Chapter 471: Let the War Continue

Enweier returned the salute and walked to the front of the formation. The soldiers straightened their backs, striving to assume the best posture. They were very young, most under twenty‑five, their eyes showing fear but also hope—hope that new equipment and new training would let them survive on the battlefield.

"Soldiers!" Enweier shouted in Turkish, "You are the Empire's hope for modernization! Use the new guns in your hands to defend the motherland! Use the new tactics you have learned to defeat the enemy! Allah protect the Ottoman!"

"Allah protect the Ottoman!" the soldiers replied in unison, their voices echoing across the plateau.

After the review, Enweier returned to the barracks. Halime Pasha was already waiting there, his expression grim.

"Urgent telegram from the Palestine front," Daweiqier handed over the message, "The Yingguo have reinforced the Gaza sector, at least two divisions. Intelligence indicates they may launch an offensive next month."

Enweier read the telegram, then remained silent for a long while: "How many troops do we have?"

"The Palestine Group Army nominally has five divisions, but in reality its strength is under 70,000 men, lacking heavy weapons, and its ammunition would only sustain a week of moderate‑intensity combat."

"What about the equipment Lanfang promised?"

"The first batch has already arrived in Basra, but transshipment will take time. And…" Halime hesitated, "Lanfang has proposed sending 'military observers' along with the equipment to supervise its use."

Enweier's face darkened: "Supervise? What do they think we are, a colony?"

"They are creditors," Halime said calmly, "We owe them a five‑million‑pound loan and equipment for ten divisions. The creditors have the right to know where their money goes and whether their equipment is wasted."

He paused, lowering his voice: "And Enweier, you and I both know—these 'observers' are really intelligence officers. They will map our defenses, assess our combat power, record our weaknesses. After the war… all of that will become Lanfang's bargaining chips."

"Then why do you still agree?"

"Because we have no choice," Halime's voice was weary, "Either accept Lanfang's 'help' or be defeated by the Yingguo. Which would you choose?"

Enweier opened his mouth, then finally slumped back into his seat. He recalled Sultan Muhammad V's words on his deathbed: "Preserve the Empire's core, preserve Anatolia."

But what if even Anatolia cannot be held?

"Then let them come," he finally said, "but restrict their area of operation; the core defense zone is off‑limits. Also, have our officers keep watch on them—they watch us, we watch them—to see what level Lanfang's army truly is."

Halime nodded: "One more thing. Chen Feng relayed a message through diplomatic channels, asking whether we are interested… in buying tanks."

"Tanks?" Enweier's eyes lit up, "The kind of armored vehicle that can cross trenches?"

"Yes. But they're expensive—one costs as much as an artillery company. Moreover, they require accompanying training, maintenance, and logistics. Given the Empire's current situation…"

"Buy!" Enweier said without hesitation, "First ten, no, twenty tanks! Form an armored assault battalion. Where does the money come from? From… squeezing local taxes, from my special funds! If that fails, we'll borrow from Lanfang!"

Halime watched his fervent expression, about to speak but held back. He knew what Enweier was thinking: create a miracle with new weapons, save the Empire with a single victory.

But a miracle is a miracle precisely because it is rare.

What the Empire needs is not a miracle, but solid reform, a rebirth that cuts to the bone to cure the poison.

But he said nothing. Because saying it would be useless. The Empire is already terminally ill; everyone knows, yet everyone pretends not to know.

It's like a person with a terminal disease, who should be preparing for the end yet keeps searching for folk cures, dreaming of recovery.

"I'll make the arrangements," Halime finally said.

When he left the barracks, he glanced back. Enweier was still seated there, staring at the map on the wall, his fingers unconsciously drumming the table, his eyes burning with a final flame.

That flame might yet illuminate the road ahead.

Or perhaps it will only turn everything to ash.

September 30, 1916, 4 p. m., three corners of the Earth, three fleets set sail simultaneously.

The cargo ship Bohai sounded its horn and slowly left Nagasaki Port. This ten‑thousand‑ton Lanfang freighter had been specially modified: its cargo hold fitted with ventilation, freshwater tanks added on deck, and the hull sides marked in German and Chinese with "Humanitarian Aid Supplies."

Inside the hold were five thousand 'labor personnel.' They wore uniform grey work clothes—rough but at least new. Each received a backpack containing a blanket, a mess tin, a water bottle, and a German phrasebook teaching them how to say "yes," "no," "hungry," and "sick."

Jin Shunzhi was among them. He sat against the bulkhead, clutching a talisman his mother had given him. Seven days earlier they had undergone basic military training: how to line up, obey commands, use a rifle—Type 38!!! Even the acting had to be done in full!

The instructor was a Sakura Nation officer, but his own instructor was a Lanfanger. The training was brutal; if you didn't learn, you were beaten, mistakes were punished. Yet Jin Shunzhi learned quickly, because he knew the faster he learned, the greater his chance of survival.

He didn't know where they were headed, only that it was far and would require a month's voyage. Some cabin‑mates cried, some prayed, some stared blankly at the bulkhead.

Jin Shunzhi closed his eyes. He thought of his hometown's spring, of rhododendrons on the mountain, of his mother's kimchi rice.

Those things he might never see again.

When the cargo ship Yellow Sea left Renchuangang, a light rain began. The raindrops struck the deck, washing away dust but not despair.

The ship's destination was Singapore, where five thousand strongmen from Cao County would transfer to a Yingguo transport ship bound for Faguo. They would be the Yingguo's first batch of 'Eastern laborers,' nominally labor export, but in reality—everyone knew—they would be sent to the front.

On the pier, Sakura Nation officers stood upright in the rain, watching the ships depart. Their faces were expressionless, as if they were sending off cargo, not people.

In the hold, a new batch of strongmen crowded together. They were younger than previous groups, many looking only fifteen or sixteen, so thin it tugged at the heart. Someone whispered, "Where are we going?"

No one answered.

Because the answer was too cruel.

The destroyer Pearl River served as flagship, leading a fleet of three cargo ships out of Dubai Port. This was Lanfang's second batch of military aid to the Ottoman: twenty thousand rifles, five hundred machine guns, one hundred mortars, plus accompanying ammunition and parts.

More importantly, the ships carried fifty 'military advisors'—nominally to help the Ottoman army master the new equipment, but in fact to gather intelligence, assess combat power, and pave the way for future oil development.

Chen Feng stood on the command tower at Dubai Port, using a telescope to watch the fleet depart. Wang Wenwu stood beside him, holding the latest report.

"All three routes have set sail," Wang Wenwu said, "They belong respectively to the Yingguo, Deguo, and Ottoman. President, your move… really covers a lot."

Chen Feng lowered the telescope: "Big? Not big enough."

He turned, pointing at the world map on the wall: "Look, routes A and B transport lives. Route C transports weapons. Three routes, three directions, but only one purpose: to let the war keep going."