Chapter 538: Even the Germans Can See the Situation Clearly

At the same time, Berlin, Wuyou Palace.

Wilhelm II knelt in the private prayer room, his hands tightly gripping a cross. Candlelight flickered before the holy statue, casting dancing shadows on his face.

"Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…"

Halfway through the prayer, he stopped. Is there really a God still listening? If so, why allow this slaughter to continue? Why let Deguo fall into such a dire predicament?

Footsteps came from outside the door, light yet strikingly clear in the silence.

"Your Majesty," Grand Admiral Tirpitz's voice said, "We have news."

Wilhelm II did not rise, still kneeling: "Speak."

"The Lanfang fleet has entered the Pacific. Chen Feng will meet Wilson in six days. Additionally, Yingguo has intensified its propaganda offensive, and the impact of the Zimmermann Telegram is expanding. The possibility of Meilika Entry into War… exceeds seventy percent."

"Can Chen Feng stop it?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty. But he is now our only hope."

Wilhelm II finally rose, turned to face the old grand admiral. In the candlelight, the emperor's face appeared aged and gaunt, deep eye bags, a disheveled beard, entirely lacking the pre‑war vigor.

"Alfred, speak honestly. If Meilika enters the war, how long can we still hold out?"

Tirpitz was silent for a few seconds. The answer to that question was too cruel, yet he could not deceive the monarch.

"Six months, Your Majesty. At most six months. Our food reserves last only until July, Fuel only until August, ammunition stock can still hold, but the production line is cutting output due to raw material shortages. If Meilika enters the war, their supplies will flow continuously to Yingguo and Faguo, and we…"

He did not finish, but the meaning was clear.

"So this is the final chance," Wilhelm II said, walking to the window. Outside, Berlin in the night, the air‑raid lights emitted a dim blue glow. "Either Chen Feng creates a miracle, or Deguo is destroyed."

"Your Majesty, perhaps… perhaps we should consider peace negotiations. Through neutral‑country channels, convey information to Yingguo and Faguo. Even if the terms are harsh, at least we could preserve the nation's integrity."

"No," Wilhelm II replied resolutely, "Deguo either wins, or fights to the last bullet. No humiliating peace."

Tirpitz wanted to say something, but ultimately swallowed it. He understood the emperor—stubborn, proud, living in his own world. Even though reality had become unbearably cruel, he still believed in miracles.

"Send a telegram to Chen Feng," Wilhelm II suddenly said, "using the highest encryption level. Tell him: Deguo will accept any peace proposal he negotiates, provided Germany's sovereignty and core interests are guaranteed. We can make major concessions—withdraw from Bilishi, withdraw from northern Faguo, even relinquish some overseas colonies. But Germany's position in Europe must remain unthreatened."

"Your Majesty! These concessions are too great; the General Staff will not agree…"

"Then replace the General Staff!" Wilhelm II's voice rose sharply, "I am the emperor; I decide what is best for Deguo! Send the telegram!"

Tirpitz stood at attention, saluted, and turned away. The prayer room was once again left with only the emperor.

Wilhelm II knelt again before the holy statue, but this time he did not pray, merely staring blankly at the candle. The flame danced in his eyes, like distant battlefires, like a burning city, like hope that was fading.

He recalled 1888, when his father, on his deathbed, grasped his hand and said, "Wilhelm, you must lead Deguo to greatness."

Did he achieve it? He built the world's second‑largest navy, made Deguo the strongest industrial nation in Europe, let the German flag fly worldwide. But at what cost? This war, these deaths, this nation sinking into the abyss.

Tears welled up without warning. Wilhelm II lowered his head, his shoulders trembling slightly. In that moment, he was not emperor, not commander, merely a fearful old man, afraid to become the last ruler of the Hohenzollern dynasty, afraid to be Germany's sinner.

The candle flame suddenly flared wildly, nearly going out. A gust swept through the prayer room, bringing the chill of a winter night.

Wilhelm II lifted his head, wiped away the tears, his expression becoming resolute again. No, he could not give up. As long as a single thread of hope remained, he would fight to the end.

He stood, straightened his uniform, and left the prayer room. Outside the door, a military aide stood at attention awaiting.

"Notify the General Staff; I want the latest report from the Eastern Front. Also, prepare a car; I will inspect the Krupp factory. If the war must continue, we need more tanks, more Shell, more…"

His voice choked.

More death.

The military aide lowered his head: "Yes, Your Majesty."

In the corridor's light, the emperor's silhouette stretched long, like a solitary giant bearing a sinking empire.

And far out in the Pacific, that warship carrying Deguo's last hope sailed toward the destiny‑determining harbor.

January 21, 10° N, 160° E.

Central Pacific.

The sky shifted within an hour from bright blue to leaden gray, then from gray to ink black. Clouds hung low, nearly touching the sea, wind began to howl, waves rose from one meter to three meters, then to five meters, still climbing.

"Huai River" battleship rocked violently in the swell. The 45,000‑ton leviathan now resembled a small boat, tossed up and down by the waves, each descent accompanied by a low groan from the ship's Keel. Sea water surged onto the deck, rushing between turrets and superstructures, then spouting out of the scuppers like a waterfall.

On the bridge, Captain Zhang Haitao gripped the rail with both hands, staring at the sea ahead. The anemometer read thirty‑five knots, still rising. The wave meter showed seven meters, still rising.

"All ships enter Level‑One wind‑shield deployment! Seal all watertight doors! Non‑essential personnel return to compartments and secure!" His order broadcast throughout the vessel.

Chen Feng stood at the rear of the bridge, observing the outside through a porthole repeatedly battered by seawater. It was his first experience of a true Pacific storm; even with his composure, he could not help but be awed by nature's power.

"The weather forecast says this is merely a tropical depression," Wang Wenwu said, leaning against the wall, his face pale—he was seasick, "but the actual intensity exceeds typhoon standards."

"Navigation officer, our position?" Chen Feng asked.

"Latitude 10° 12′ N, longitude 160° 35′ E. We have deviated fifteen nautical miles from the planned course, but remain within controllable range," the navigation officer said, eyes fixed on the chart. "The problem is the storm is moving southeast, while our heading is northeast. If we continue forward, we will enter the storm's eye within six hours."