can't draw, but basically the Middle East's oil is all hungry.)

Chen Feng handed over another map. In red ink it clearly outlined an irregular polygon, with the village of Hordesa lying exactly on the inner edge of the red line.

"Our garrison is here," Chen Feng pointed at the red dot, "Distance to the red‑line boundary... one point seven kilometers. Fully within the limits permitted by the agreement."

Gerard stared at the map, his mind racing. He had spent thirty years on the diplomatic front, seen every kind of legal game, but this time the other side was too well prepared—agreement, map, notarization, a complete set of legal documents without flaw.

"But President," he lifted his eyes, "in wartime, law often yields to reality. If your forces pose a threat to our security, we have the right to take necessary measures."

"A threat?" Chen Feng sat back down, his tone still calm, "Consul General, all our artillery points eastward—toward the interior. The fortifications face inland. Reconnaissance has never crossed the red line westward. We are there to guard against Bedouin bandits, to protect a geological survey team, not targeting anyone."

He paused: "If Yingguo troops feel threatened, I can have the front‑line commander establish direct communication with your forces, exchange patrol routes, and avoid misjudgment. We could even... invite your observers to visit the Hordesa base and see our deployments with their own eyes."

Gerard fell silent. This was a soft nail— the other side presented every legal basis, offered transparency, adopted a cooperative stance, yet refused to back down.

"Mr. President," he changed tack, "have you considered that such a deployment could be misread as Lanfang taking sides? Deguo might think your forces, by checking our flank, are aiding them."

Chen Feng smiled, a genuinely amused smile: "Consul General, if I were to help Deguo, I should send troops to Faguo, not stay in the Arabian desert basking in the sun. Moreover—"

He leaned forward, lowering his voice: "—I sold Yingguo two battleship‑cruisers and seven destroyers. I sold Deguo... a few armored vehicles still in the testing phase. Which side's business do you think I value more?"

The statement was half‑true, half‑false, but hit the nail on the head. Gerard recalled the navy's report: those two Hood‑class battlecruisers performed exceptionally, enough to shift the balance of power in the North Sea. And tanks... are ultimately land weapons.