Chapter 523: Emergency Decree

Tirpitz sat back down in the chair, picked up the submarine war report. He turned to the last page, where a line of handwritten small characters, in Bei Enke's hand, read:

"This plan will kill at least fifty thousand neutral‑nation sailors and civilians, and may trigger the bloodiest escalation of war in human history. God forgives us."

The old Marshal stared at the line for a long while, then took a fountain pen and added a sentence beneath it:

"God has already left this war. Now, only we remain."

He closed the report and locked it in a drawer. Outside, Berlin's winter sunlight was pale and feeble, unable to dispel the city's cold and despair.

In the distant Pacific, in Washington, in London, in Dubai, countless people were racking their brains over the same problem: how to win this war, or at least how not to lose everything.

And history, like a massive meat grinder, was already poised to swallow more lives, hopes, and dreams.

December 3, 1916, at exactly six o'clock in the morning.

At the top of the Dubai National Broadcasting Station's transmission tower, a red warning light began to spin and flash. This signal is normally used only to test the alarm system, but today was different—every citizen who heard the broadcast knew that important news was about to be released.

At 6:05, the station cut off its regular morning music program. After a brief hiss of static, a steady male voice sounded:

"This is the Lanfang Republic National Broadcasting Station. We are now airing a special announcement from the Presidential Office. All citizens, please pay attention to the broadcast."

On the streets, commuters hurrying to work halted. In cafés, hands holding coffee cups froze mid‑air. In homes, housewives preparing breakfast turned off the stove. The entire nation held its breath at that moment.

"According to Article 7 of the Republic Emergency Law, and by resolution of the Presidential Office, the National Assembly, and the Joint Session of the Supreme Military Committee, as of today the Lanfang Republic enters a state of national emergency."

The announcer's voice was flat, yet each word struck the listeners' hearts like a lump of lead.

"During the emergency, the following measures will be implemented: First, the national industrial system will adopt a military‑priority rationing scheme. Production, distribution, and use of all strategic materials—including steel, oil, rubber, rare metals, and so on—will be centrally coordinated by the newly established 'War‑time Economic Committee.'"

"Second, a fixed‑quantity supply system for basic necessities will be enforced. Rice, flour, cooking oil, sugar, cloth, and the like may be purchased in set amounts with a 'National Ration Certificate.' Specific standards will be announced separately by the Ministry of the Interior."

"Third, a labor registration and allocation system will be enacted. All adult citizens aged eighteen to fifty must, within seven days, register their occupation, skills, and other information with their local community. The state reserves the right to assign work as needed."

"Fourth, price controls will be imposed. All goods and service prices will be frozen at today's midnight level for six months. Violators will be severely punished according to law."

"Fifth, the press and communications will be censored. All media content must be reviewed by the 'Information Review Office.' International telegrams, telephone calls, and letters will be subject to necessary inspection."

The announcement lasted a full eight minutes. When the final sentence—'These orders take effect immediately and remain in force until the emergency is lifted'—was spoken, the broadcast was followed by the sound of pages turning, then the national symphony orchestra's performance of the Lanfang Republic National Anthem.

The majestic melody rippled across the nation via radio waves, yet for many listeners it carried an extra weight and lacked some of its former vigor.

Eight o'clock in the morning, the Presidential Office press hall.

Over a hundred reporters packed the hall, camera flashes flickering in succession. At the podium, Interior Minister Wu Wenyuan stood before the microphone, behind him the massive Republic emblem—a red field with a golden dragon flag.

"Media friends, I know you have many questions," Wu Wenyuan adjusted his glasses. The former university professor looked slightly uneasy under the spotlight, but his tone was firm. "First, I must stress that the Emergency Decree is intended to address the complex international situation, safeguard national security and the basic stability of citizens' lives, and does not imply that war is about to break out."

"Minister!" a reporter from the Dubai Times was the first to raise a hand. "What exactly does 'international situation' refer to? Is it Yingguo's military presence in the Persian Gulf? Or Deguo's expansion in Europe?"

"Lanfang pursues a policy of neutrality and does not intervene in any international conflict," Wu Wenyuan replied, measured and cautious. "But we have a responsibility to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Peace requires strength to defend, and that is the purpose of today's measures."

A reporter from Voice of the Peninsula pressed further: "How long will the rationing and price freeze last? Will citizens' standard of living decline?"

"The duration depends on how the international situation evolves," Wu Wenyuan opened his prepared script. "As for living standards—yes, there may be temporary effects. But the government promises to guarantee every citizen's basic needs. The ration standards have been scientifically calculated to sustain a healthy life."

"What about labor allocation?" a young reporter stood up. "What if someone refuses to be reassigned?"

The hall fell silent. Everyone stared at Wu Wenyuan.

"According to the Emergency Law, refusing state allocation is an illegal act," the minister's voice grew cold. "Those who do so will face fines, community service, even imprisonment. But I believe that, when national security is challenged, the overwhelming majority of citizens will understand and support these measures."

The questions grew sharper. Will the price freeze spawn a black market? To what extent will press censorship reach? How will foreign expatriates be affected? Wu Wenyuan answered each in turn—some answers were clear, some evasive, some outright avoided.

At the forty‑five‑minute mark of the briefing, an officer from the Security Department entered through a side door and whispered a few words to Wu Wenyuan. The minister nodded, turned to the reporters:

"The final question."

The editor-in-chief of the Industrial Pioneer stood up. Behind that newspaper is Lanfang's Business and Industry Federation, representing the interests of factory owners and merchants.

"Minister, the industrial priority rationing system means civilian industry will lack sufficient raw materials. Many factories may close, workers become unemployed. What compensation measures does the government have?"

Wu Wenyuan was silent for a few seconds. The question struck at the core contradiction—how to balance military and civilian production when resources are limited.

"The government will establish an 'Industrial Transformation Fund' to provide low‑interest loans and technical guidance to affected enterprises," he finally said. "At the same time, the expansion of military‑industrial firms will create many jobs. We anticipate that the overall employment rate during the emergency will not decline, and may even rise."

"But workers may need to move from textile mills to armaments factories, from food processing plants to chemical plants," the editor pressed on. "What about skill mismatches?"