Chapter 516: Midnight Meeting at the Wuyou Palace

Tu Ma Erdi placed the tray on the table and did not leave. He had followed Wilson for years, beginning his service when Wilson was president of Princeton University, and could read every subtle expression of the president.

"Today's talks with the Yingguo prime minister… were difficult?"

Wilson gave a wry smile: "They're very direct. No beating around the bush, no diplomatic rhetoric, just laying the harshest reality before me: either help, or watch our economy collapse."

"Do you believe what they say?"

"Data doesn't lie." Wilson pointed to the documents on the table. "At least economic data doesn't. As for the military situation… I've already had intelligence officers from the Army and Navy verify it, and the preliminary feedback is that the Yingguo assessment is basically accurate."

Tu Ma Erdi was silent for a moment. He walked to the window and stared at the pitch‑black South Lawn outside.

"My father fought in the civil war," he said suddenly, "He lost a leg in the Antitam battle. He often said that the most terrifying thing about war isn't death, but that it makes good people do evil and rational people go mad. He said, once you fire the first shot, there's no going back."

Wilson watched the back of his secretary. Tu Ma Erdi rarely spoke of his family.

"Do you think we should go to war, Joseph?"

Tu Ma Erdi turned around, a rare solemn expression on his face.

"I'm not the president, sir. I have no authority to make that decision. But I know one thing: if we go to war, it must be for the right reason—not for bankers' money, not for politicians' ambition, but for something truly worth sacrificing for."

"For example?"

"For instance, to stop a larger massacre. To protect the weak. To… make the world a little better, even if only a little." Tu Ma Erdi paused. "Yingguo say Deguo are barbarians. I don't fully believe it, but I do believe that if a nation gains hegemony through aggression and T‑kill, it will set a terrible precedent. Next time, perhaps no one will be able to stop them."

Wilson fell into thought. Tu Ma Erdi's words stirred something deep within him. Yes, he was an idealist, but not a naive one. He understood the logic of power, the cruelty of international politics. Perhaps sometimes force is used to ultimately eliminate force—the paradox had tormented him for a long time.

November 20, 1916, 11:40 p. m.

Berlin, the map room in the east wing of the Wuyou Palace.

The massive European theater map on the wall was densely marked with red and blue pins, each pin representing a division. The tangled trench network on the Western Front, illuminated by kerosene lamps, resembled an ugly scar stretching from the English Channel to the Swiss border. The Eastern Front appeared far more open—the Russian red pins had largely withdrawn, leaving only thin encirclements around a few key cities.

Wilhelm II stood before the map, dressed in the Prussian Army field marshal's dark blue uniform, though two buttons at the collar were undone, exposing the sweat‑damp shirt collar. He held a glass of brandy in his left hand and a slender oak riding crop in his right, the tip pointing at the Faguo Verdun position.

"Here," the Your Majesty's voice was hoarse and urgent, "Fajinhan promised me that the Verdun meat grinder would dry the French blood. And now? Ten months, 750,000 casualties, what have we gained? Six square kilometers of ruins, and a front line that has only pushed forward two kilometers."

Six people stood around the map table: Chief of Staff Marshal Paul von Xingdengbao, Logistics Director General Erich Ludengdaofu, Chief of Naval Staff Marshal Paul Beenk, Deputy Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs Dr. Arthur Zimmerman, and two royal aide‑officers. All wore grim expressions, and cigar smoke and oppressive silence filled the room.

"Your Majesty," Marshal Xingdengbao cleared his throat, the 69‑year‑old hulking veteran with his signature thick moustache, "the Verdun battle indeed fell short of its objectives, but it tied down a large portion of the Faguo forces, creating conditions for our Somme counter‑offensive. Moreover, our new tanks—"

"Tanks! Tanks again!" Wilhelm II whirled around, the riding crop slicing a sharp hiss through the air, "Yes, we smashed the Yingguo with thirty tanks on the Somme. And then? Three months later, how many new ones has the Krupp factory delivered? Fifteen! Fifteen a month! And the Yingguo, the Faguo, even the Russian, are now frantically copying them! Technological superiority vanishes in an instant, gentlemen!"

General Ludengdaofu stepped forward. The 51‑year‑old Logistics Director, the real operator of the Deguo war machine, famed for his ruthless efficiency and obsession with numbers, held a thick dossier whose cover read "1917 War Material Production Plan".

"Your Majesty, the production bottlenecks lie in three areas: special armor steel, high‑power gearboxes, and skilled workers," Ludengdaofu's voice was flat, as if reading a technical manual. "We've already extended the workday at the relevant factories to fourteen hours a day, operating three shifts, but material shortages cannot be solved by manpower. We need more chromium, nickel, molybdenum—these rare metals, most of which come from overseas colonies, and now…"

He did not finish, but the meaning was clear. Yingguo's naval blockade had encircled Deguo like an iron bucket, virtually cutting off all import routes.

"Lanfang?" Wilhelm II asked abruptly, "Chen Feng promised to supply raw materials."

"Lanfang's cargo ship is en route," Dr. Zimmerman replied, "but it must detour around Ottoman territory, cross the entire Middle East, then transfer via the Balkan railways. The first batch is expected to arrive by the end of December. Moreover…" he hesitated, "the price has risen fourfold since before the war."

"Then pay!" the Your Majesty slammed his glass onto the table, amber liquid splashing, "pay in gold, pay in bonds, pay anything they want! We need those metals, we need those machine tools, we need everything that can get the production lines turning!"

Admiral Beenk coughed. The Chief of Naval Staff, who had stood quietly in the shadows, finally spoke: "Your Majesty, regarding the raw material issue, there may be a… more fundamental solution."

Everyone's gaze turned to him.

"Continue,"

Beenk walked to the map, his finger sweeping westward from the Deguo coastline across the North Sea, stopping at the location of the Britannic Islands.

"The reason Yingguo can maintain the blockade is that their navy still controls the Atlantic routes. But if," his finger pressed firmly on the English Channel, "if we could deliver a decisive blow at sea, forcing the Royal Navy to contract its defenses, even…" he paused, "forcing them to consider a cease‑fire, then the blockade would lift naturally, and the raw material problem would resolve itself."