Chapter 470: A Passing Mention

"What about Lanfang?" Heige asked. "Their division is at Huo Er De Sa, just fifty kilometers from our flank."

Ji Qina was silent for a few seconds. He recalled the news Asquith brought back from Dubai, recalled Chen Feng's unfathomable smile, recalled the two Hood-class battlecruisers already transferred.

"Temporarily hold position," he decided. "But maintain tight surveillance. If they cross the authorized zone red line even by one kilometer, strike back immediately. If not… treat them as a mirage in the desert."

He paused, then added: "Additionally, MI6 must launch the 'Eastern Dragon' plan. Fully infiltrate Lanfang's industrial system, find out exactly what they gave the Deguo, and whether we can obtain the same technology."

"What if we can't obtain it?"

"Then we develop it ourselves." Ji Qina slammed a fist onto the map. "The British Empire can build dreadnoughts, can build aircraft, so it can certainly build tanks superior to those of the Eastern people!"

He said that, but he knew deep down: time, time is the scarcest resource. The Deguo won't wait for you to develop slowly, and the soldiers on the Western Front won't wait for you to test slowly.

Every minute, someone dies.

Every hour, the Empire's strength is consumed.

"Send a telegram to the Sinai Front." He turned to the adjutant and said, "Order: the 42nd, 51st, and 63rd Divisions must assemble immediately, prepare for sea transport to France. The redeployment must be covert, leave enough dummy troops on the positions, and ensure the Turks do not detect it."

"The defensive sector of those three divisions…"

"Let the remaining five divisions share the burden, shortening the front." Ji Qina said, looking at the long Sinai line on the map. "Tell General Frenchi: now is the time to test his command ability. Use fewer troops to hold a longer line."

The adjutant finished recording and left in a hurry.

In the war room only Ji Qina and Heige remained. The rain fell harder, and the sky grew as gloomy as dusk.

"Lord," Heige whispered, "I have a feeling… we're losing the initiative. Not on the battlefield, but on a… larger board."

Ji Qina gave no reply. He walked to the window and watched the hurried pedestrians on Whitehall Street. The citizens with umbrellas, the coachmen hurrying their wagons, the people still striving to maintain normal life in the third year of the war.

They do not know the Empire stands on the edge of a cliff.

They do not know that in a distant desert, an Eastern army is taking root within the Empire's traditional sphere of influence.

They do not know this war could reshape the world order, and the British Empire… may no longer be the empire on which the sun never sets.

"Heige," Ji Qina suddenly said, "Do you remember the 1897 celebration of Queen Victoria's sixty Zhou Nian?"

"I remember. At that time I was a young officer serving in India."

"Back then, the British Empire," Ji Qina's voice carried a distant nostalgia, "its territory covered a quarter of the world, its navy's tonnage exceeded the combined total of the world's second through fifth navies, London was the world's financial center, and the pound sterling was the world's currency. Everyone believed this empire would shine forever."

He turned, pain flashing in his eyes: "Only twenty years. Just twenty years."

Heige didn't know what to say. He was a soldier, not versed in politics, but he knew the numbers: since the war began, Yingguo's national debt surged from 600 million pounds to 3 billion pounds; gold reserves fell from 200 million pounds to under 50 million; colonies began to voice independence; and President Wilson of the United States sang "self‑determination" all day, while secretly challenging Yingguo's hegemony.

"We will win, Lord," he finally said, "We will win this war."

"And then?" Ji Qina asked, "Defeating a weakened Deguo, facing a rising United States, an ambitious Lanfang, a watchful Japan… would that victory still count as a victory?"

There was no answer.

Only the rain, continuous, sounded like a dirge for an era.

Meanwhile in Tokyo, Saionji, having received Tianhuang's permission, promptly signed an agreement with the Yingguo, and Saionji, following Chen Feng's statement—this is not dispatching troops, but labor export.

The Yingguo consul finally understood what labor export meant after Saionji's "explanation."

He said, "Lord Saionji, your Eastern script is very charming!!! Yes, it's labor export, I love that term!"

Anatolia Plateau, Konya Training Camp, September 28, 9 a. m.

Enweier Pasha stood on the review platform, watching the Ottoman 3rd Division training below. This was the first batch of troops trained by Lanfang, having undergone three months of modernization.

Three months ago, these soldiers wore ragged uniforms, carried old Mauser rifles, and their tactics were standards from thirty years ago. Now they wear new khaki uniforms—though the fabric is a bit inferior, the style is modern. In their hands they hold Mauser rifles supplied by Lanfang.

On the training field, a platoon of soldiers was rehearsing an attack. The machine gun squad seized the high ground to provide cover, the infantry squads advanced in alternating skirmish lines, and the mortar squad supplied fire support from behind. Though the movements were still a bit rough and coordination not yet seamless, it already looked proper.

"How is it?" Enweier asked the German military advisor Feng de Goltz Pasha beside him—this 68‑year‑old Deguo general had served the Ottoman for thirty years, almost becoming half Turkish.

"Great progress," Goltz evaluated honestly. "Especially junior officers; after systematic training by Lanfang instructors, command ability has clearly improved. But there are many problems: equipment not standardized, logistics chaotic, soldiers' education too low—many can't even read maps."

Enweier nodded. He knew these issues but could do nothing. The Empire was so poor it couldn't even pay all troops, and assembling this equipment already relied on Lanfang's aid loan.

"What about Lanfang's instructors?" he asked.

"Very professional, but… maintain Distance," Goltz said meaningfully. "They only teach tactical moves, not strategic thought; they only train how to use equipment, not why it's designed that way. Moreover, all training records must be duplicated and sent back to Dubai via encrypted radio."

Enweier frowned, "They're collecting data?"

"Obviously. The Ottoman army's combat power, weaknesses, habits will become assets for Lanfang's intelligence department." Goltz paused. "Pasha, you must understand—Lanfang is not helping us, it's investing. Investing in an Ottoman that can check Britain and Russia, investing in future Middle Eastern influence."

"I understand," Enweier chuckled wryly, "but at least they gave us real stuff. What did the Deguo give? Besides a few empty words, some outdated blueprints, what else?"

He didn't continue, but the meaning was clear: Deguo is too far; distant water cannot quench a near thirst. Lanfang also has calculations, but at least has poured real gold and silver.

Training ended, the soldiers assembled. The division commander—a young general in his thirties—ran to the review platform and saluted, "3rd Division training complete, request the War Minister's inspection!"