Chapter 503: Berlin's Revelry and Shadows

A new day is about to begin.

And on this long rainy night, the giant ship of the British Empire that has sailed for three hundred years began to slowly adjust its course, heading toward the unknown far side of the Atlantic.

The price has already been paid.

The wager has already been placed.

Now, all that remains is to wait for the dice of fate to fall.

Asquith took one last look at London outside the window, the heart of the empire. Then he drew the curtains, returned to his desk, and began reviewing the statement to be released tomorrow.

Every word must be weighed, every sentence balanced. He must acknowledge failure without inciting panic, call for unity without hurting morale, and seek change without exposing weaknesses.

This is the art of politics, and also the prime minister's duty.

But when his gaze fell again on the name 'Hood', what rose in his mind was not political calculation, not strategic weighing, but the faces of millions of mothers like Ma Ge Li Te Wilson.

Their sons will not return.

And all he can do is ensure that such sacrifice will not become meaningless in the future.

Asquith picked up his pen and wrote the final line on the draft paper:

"Their sacrifice will forever illuminate the road ahead of us."

Then he set the pen down and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow will be a new day.

Berlin, Carefree Palace, 8 p. m.

The crystal chandelier's light refracted countless spots on the marble floor, illuminating the officers' uniforms, the ladies' evening gowns, and the silver trays reflected in the waiters' hands. The air mingled with cigar smoke, sweet perfume, and the char of roasted meat. In the corner, the band played Wagner's 'Siegfried March', the brass blaring so rousing and high that it seemed ready to overturn the painted ceiling of the banquet hall.

Weilian Ershi stood on the central steps of the banquet hall, left hand raising a crystal goblet brimming with champagne, right hand waving in the air as if conducting an invisible army. Today he had deliberately donned the full uniform of a Prussian army Marshal: a deep‑blue coat edged with gold, a scarlet sash slanting from his left shoulder to his right waist, his chest adorned with medals—the Black Eagle, the Merit Medal, the Iron Cross—glinting in the light.

"Gentlemen! Ladies!"

The Emperor's voice cut through the music and clamor. The banquet hall fell silent, everyone turned to him, their faces bearing rehearsed smiles.

"Today," Weilian Ershi raised his voice so every corner could hear, "Germany proves one thing to the world!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. The naval officers straightened their chests, the army officers were slightly restrained yet equally proud, the politicians clapped furiously, and the aristocratic ladies smiled behind their fans.

"We have proven," the Emperor continued, each word like a hammer striking a drumhead, "German technology, German courage, German spirit are unmatched! In the North Sea's storm, our warship—our proud 'Bismarck'—with just five simultaneous volleys sent the English pride, that forty‑thousand‑ton 'Hood', to the sea floor to feed the fish!"

Cheering erupted.

"Long live! Long live the Emperor! Long live Germany!"

The clink of glasses rose and fell, and no one minded the champagne spilling onto the carpet. Weilian Ershi drained his cup in one gulp, and the waiter instantly refilled it. His cheeks flushed from alcohol and excitement, his grin spreading almost to his ears.

"This is not only a naval victory!" the Emperor said again, after the cheers subsided, "It is the victory of the entire German nation! Technology triumphs over arrogance, courage over tradition, and the new forces over the decaying empire!"

More cheers. Someone began singing 'Germany Above All', and soon the whole banquet hall joined in. The song was deafening.

At the edge of the crowd, Alfred von Tirpitz, Marshal, held a glass of water, watching it all quietly. He wore no formal attire, only a simple navy dark‑blue service uniform, with a single Iron Cross on his chest. The sixty‑eight‑year‑old's back remained straight, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were especially pronounced in the light.

"Marshal, won't you celebrate with us?"

The speaker was a rising star of the Navy Department, thirty‑eight‑year‑old Erich Lei De Er, Colonel. The ambitious officer held champagne, his face radiating a zeal beyond his years.

"I'm thinking, Colonel," Tirpitz said lightly.

"Thinking what? We won! Won beautifully! Won cleanly and decisively!" Redel took a big gulp, "The English are surely crying on Downing Street now! Their 'Invincible Fleet' myth has been shattered!"

"Myths never collapse because of a single defeat," Tirpitz turned to him, "We won the tactics at the Jutland Sea battle, but has the English naval blockade loosened? Has their fleet diminished?"

Redel was stunned. "But this time it's different, Marshal! We sank their newest warship! That proves our technology has already surpassed theirs!"

"Technology..." Tirpitz repeated the word, his voice low enough for only the two of them to hear, "Do you know where the Bismarck's technology comes from, Colonel?"

"From our engineers—"

"From Lanfang," Tirpitz cut him off, "The design is Lanfang's, everything is made by Lanfang, even the tactical ideas bear an Eastern imprint. We are merely... users."

Redel's expression froze. He opened his mouth to retort, but Tirpitz had already turned and walked toward the balcony on the side of the banquet hall.

When the balcony door closed, most of the indoor clamor was cut off. A November night in Berlin was cold, and Tirpitz's breath condensed into white mist. He leaned against the marble railing, gazing at the meticulously trimmed hedges and statues in the Carefree Palace garden. In the distance, Berlin's city lights merged into a glow in the night.

The door opened again.

Navy Chief of Staff Bao Luo Bei En Ke, Admiral, stepped out, holding two glasses. He handed one to Tirpitz: "Brandy. It's cold outside."

Tirpitz took it but did not drink. "It's too hot inside. So hot it hinders thought."

Beanke gave a wry smile: "Your Majesty the Emperor needs a revelry. The homeland... also needs it. You know, the potato harvest was poor, coal scarce, strikes increasing. This victory comes at just the right time."

"Victory always comes at just the right time," Tirpitz sipped his liquor, the spirit burning his throat, "until it brings an even greater failure."

The two were silent for a moment. Inside, the Emperor's stirring speech drifted through the glass door, muffled and indistinct.

"Any news from She Er?" Tirpitz asked.

"We just received an Encrypted Telegram half an hour ago," Beanke whispered, "The fleet is returning, expected to reach Wilhelm Port tomorrow morning. The Bismarck sustained light damage, with seventeen dead and thirty‑four wounded. The Tirpitz suffered engine failure needing major repair, but can sail back on its own."