Chapter 559: Aftershocks and a New Chessboard

The night over the Pacific bears a deep blue.

The battleship Huaihe cuts through the black sea, leaving a phosphorescent trail behind. On the open-air platform behind the bridge, Chen Feng stands alone, the sea wind snapping the hem of his coat. Behind him, the lights of Pearl Harbor have long vanished below the horizon; ahead lies endless darkness, only starlight and the ship's navigation lights flickering in the night.

He holds a cup of already cold tea, but does not take a sip. The events of the past forty‑eight hours replay in his mind like a fast‑forwarded film: the meeting with Wilson, the Englishman's conspiracy, the German's stupidity, Meilika's anger, and finally the irreversible showdown…

Footsteps come from behind, very light. Wang Wenwu walks to his side, holding a folder.

"President, all telegrams have been sent. Berlin, Tokyo, the home front, all confirmed receipt."

Chen Feng nods, his gaze still fixed on the distant darkness: "Any preliminary responses?"

"Prime Minister Xiyuan Si replied cautiously, but indicated in principle agreement to launch Phase Two of the 'Sakura Project'. He requests a secret meeting in Tokyo within a week to discuss specifics and… the cost."

"Cost," Chen Feng repeats softly, "He will demand more money, more technology, perhaps also a special position in the post‑war Asian order. But that's fine; as long as he is willing to send troops, we can negotiate."

"The German side's reply was very emotional. Admiral Tirpitz personally telegraphed, thanking us for the warning, but stating 'German soldiers never fear an extra enemy.' However…" Wang Wenwu flips a page, "At the end of the message, he asks whether Lanfang would be willing to receive a military delegation to discuss 'technical cooperation in broader fields'."

Chen Feng finally turns around: "He's testing whether we'll truly side with Germany."

"Yes. Moreover, he hints that if Lanfang can contain British forces in the Far East, Germany is willing to recognize Lanfang's 'special interests' in the Persian Gulf and Southeast Asia after the war."

"A blank check," Chen Feng shakes his head, "If Germany loses, these promises are worth nothing. But if Germany wins…" He does not finish, but the meaning is clear.

Wang Wenwu waits a few seconds, sees Chen Feng not continuing, then says: "Domestically, Liu Yongfu reports that Phase Two of the Mount Tai Plan has already been launched. But he has a question—whether to fully shift to a wartime economy or retain some civilian production capacity?"

"Seventy‑thirty split," Chen Feng says without hesitation, "70% military industry, 30% civilian. We cannot let the populace's life collapse, but we must prepare for the worst. Tell Liu Yongfu to prioritize accelerating carrier and aircraft production; battleship construction can be slowed appropriately."

"Understood."

After recording, Wang Wenwu does not leave. He stands beside Chen Feng, looking at the same darkness, and after a long pause says: "President, I have a question… it may be somewhat inappropriate."

"Ask."

"Do you really think we chose correctly? Choosing this path means we stand on the opposite side of history—opposing Meilika's entry into war, indirectly aiding Germany, and possibly later confronting Britain and the United States. How will history books write us?"

The question is sharp and also very real.

Chen Feng remains silent for a long time. The sea wind passes, bringing a salty, fishy scent and the faint distant sound of engines.

"Wang Wenwu, have you read Chinese history?" he suddenly asks.

"I have."

"In Chinese history there is a period called the Warring States era," Chen Feng's voice sounds distant in the night, "Seven major states fought each other, small states struggled for survival in the gaps. Among them was a small state called Zheng, situated between the great powers, each war turning it into a battlefield. Yet Zheng had a chancellor named Zichan, who kept Zheng maneuvering among the powers, maintaining forty years of peace."

He pauses: "Zichan was not a moral paragon; he bribed this, deceived that, playing a balance game among the strong states. Many criticized him for lacking principle. Yet Zheng's people enjoyed forty years of peace, without war, without families destroyed. How do historians later write about him?"

Wang Wenwu thinks: "I… don't recall clearly."

"Some condemn him as a manipulator, some praise him as a realist," Chen Feng says, "but the people of Zheng remember him because they survived, their children grew, their lives continued."

He turns to Wang Wenwu: "I don't care how history books portray me. I care whether Lanfang's people can survive, can have good lives. If achieving that requires navigating among great powers, making imperfect choices, even standing on the 'wrong' side of history… then so be it."

His tone is calm, but each word weighs as heavily as a thousand pounds.

"But if Meilika enters the war and Germany loses, we will become part of the defeated camp," Wang Wenwu says softly, "What will we do then?"

"Therefore we must prevent Germany from losing quickly, from losing completely," Chen Feng's eyes flash in the night, "We must drag the war out, wear everyone down, until peace becomes the only option. Then peace will not be dictated solely by the victors, but negotiated. At the negotiating table, Lanfang will have a voice."

"But that will cause more deaths."

"Yes," Chen Feng admits, "but if we don't, the future of Lanfang may die. Wang Wenwu, this is the cruelty of leadership—you must choose between different tragedies, never knowing which choice is truly 'right'."

He drinks the cold tea, the bitter taste spreading in his mouth.

"Return to the cabin. There is still much work to do tomorrow."

The two turn and leave the platform. Behind them, the Pacific night remains deep, but at the eastern horizon a faint gray‑white hue is already visible.

A new day is about to begin. And a new game of chess is quietly unfolding across the world.

At the same time, London, the underground conference room at 10 Downing Street.

The room is small, decorated with dark oak paneling; the fireplace blaze is strong, casting dancing shadows on the huge world map on the wall. The air is filled with cigar smoke and the scent of aged whisky.

Prime Minister Asquith sits in a high‑back chair by the fire, holding a freshly delivered telegram. His face shows a complex expression—satisfaction of victory mixed with a hint of unease.

"Confirmed," he says to the two others in the room, "The NY-107 Convoy attack has already sparked massive protests in Meilika. Wilson will submit a memorandum to Congress within forty‑eight hours, almost certainly to request a war‑declaration authorization."

The foreign minister Sir Gray, seated opposite, exhales, but his brows remain tightly knit: "The cost is forty‑three Meilika lives. And the reputations of the commanders of our two destroyers—they will have to bear the blame for inadequate protection."