Chapter 47: The Frenchman's Choice

Almost at the same time, in the Paris Naval Ministry Building, General Charles Dubois was sitting opposite the minister, a freshly received telegram clenched in his hand.

"The London note arrived five minutes ago."

Dubois's voice was calm, but the joints of his fingers holding the telegram were turning pale. The fifty‑five‑year‑old navy Major General had weathered countless storms, yet now felt pressure like a mountain.

Minister Gaston Thomson didn't even glance at the telegram; he simply lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

"How's the wording?"

"'Strongly urge the Faguo Republic to reconsider any military cooperation with illegal entities in the Persian Gulf, lest it upset the existing balance of power and friendly relations in Europe.'" After reading, Dubois placed the telegram on the table, "In translation: we don't want to sell ships to you, nor allow anyone else to."

Thomson exhaled a smoke ring, the haze rising slowly in the lamplight.

"How far have our negotiations progressed?"

"Ninety percent complete." Dubois leaned forward, his voice low but urgent, "Chen Feng has accepted the resource offset plan—using our minerals from Vietnam and Algeria to cover half the payment. The technology transfer list has been trimmed to fifteen items, four of which are limited transfers. Now we only lack Paris's final approval and the initial payment."

He pulled a thick document from his briefcase.

"Preliminary design for the 'Guba' class. Standard displacement 23,000 tons, full load 25,000 tons, twelve 305 mm Main Guns, 22 knots speed. Minister, I vouch with my forty‑year naval career—this is at least thirty percent stronger than Deguo's Westphalia class. If we had five such ships…"

"Then we could match the Deguo at sea." Thomson continued, his brows knit, "But the price is a falling‑out with Yingguo. Have you considered, if London really applies pressure, what the pro‑Yingguo faction in the cabinet would say?"

"They'll say we have broken the Anglo‑Faguo treaty." Dubois did not dodge, "But Minister, look at reality. Deguo has six dreadnoughts, the Austro‑Hungarian Empire has three, Yingguo has one and is building ten. Faguo? We have none. By the time Yingguo is willing to sell us ships in 1909, the North Sea may already be Deguo's inland lake."

He rose and walked to the European map on the wall, his finger pointing at the Faguo coastline.

"Without a navy, all our diplomatic efforts on the Morocco issue are empty words. Without a navy, our colonial interests are sandcastles that wash away with the tide. The gentlemen of London can leisurely discuss 'balance of power' because they possess the world's most powerful fleet. And us? What do we have?"

The telephone rang abruptly, its sharp tone shattering the room's tension.

Thomson answered, listened for a few seconds, and his complexion shifted.

"Yes… I understand… Please tell the Prime Minister I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up, looked at Dubois, his eyes complex.

"The Prime Minister has summoned us urgently. It seems London's note was sent straight to the Martiniyon Palace."

Dubois donned his cap, smoothed his uniform. The motion was meticulous, like his pre‑sail inspections of battleships.

"Minister, please tell the Prime Minister: this is not merely a deal for five warships. It is an opportunity—to let Faguo leap a generation in naval technology, catch up to Deguo, and perhaps even surpass it in the future. The price is some technology and colonial resources, in exchange for maritime voice."

Thomson also rose, and the two men faced each other across the desk.

"Charles, if this blows up, you and I will both end up before a military tribunal."

"If we don't act," Dubois's voice was light, yet each word weighed a thousand pounds, "the court of history will judge us all—judge how we watched Faguo's naval glory burn out completely."

Silence spread between them. Outside, the Paris night sky was overcast, stars hidden.

"Prepare to depart," Thomson finally said, "I'll go see the Prime Minister. Whatever the outcome, I'll report to you in an hour."

The Persian Gulf night was rainless, only a scorching wind blowing from the desert, sand grains striking the window.

In the administrative building of Dubai Port, Chen Feng stood before a massive world map, his finger drifting from London to Paris, finally resting on the Persian Gulf. The kerosene lamp on the wall stretched his shadow long, wavering over the map.

"Young Master, Wang Wenwu has sent an urgent telegram from Singapore."

Wang Bo's voice came from behind. The elder, a senior among the Lanfang survivors, was also one of Chen Feng's most trusted aides. He held a freshly translated telegram, worry etched on his face.

"Read it."

"Yingguo colonial authorities suddenly announced that all goods exported to the Persian Gulf require a 'special permit.' The three ships of rubber and two ships of special steel we had booked were all detained at the dock this morning. Minister Wang is trying to smooth things over, but the situation is not optimistic."

Chen Feng's finger traced the Indian Ocean route on the map, from Singapore to the Persian Gulf; the red line represented Lanfang's lifeline.

"It's begun." His voice was calm, as if stating an already anticipated fact, "The Yingguo's first reaction is always a blockade. Cut off trade, apply pressure, force you to comply."

Li Te stood nearby, the officer's face showing both youthful sharpness and tension at the unknown situation.

"President, what about the Faguo delegation? They were scheduled to tour the ship demonstration tomorrow."

"Proceed as planned." Chen Feng turned, the light illuminating his young but sharply defined face, "And make it even more spectacular. Li Te, I want you tomorrow to push the Guangfu's performance to the limit. Thirty‑one knots speed, all turret synchronized demonstrations, simulated firing program—so the French see clearly what they're paying for."

Li Te straightened his back: "Yes! But… if Yingguo actually moves?"

"They'll first send a fleet to demonstrate." Chen Feng walked to the window, watching the port lights flicker in the night, "That's the empire's standard procedure: economic blockade, military deterrence, then negotiations. To them, a local power like ours should bow at the sight of the Royal Navy's flag."

He returned to the desk, grabbed a fountain pen, and quickly scribbled a note.

"Notify Wang Wenwu, activate all backup procurement channels. Chilean saltpeter, Brazilian iron ore, American machine tools—price hikes within twenty percent are acceptable. We must build a six‑month reserve before Yingguo completely severs the supply chain."

Wang Bo took the note, hesitated, "Young Master, this will cost a lot. Deguo's second advance payment hasn't fully arrived yet…"

"Money can be earned again; time can't be bought back." Chen Feng cut him off, "Do as I say."

The telegraph machine suddenly clicked, shattering the room's quiet. The operator scribbled rapidly, then looked up, his expression oddly strained.

"President, a secret telegram from Berlin! General Tirpitz has sent it."

Chen Feng took the decoded telegram; it contained only one line:

"London has moved; we will watch. If technical support is needed, we can dispatch additional engineer teams. —Tirpitz"

Wang Bo leaned over, frowned, "Deguo is watching."

"Very normal." Chen Feng placed the telegram on the desk, "They want to see the outcome of our first round against Yingguo. If we win, they'll increase investment. If we lose, they'll immediately distance themselves. International politics has always made adding embellishment easy, but sending aid in a snowstorm hard."

Li Te couldn't help but ask, "Then we…"

"We'll proceed at our own pace." Chen Feng looked at the young captain, "Li Te, after tomorrow's demonstration, put the Guangfu into full combat readiness. Load ammunition, preheat the engines, all hands on standby. But do not provoke unless the enemy fires first. Understood?"

"Understood!"

As the words fell, another telegraph machine rang again. This time the clicks were more urgent, as if bearing emergency news.

The operator finished recording, his upward glance even stranger.

"President, this… this is a telegram from General Dubois of the Faguo delegation. And… it's in clear text."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Clear text? It means anyone who intercepts the transmission can read the content. When London had just sent its note, the Faguo used clear text, which was essentially a slap in the face of Yingguo.

Chen Feng raised an eyebrow, "Read it."

The operator swallowed, then read the telegram:

The London embargo has arrived, but Paris's resolve remains unchanged. Tomorrow we await witnessing a new era. —Du Buwa

Silence.

Then Chen Feng suddenly laughed, his laughter sounding especially clear in the quiet room.

"Did you see?" he looked at Wang Bo and Li Te, light flashing in his eyes. "This is why the French can build the Eiffel Tower, while the English can only make fog. Romantic, impulsive, reckless—yet sometimes history needs that kind of reckless courage."

Wang Bo's worry was written on his face: "Young Master, this is tantamount to openly challenging the English. The French are sending plaintext messages, which will surely be intercepted; London is probably already fuming."

"Then let them jump." Chen Feng walked to the window and opened it. A hot wind surged in, ruffling the black hair on his forehead.

In the direction of the harbor, the Leopard Nest shipyard still had lights on. There, the Revival was being worked on day and night. Farther away, newly built oil refinery, steel plant, power plant… three years ago this was a desert, now the outline of a city has emerged.

"Wang Bo, do you remember what the Elder Clan Chief said when we left Borneo?"

Wang Bo was stunned for a moment, his gaze turning distant as if traveling through time back to that night of parting. Rain, tears, and a lingering glance at the homeland's final look.

"I remember," the old man's voice was hoarse, "The Elder Clan Chief said, 'To earn respect, first make yourself visible. We hid for a hundred years, evaded for decades. Now, it's time for the world to see that Lanfang still exists.'"

Chen Feng turned, and the light behind him cast a long shadow, as if to cover the entire world map.

"We hid for three years, built for three years. Now…" his gaze swept over everyone in the room, from Wang Bo to Li Te, to the telegraph operator, to the guard at the door.

"It's time for the world to see."

He walked back to the table, his voice low, but each word was forged like steel:

"Notify all Ministers, Factory Heads, Shipyard Chief Engineers, a meeting at seven tomorrow morning. Tell everyone—"

Chen Feng paused, and from outside the window came the distant roar of a power plant's steam turbine, a low, powerful sound like the heartbeat of this newborn nation.

"The storm is coming. But the ships we built are meant to brave the storm."