Chapter 481: The Tank Is That Flag

While waiting for the call to connect, he looked out the window. London's night sky was stained dark red by the city lights, the stars invisible. A hundred years ago, Nelson had commanded the fleet here to defeat Napoleon. Fifty years ago, Palmerston declared here, "The British Empire has no eternal allies, only eternal interests."

Now?

Now, he, Herbert Henry Asquith, the 64th Prime Minister of the British Empire, is about to call the king in the dead of night to tell him: we need to purchase Asian slaves to fill the trenches, because our own young men are nearly all dead.

The call connected.

"Your Majesty, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour… Yes, regarding the situation on the Somme… we need to make some… difficult decisions."

The rain kept falling. Endless.

At the same moment, Berlin, Wuyou Palace.

Wilhelm II stood in the center of the map room, still wearing the Prussian Field Marshal dress he had on during the day, though his collar was undone, revealing a sweat‑damp neck. He held a glass of brandy aloft without drinking, staring at the massive map of the European theater on the wall.

In the Somme region, a conspicuous red arrow protruded from the German Army's line, piercing twenty kilometers into the British Army's positions.

"Your Majesty, the battle report is confirmed," General Fajinhan said from beside, weary yet his eyes flashing with excitement, "Our forces achieved a breakthrough along the line from Combret to Bapom. The British were routed, two French divisions were heavily battered. Most importantly—"

He stepped to the map, his finger pointing at the red arrow: "Our new combat vehicle, Tank No. 1, achieved an overwhelming victory on the battlefield. Thirty units entered combat, only three were lost, all to close‑range explosions, none pierced by frontal artillery fire. By contrast, the British Mark I tanks—fourteen of them—were all destroyed."

"Loss ratio?" Wilhelm II asked.

"One to 4.7," Fajinhan replied, his voice trembling with excitement, "and that despite the enemy's air superiority and artillery support. Your Majesty, this is not a tactical victory; it is a technological revolution! A change in the rules of war!"

Wilhelm II finally took a sip of brandy. The spirit burned his throat, delivering a brief searing sensation.

"Lanfang's technology…" he murmured, "Chen Feng did not deceive me."

"The technology itself is excellent, but what matters more is our improvement," Major General Bai Er interjected, "Kelu Bo's carburized armor steel raises frontal protection by thirty percent, and Laiyin Metal's upgraded fire‑control system boosts hit rate by forty percent. Your Majesty, if we had three hundred—no, two hundred—such tanks concentrated on a ten‑kilometre‑wide front, we could tear through any trench line!"

"What about production capacity?" Wilhelm II turned, "How many can be produced in a month now?"

Bai Er's expression stiffened: "… fifteen. Your Majesty, special steel supplies are insufficient, the gearbox line is still being tuned, skilled workers…"

"Too slow!" Wilhelm II slammed his glass onto the table, "Britain and France will not give us time! They will reorganize their lines in winter, bring more troops in spring next year, and develop their own new tanks! We must act quickly!"

He paced the map room, his military boots striking the marble floor with a crisp echo.

"Send a telegram to Chen Feng," he halted abruptly, "I will dictate it myself."

The secretary immediately prepared paper and pen.

"To His Excellency President Chen Feng of the Lanfang Republic:" Wilhelm II's voice echoed in the spacious room, "First, congratulations on your nation's design of Tank No. 1 achieving brilliant results on the Somme battlefield. The facts again prove that German and Lanfang's technical cooperation is the key to altering the course of the war."

He paused, then continued, "However, battlefield victories require Scale support. The Empire's current production capacity cannot meet front‑line demand. Therefore, in the name of the German Emperor, I formally request your nation to directly export at least one hundred units of Tank No. 1 in stock. The price may be increased by twenty percent per the contract, and payment may be made in gold, technology patents, or any equivalent the Republic recognizes."

"Second," Wilhelm II moved to the window, gazing at Berlin's gloomy night sky, "regarding personnel reinforcement. The Somme campaign showed that Eastern soldiers can unleash astonishing combat power under certain conditions. Yet we need more—more trained, battle‑experienced troops. Please help urge the Sakura Nation's government to continue and expand the personnel transport agreement. Germany needs at least thirty Eastern divisions for the full‑scale offensive in spring next year."

He turned, looking at the secretary, "Add a line: Time is victory. German victory is also Lanfang's investment victory. I hope you will consider carefully and reply promptly."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the secretary recorded swiftly, "Require encryption level?"

"Maximum. Via a Swiss relay station, using the new codebook," Wilhelm II returned to the map, his finger pressing on Paris, "Next spring… I will stand beneath the Eiffel Tower to review the troops."

Fajinhan and Bai Er exchanged a glance. Both saw in the emperor's eyes the familiar fervor—the kind that drives Germany toward war, and could also lead Germany to ruin.

"Your Majesty," Fajinhan began cautiously, "even if we obtain one hundred tanks, we still need to train crews, provide supporting logistics, and develop new tactical drills. That will take at least three months."

"Then use three months," Wilhelm II said, "use the whole winter to prepare. And the British…" he sneered, "the British will waste this winter in squabbles, infighting, and searching for scapegoats."

He recalled Asquith's weary face. The old Liberal still contemplated war in a nineteenth‑century way. He did not realize that twentieth‑century war belonged to steel, oil, and technology.

It belonged to businessmen like Chen Feng—cold‑blooded yet efficient.

"Also," Wilhelm II recalled, "order the General Staff: transfer five divisions from the Eastern front to the Western front. The Russians are already half‑dead; leave only a minimal force for monitoring. Concentrate all resources on the Western front."

"But Your Majesty, if the Eastern front collapses…"

"The Russians will collapse on their own," Wilhelm II cut off Fajinhan, "I have intelligence that the grain stores in Petrograd already have queues several kilometres long; the Tsar's authority is crumbling. They will not survive this winter."

Fajinhan hesitated, then saluted, "Yes, Your Majesty."

When the emperor left the map room, the two generals finally breathed a sigh of relief.

"One hundred tanks…" Bai Er chuckled wryly, "Lanfang's production capacity is indeed higher than ours, but they may not have a hundred units in stock. This demand is too…"

"What Your Majesty seeks is not tanks, but confidence," Fajinhan moved to the map, looking at the red arrow, "The Somme victory came at a perfect time. Anti‑war sentiment at home is growing, food rations are shrinking, strikes occur. We need a great triumph to rally the people. And the tank is that flag."